Always Alchemy: The Ever After Book (Alchemy #6)

8. Laid Bare

8

LAID BARE

GEN

A nton Wolff is a sight to behold.

I can tell by the slow, rhythmical rise and fall of his bare chest that he’s drifted off to sleep as he dries off.

It’s no surprise he’s tired. He’s just completed fifty lengths in his pool. That’s after having spent most of last night fucking me six ways till Sunday.

It’s also no surprise that Anton’s swimming technique is on a par with his technique in all other aspects of his life. That is powerful, borderline aggressive, flawlessly executed, and, obviously, sexy as fuck.

I’m happy he’s dozing. It gives me a chance to obsess over his perfect physicality in a way I can never, ever get enough of. Although I could spend the rest of my life obsessing over him, and it still wouldn’t be enough.

Two years on, I know that much to be true.

Sometimes, it feels as though Anton will never stop unravelling me. Stripping me bare. Unveiling yet new layers of vulnerability and, yes, emotion in me. And I know I’ll find the courage to take those steps.

To let him.

Because in this man’s hands, in his arms , I lose my fear. His fearlessness is as infectious as his passion. His light surrounds me like a blazing sun.

He dazzles me.

And when he does, I am freed from my demons and insecurities and from the past walls I built for myself.

They lie in a pile of rubble at my feet, because Anton and I are finally aligned on one front.

Neither of us wants there to be a single thing between us.

I raise myself up onto one elbow on the daybed we’re sharing. It’s actually the same bed he bent me over and fucked me on that very first evening, when I finally gave into this insane pull between us.

How far we’ve come since that animosity, that game of cat and mouse.

These days, the mouse rolls over every single time for her husband.

As I gaze down at him, I smile to myself. And yeah, my smile is smug as fuck. Because there is no one on the planet like this man, and, by some unfathomable miracle, he’s all mine.

Those long, thick lashes of his flutter slightly as he sleeps, the late afternoon sun casting shadows over his cheeks. His dark hair is still damp and raked messily off his face. He has his arms up and crossed behind his head in a cradle. In repose, that obscenely handsome, expressive face of his is more peaceful, his features less craggy. The double laughter lines I love so much are visible.

The dimples are not .

His lips are full and sensual. His skin is tanned and golden. I suspect he’ll still be tanned in the middle of winter, although our annual trip to his place in Mustique will help.

I continue my perving, dragging my eyes down his glorious body. He’s in great shape for someone who’s celebrated his half-century. When he’s in London, he has a weights-heavy PT session three times a week before work at his home gym and favours lunchtime runs, his preferred loop being around Green Park and St James’ Park, though he treats these more as stress management than workouts.

Whatever he’s doing, it works. He has the stamina of a man half his age.

Especially in bed.

I snag my lower lip between my teeth as I survey the masterpiece in front of me. I’m practically drooling. He’s in one of his many pairs of Orlebar Brown swim shorts today—the ones printed with Slim Aaron’s iconic photograph of the pool at Anton’s favourite place, Eden Roc. The blues and whites look fantastic against his skin, but I’m far more interested in what lies beneath.

He’s mine.

The realisation hits me once again with force. I’m not sure if or when I’ll ever stop being bowled over by it. We’ve fucked so much, but it’s these moments of quiet intimacy that feel like the real indulgence.

I can’t get enough of them.

I could never, ever tire of being like this with Anton. Quiet. Peaceful. Intimate . He shows the world his fierce side. I’ve never met anyone who is on so much of the time. And, at the start, that fierceness was all he showed me, too.

That our relationship has shifted to this is probably the greatest gift he could have given me .

Later this afternoon, we’ll travel into town to act as witnesses for Max’s civil wedding to Dex, and tomorrow, we’ll make the mile-or-so journey to the H?tel du Cap Eden Roc for the main event: watching my sister marry the loves of her life. There will be much merriment and feasting and dancing, and it will be fan-fucking-tastic, of that I have no doubt.

But for the next hour or so, it’s me and my husband and birdsong and sunlight on water, and I’m determined to savour every moment.

I scoot closer to him and lay my head on his chest, throwing my leg over his hairy thighs and trailing my knuckles over the sun-warmed skin of his flat stomach and the line of soft hair that intersects it. His shorts are damp, but his skin is dry. He shifts in his sleep, making a low, sleepy noise of pleasure before extricating one arm so he can wrap it tightly around me.

His heart beats evenly against my ear. I’m cocooned in this paradise that is proximity to Anton. I’m happy in a most un-Gen-like way: deliriously. Head-spinningly. I turn my head so I can kiss the smattering of dark hair on his chest. He has one or two greys, and I like that. It’s distinguished.

‘I love you,’ I whisper against his skin. I love you so much it’s terrifying.

I feel blindly for the fastener at the top of his shorts and flick it open before taking care of his zip. I will give this man everything I have. I will let him bleed me dry. I have never in my life been so unfailingly focused on the happiness and pleasure of another human being before.

And I know for a fact this will bring him both happiness and pleasure.

I slide my hand down through his open shorts and find, with gratification, that he’s already hardening .

Excellent.

I tug myself out of his grasp so I can kiss a path between his pecs and down his stomach as I find his balls. He shifts again and groans in pleasure.

Yep.

Thought that might wake him up.

Then I’m rearing up on my knees and making my way down the bed so I can tug his shorts off. He reaches for a throw pillow and wedges it under his head so he can survey me with sleepy interest.

‘Get that off,’ he says with a dirty look at my one-piece, and I laugh.

‘Certainly.’

It’s just the two of us here. Anton sent Céd and Jean-Jacques home after lunch. They get a lot of time off these days, which works for everyone.

Because now I can play with my man however I want.

I take off my swimming costume and kneel, naked, between Anton’s legs. He’s fully hard now, precum beading at the tip of his dick. If I didn’t know him, I’d suspect he had a secret Viagra stash. He’s ridiculous.

His dick is standing to attention, and I cup my breasts and lean forward so I can envelop his length in their pillowy softness for a moment as I stick my tongue out far enough to lick his slit. I don’t have any lube, so this is just a warm-up, but I know the sight of his dick trapped between my breasts will drive Anton wild.

Sure enough, his expression goes feral. ‘Fuck,’ he hisses. ‘Look at you. Jesus, sweetheart. Work it.’

I slide him up and down against my skin a couple of times, but there’s not enough lubrication, so I wrap my hand tightly around his rock-hard shaft instead and run my lips and tongue over his swollen, leaking tip .

Mmm. I love doing this to him so much. I love his musky, masculine taste. The velvety softness of his crown against my mouth and the smoothness of the skin on his improbably hard length. I love that it feels empowering and demeaning in equal measure to be sucking the cock of this powerful, passionate, and endlessly demanding man. Any minute now, he’ll?—

Called it. He rears up onto his elbows so he can reach forward and fist a handful of my hair. He is such a control freak. He can’t bear giving me carte blanche for a moment. I snigger inwardly while I also brace myself for what’s coming.

I can tell he’s trying to hold off. Trying to make this last. Trying not to force me down the whole way. But he fails. It’s with a deep exhale of surrender that he pushes my head down so I’m taking as much of him as I can.

Yes. I open as wide for him as possible, gagging and catching myself as he bottoms out at the back of my throat.

‘Fuuuck,’ he grits out as I flex around him.

I love reducing him to this. It turns me on so much to have Anton in my mouth. To bring that animalistic side of him to the fore. I drag my lips up his shaft, swirling my tongue around his tip and inhaling sharply before he shoves me down again.

And so it continues. I work him with everything I have as he begins to spiral out of control beneath me. And when it gets too much for him, when my nakedness and my linguistic skills grow too tempting, he drags me up his body and flips us over, flattening me on the mattress and pinning my wrists above my head with one hand as he stares down at me.

His gaze is beyond hungry. Beyond predatory. I squirm in anticipation and delight, because this is all I’ve ever wanted. Surrendering to Anton is my favourite state. The one that feeds my soul. The one I’ll never tire of.

I need it as much as he does.

My legs are spread, my knees raised. He shoves inside me like a man who’s been pushed to the brink, and the feeling of him filling me up is like nothing I’ve ever known. My conscious narrows to him. Inside me. Around me. Above me, ranged over me as the punishing thrusts keep on coming, his eyes all pupil.

If Anton Wolff is a lot in general, then being fucked by him is the most intense experience I could conceive of. Submitting to him so wholly, giving him everything he demands from me, has my arousal spiralling out of control, the ache flooding my nervous system as I keep my eyes on him.

Just the way he loves.

Just the way he’s demanded of me, ever since that first orgasm I gave him on his conference table.

I drink him in through my glazed, love-drunk haze.

‘God,’ I manage. ‘I’m so close. Darling, I’m?—’

He swallows my words with a ferocious kiss, his mouth devouring me hungrily as his powerful body drives into me, over and over, until waves of heat course through me, taking my mind and my body hostage. I arch into him as my orgasm rips through me and obliterates everything.

Almost everything.

‘I love you,’ I pant frantically against his mouth as he follows me over the edge, every muscle in his body going rigid as he pumps his climax into me. ‘I love you so much.’

His mouth finds mine as he releases my wrists and strokes my hair. ‘Fuck,’ he grunts out. ‘That was—Jesus.’

We’re silent for a moment, his lips moving against my hair before he lowers them to my ear. ‘You are my whole world, sweetheart,’ he whispers, his voice rough with emotion. ‘Everything. Always.’

He collapses on top of me, and I wrap my legs and arms around him.

He’s my whole world, too.