Cut Through The Heart || Chapter 7. Wrennie and the Macaroon

cth7 (1)

You knock at his door and hold your breath. Alright, Wren, we talked about it. Your main problem is that you overcomplicate things in your head. You’re just going to go inside, and play it by ear. He opens the door and smiles to you.

Point A. He’s dressed again. In a very nice button-up shirt. Light blue, brings out his eyes. Alright, that doesn’t mean anything. You’ve been away, maybe he got cold. Seriously, Wren? Alright, maybe he didn’t feel comfortable opening the door half naked. Was worried that someone will see him. There is only one more room on this floor and their door is around the corner. Damn it, reasonable side of Wren, don’t fret.

Second thing, oh wait, Point B. So, B. He’s very calm. Just look at him. He steps aside and lets you in. You walk in with a straight spine and a silk red pouch of condoms and sex toys in your hand. Fucking great. He’s almost serene, no frenzy, no grabbing and shagging you into the wall. The last few times you happened to be in similar circumstances, he seemed almost mental, as if it were hard for him to even control himself. Hm, hard… Really, Wren, puns? Now?

You give him a sideways glance. That’s an interesting smile. You’ve never seen it before. A small, half hidden, just slightly curling up the corners of the lips. Like a cat. A big bloody cat that got the cream. That’s you by the way, Wren. You’re the cream. Thank you, reasonable Wren, I gathered. Damn my jitters!

He walks into the living room. Barefoot. How’s that suddenly a turn on?

“I ordered tea. Would you like some?” What now?

He gestures on the table. He’s not taking the piss. There’s a large tea tray there. Whole package. Cups, saucers – oh the bloody posh saucers – scones, butter, jams, and a three tier cake stand. Seriously?

“Since you don’t drink. And, honestly, champagne is a bit of a cliche, don’t you find? I could never understand for the life of me why unpleasantly carbonated wine and strawberries, which are not the best of fruit, let us be honest, are considered worthy of a romantic encounter.”

You instantaneously feel so much better. Because he’s rambling. He’s right in front of you; he looks calm and collected; but he’s fucking nervous as hell. Would you look at that! Ha! You demurely place your bag of goodies on a chair and sit at the table.

“Shall I be mother?” You give him a very decourous smile.

“Yes, please.”

You pour two cups of tea and pick up a macaroon. Should you stretch the pleasure and torture him a bit? He’s already staring at your mouth; a bit of slow biting and licking the filling, and he’s toast. But then again he’s already breathing rather shallow. Let’s hope, he has a healthy heart.

“Excuse me.” He quickly disappears in the bathroom, and you hear water running. Is he sticking his head in ice cold water? You feel marvellous! Why were you even nervous? It’s going great. You eat the macaroon with gusto and scan the cakes. You are not hungry, after all the pub grub, but they look really nice.

He comes out of the bathroom and the hair on his temples is actually wet. Splashing cold water on our burning cheeks, are we?

He takes a few strides, and stops very, very close to you. Your jitters are back with vengeance. He’s just so huge, towering above you, and his eyes are very dark.

“Have you finished your tea, Wren?” His voice is very polite. Goosebumps gallop down your back.

“Yes, thank you”.

He picks you up under your knees and arms, and then tosses you over his shoulder. You squeal. You bum is sticking up, and he bites the buttock closest to him. You are roaring with laughter.

“Bedtime, Miss Leary.”


He puts you down on the bed, surprisingly gently, and you sit on your knees. He apparently picked up the Fun Bag when carrying you, and he drops it on the bed near you and kneels in front of you. You are smiling, and his eyes are roaming you. Then he cups your face, and you wrap your arms around his neck.

The kisses are unhurried, soft, affectionate. He pushes his fingers in your hair.

He lowers his lips to your ear and whispers, “I’ve been wanting to do it for so long… ” He treads his fingers through your curls, pulls them out, and watches the strands running between them.

“Likewise.” You kiss his jaw and pull the end of the string tying his ponytail. Oh, it’s even better than you imagined! It is soft, heavy, smooth. You are shivering, and scratch the back of his head gently with your nails. His breathing hitches.

He pulls you closer, and you wrap your legs around him. Remember the Thought? The one about his erection pressed to you through trousers? The Thought that kept you awake for many hours? Well, it just died with a hiss. The reality is so much sweeter. He’s definitely massively uncomfortable right now. No way the denim isn’t choking him. You grind your pelvis into him, and he groans.

“Slow down, kiddo.” Arrogant git. What’s with the condescending smirk? You lean in and lick around the outer shell of his ear. His whole body jerks. You move closer and make sure that he can feel your lips moving and your breathing tickles him.

“Don’t call me that.”

“Wren, I have about five seconds of self-control left in me. If you don’t want to be rudely fucked with most you clothes still on, slow down.”

Your eyes are probably twice the normal size. He’s staring directly in your eyes, blue irises burning, and licks his lips. Fuck me.

“I’m planning for both of us to enjoy this.” He speaks slowly, articulating deliberately, as if warning you. “But you have to keep your deft little hands mostly to yourself.”

You’re shaking. Then he catches your mouth greedily and pushes his hand under your bum. You are so dizzy from his lips on yours, so you don’t immediately understand what he is doing. He slightly picks you up and stretches you on the bed. And then covers you with his hot heavy body.

His lips slide down your jaw, your throat, the clavicles, and he licks the hollow between the collarbones. You are moaning and press your hand to your forehead. He lifts his face and smiles to you. That is a hell of a scary smile. You feel like a macaroon before a hungry toddler. Yep, you are screwed.

But then you rethink it. No, you are not a toy, not a treat he decided to indulge in, not a quivering maiden he is going to ravish.

Breath in. And another. And you sharply sit up and exhale sharply. He jumps up too.

“Before we do this, I want to make one thing clear.” Your voice is surprisingly firm. He’s staring in your eyes. You poke his chest with your index finger. “We’re equal in this. Together, do you understand me? Right here, right now, there’s absolutely no difference between us. Either we do it this way, or it is just not worth it.”

His eyes widen, and he’s taking slow deep breaths. He covers your hand and presses your palm into his chest. You feel him shaking. His lips are slightly open, and then he smiles openly, sunnily, and nods. “Agreed.”

You grab the bottom of your top and jerk it off. He’s still looking into your eyes. Then you quickly unbutton his shirt and push it down his shoulders. He sheds it off and closes his palms over your back. The clasp snaps, and the bra is gone. He’s still holding you gaze. You lower your hands and grab the buckle of his belt. It clanks, and he jerks.

You push him on the bed and straddle his legs. His large hands are on your breasts now, gently stroking, thumbs caressing painfully stiff nipples. You unbutton the jeans and pull them off, on the way hooking your fingers over the waist of his pants. His cock jumps out of the restraints, and you painfully bite your bottom lip. Right, you have seen it before, but apparently your memory was lacking. He’s not lacking for sure.

He pushes you down now and presses his lips to your stomach. Your jeans are gone in a second, and he chuckles. You peek at him, he is tracing something on your knickers with a tip of his finger.

“Could you please hurry up?” You’re really trying not to be rude here, but you are sort of in a hurry. He chuckles again and presses an open mouth kiss on your clit through the underwear. Your hips fly up. He pulls the knickers off, and immediately his mouth is between your legs. You cry out.

He swirls his tongue in a tight circle, and you are screaming. He lifts his eyes at you, and that is the single hottest thing you have seen in your fucking life. Dr. John Crispin Thorington, flushed cheeks, eyes almost black, between your thighs, lips on your clit, ebony hair on his shoulders and your hipbones.

“I want you inside… please…” You stretch your hands to him, and he moves up your body.

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