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based on the last few fics, it seems like sinclair is capable of multiple orgasms 👀

i would like to request a fic where sinclair is spoiled with orgasms galore hahaha

enjoy your holiday xx

Oh my gosh!----I am so sorry this took so long to complete!! 😭 I've had so much come up before and after my holiday (which was excellent, by the way, thank you so much for asking!!🥰), and ended up taking forever to revise this one 🙄.

Anyway, our dear Sinclair is very capable of multiple orgasms🤭 as you'll read in this fic.

Delayed✈️

Character(s): Sinclair Bryant x Female Reader

Summary: Sinclair Bryant's flight home ends up delayed. You treat an exhausted and aroused Sinclair to a night of pleasure.

Warning(s)‼️: Footjob. Handjob. Blowjob. Come Swallowing. Public/Exhibitionism. Multiple Orgasms. Come-in-Pants.

Word Count: 5.1k

Read on Ao3 or below the break:

“Delayed” shot across the board in bright, blocky red lettering, its presence like a dagger piercing through his ribs, the blade aimed directly at his heart. He couldn’t believe his poor, rotten luck. He couldn’t believe he was about to go another few hours without your presence. Three weeks had been more than enough for himself, tender heart, and poor, aching groin.

The line to the payphones was massive. He could count at least twenty of his colleagues across the six different lines, and they were all within close distance of him. Who knew how many people from the conference were truly gathered, each individual wishing to inform their spouse they wouldn’t be coming home that night.

“Bollocks,” he muttered to himself, slipping the fallen quarter into the machine and angrily punching the manor’s landline into the keypad. The numbers on the tiles were nearly worn off, the beat-up receiver silently mocking him.

“Hullo?” Your voice sleepily answered from hundreds of miles away, the familiar timber calming the violent, rushing storm roaring between his ears. His heart sighed.

“Hello, love. Don’t be mad, but my plane’s been delayed.” Sinclair Bryant squinted, brown eyebrows drawing together as he anxiously awaited your response.

“Why would I be m—Sorry, dear, when’ve you been rescheduled for?” You yawned. Your husband had woken you up in the middle of the night, but no malice coursed through you toward him at the probable lack of sleep in store for you for the rest of the night. Sinclair frustratedly blew hot air out the end of his hooked nose, a rustling sound like static pounding against the receiver.

“No idea—they’ve not posted a bloody time yet. Sounds like there’s a storm we have to wait to pass,” he grumbled, the sound nothing like the cheerful man you were accustomed to. “I wanted to see you,” his baritone voice was half- hoarse growl and half- high-pitched whine, bashfully confessing his desire into your listening ear.

“I wanted to see you, too, love. I had a whole day of plans laid out,” you let your disappointment weigh your words, hoping it gave Sinclair at least a small degree of comfort. He sighed, the noise heavy with exhaustion.

“I’ve got to go before someone either rips the phone from my hand or the chap ten meters back in the line murders me with his eyes, love. I dunno if I’ll be able to call you again before takeoff, but I’ll ring you at Heathrow. I love you, dearest,” His words were tender, his tone hopelessly apologetic.

“I love you too.” A second’s hesitation before the line clicked and the New York airport chatter dissipated. A moment later, you pressed the receiver back down into its slot, knowing sleep would be impossible now that you knew Sinclair would likely not be returning home that day. Your fuzzy white slippers found your feet as you made your way to a fresh, steaming cup of tea and the dark beauty of the manor’s conservatory.

Sinclair Bryant was not pouting.

Sinclair Bryant was definitely not pouting.

His colleagues were all heaps of wrinkled black suits sitting in the waiting area amidst hastily stacked luggage, lightly dozing or reading some business magazine he could not care less about, each with worse posture than the last. He sat perfectly upright, legs crossed, one jet black oxford bouncing to an imagined rhythm, his impatience steadily mounting every minute the plane’s new time was not announced over the speakers.

He had not wanted to go on this trip. Hadn’t wanted to leave you, his wife, alone for three weeks. Hadn’t wanted to be surrounded by people who thought his parents had handed him his position strictly because it was his birthright. No, he had not wanted to travel to New York and Chicago to discuss a possible company merger that had not even gone through (as he had predicted from the onset, but who bothered to listen to him, anyway?).

The conferences and meetings had been completely, utterly useless. There was nothing to show for them, and now he was likely behind in his normal work tasks—a poor present to look forward to when he arrived back at the office come Monday.

He had traveled around the cities, but the fantastic sights were lackluster, the food bland, without your magnificent form beside him.

A younger Sinclair, a Sinclair single and carefree, might have ogled the brilliantly glowing New York skyline or attempted to strike up a conversation with one of his coworkers. Neither seemed intriguing to him, especially after listening to his colleagues droll on about nothing for weeks. He was content to sit there, back straight, heel bouncing, heart simmering with thoughts of you.

London was bustling with life, the glow of the early afternoon sun glimmering off the steep glass windows of rows and rows of office buildings. Sinclair’s flight had been delayed by five hours, information you had acquired after phoning the help line from your tidy breakfast nook in the manor’s conservatory that morning.

You could picture Sinclair sitting in the waiting area, knees bouncing, back ramrod straight, as he attempted to keep himself from falling victim to boredom. He’d not been happy with the trip—hated, actually, the fact he had been unable to dump the obligation on one of his young staffers.

It took a lot to drive Sinclair Bryant to anger, but apparently, having his time wasted for several weeks was enough. Sinclair liked wasting time—liked walks to nowhere in particular at the park and Sunday drives or train rides simply because he was traveling, going somewhere different. The only caveat was that he enjoyed wasting his time with you.

You had never heard your husband, the golden retriever puppy in human form, so despondent. Each night, his low baritone breathed out a report of the day—a captain’s log of all the conference’s sources of irritation. Underwhelming luncheons, boring conversations, and bleak, overly critical descriptions of the city often made their way into the lengthy list. Sinclair thought the trip useless, and, over the long weeks, so did you.

He’d end each call over the hotel room phone, voice heavy with exhaustion, line crackling with static. He’d speak the words, “I love you,” with far greater reverence, far greater repressed lust than you thought any man, any person capable. You’d hear the bed creak as he flopped across the mattress, and imagined the way his dirty blonde hair flopped forward as his head solidly hit the squishy pillow.

Sinclair had revealed several times, just last evening, that his heart ached, his veins hotly pulsed for your touch. He’d spoken of the growing need pooling deep in his lower belly, his arousal unbearable as he refused to satiate the flame with his own hand.

That confession unraveled your insides, made your back stiffen, and your chest thrum. Sinclair Bryant couldn’t masturbate a continent away because his own hand simply wasn’t yours. Knowing you had that kind of power over a man destined to inherit millions one day was a heady thing—the sort of shock that made hearts stop and jaws gape open.

You had already promised Sinclair so much when he returned home—dinner at the Ritz, a drive along the green-hilled countryside, a night of passionate, toe-curling sex—and yet, your promises did not feel sufficient, did not feel ample enough for what your sweet husband deserved, what his tiresome labor had earned.

Heathrow smelled of stale socks and cheap fast food as you waited in the arrivals area, a white sign with two words inked in black scrawling cursive held between your hands, a dreamy smile crossing your bright red lips.

Sinclair Bryant needed a long nap, he had decided, black oxfords echoing off the exit ramp’s walls, heels uncomfortably rubbing along the shoe’s rigid sole. Unlike his colleagues, he had never managed a wink’s worth of sleep during the lengthy commute back to London.

His hand dug into his right trouser pocket, fingertips searching for the two coins he needed for the airport lobby’s payphone. He was unable to call you before his flight in New York departed, the plane’s rescheduled time announced in a hurry, the payphone line still trailing several meters back into the waiting area even as the flight was boarding.

Sinclair mentally steeled himself for the likelihood of spending several more hours in an airport lobby as he rounded the corner. He was not at all ready for what met his dulled hazel eyes.

You were standing there, waiting, wearing a tight-fitting black dress that reached just above your knees, hair pulled into a loose ponytail—nothing special, but that was all it ever took to make him go wild. His name was written in a far more elegant black cursive script than he thought he deserved across the white board cradled within your arms.

He couldn’t resist; he couldn’t restrain himself from the urge to crush your form against his exhausted body, the tension dramatically easing as he felt your velvet skin along the naked flesh of his neck. Sinclair sighed, finally pulling his limp body away from yours, heart sinking at the loss of such heavenly contact. The board with his name lay crumpled at the ground between your feet.

“Sorry—I—I needed that more than you know.” His words betrayed his weariness, lanky legs falling into a familiar pace beside yours, the baggage claim area sliding into view.

“Don’t worry about it, Clair,” you smiled, eyes bright, teeth sparkling. “So, how was the trip?” Sinclair grumbled something inaudible, his steps momentarily faltering.

“A nightmare,” he muttered, tone unusually irritable. “All they settled on was the idiotic decision to do the entire bloody thing over again in two months—we will be on vacation at that time, dearest.” The conveyor wrapped around in one giant loop, suitcases—new and shabby—spun around in a circle. Sinclair scooped his pitch-black wheeled case from the belt with a grunt, his whiskey-colored duffel bag already slung over one shoulder.

You gently unfolded his long, narrow fingers from the plastic handle, silently insisting on pulling the bag yourself. Sinclair hesitated, his large hand stiffening before finally releasing his tight grip.

Sinclair’s long-legged steps matched yours as you exited the airport, the sigh leaving his lips like a heavy weight removed from his chest.

The Ritz’s interior was all bright lights, fragile glass fixtures, and delicate leather seats. Sinclair loathed to make the effort of booking a seat, the phone line always overflowing, the voice of the maître d' steadily increasing in frustration as he inquired after a spot. It was the effort of actually receiving a reservation that gave the food exceptional taste, although Sinclair might protest that the meal was already “that good to begin with.”

It was early enough in the afternoon that few people were seated amidst the exquisite restaurant, early enough that the dark booth Sinclair and you were seated in lacked any close neighbors. The section was silent, save for the musician pecking away at the grand piano on display in the room’s center. The soft ambiance of the scene made the dinner even more special, made it even easier for you to lose yourself in Sinclair’s glassy hazel eyes, and for Sinclair to similarly lose himself in your eyes.

Your husband leaned forward in his cushioned leather seat, chin tipped back to unashamedly down his first glass of sweet red, the wine already half-drunk. Pink stained the cupid’s bow of his lips before he licked the stripe clean, the corners of his mouth glistening.

“So,” he asked, head leaning on one propped-up hand, swishing the contents of his glass with the other, “So, how did you know when my plane landed? I didn’t have the chance to—”

“I called.” You couldn’t help the matter-of-fact, borderline sarcasm coloring your tone.

“And you still managed to get reservations for—”

“Yes—”

“—You’re unbelievable, you know that? Absolutely unbelievable!” An incredulous expression had slid across Sinclair’s face, eyes bright in wonder, but beginning to droop. You smiled, drinking in the praise. “Christ, I could sleep for a week!” Nothing remained in the curving glass but the wine’s dark dregs. Sinclair’s body now limply collapsed against the seat cushion in a completely undignified position. His eyes had closed, dark lashes twitching, the edge of his lips ticked up to just the start, just the ghost of a smile.

“How can you sleep when we have so much planned?” You teased, voice dropping seductively. Sinclair’s eyes crept back open, cheeks tinged a light shade of pink.

“Believe me, darling, I can sleep safely and soundly with you at my side.” His brow was raised, his challenging, boyish smirk on full display, his deep voice like melted chocolate.

“You may sleep as long as you want after tonight, darling.” Your cheeks flushed at his praise as you eyed the newly formed tent in your husband’s black trousers, the bump small enough to avoid any unwanted, outward attention.

“I intend to.” His baritone voice was like velvet, brimming with the combination of self-satisfaction and desperate need that only Sinclair could perform. You were just thankful the menus arrived a second after.

You brushed your chapped red lips with the white serviette, your plates finally empty of the poshly named, poshly served food. Sinclair was already leaning back in his seat, belt buckle a notch looser, hands neatly folded to rest atop the slight paunch of his stomach.

“Dessert?” You spoke the word suggestively, like you and Sinclair were alone together under the covers of your king-sized bed. Sinclair’s brow raised, a soft groan tumbling from his lips. He managed to sit upright with a grunt, body protesting from either the filling meal or his prolonged lack of sleep.

“I thought you’d never ask, darling.” The endearment would have been far more suave if Sinclair weren’t slurring his words. “What’d you like to order? We can shar——”

—“Profiteroles. And I have no intention of sharing.” Kicking off one of your uncomfortable, restrictive shoes (new black flats in dire need of being broken-in), you placed one nylon-clad foot against Sinclair’s crotch, the white, neatly-pressed tablecloth parting with ease below. His legs sprang close together, the dirty blond caught completely off guard by your foot’s presence. Hazel eyes met yours, panic evaporating, turning quickly to lust as he registered the dominance, the sex gleaming through your eyes.

“Bollocks,” he coughed out, cheeks red-rimmed, but not merely due to the two glasses of wine. “I guess I’ll get the sticky toffee pudding.”

Sinclair did indeed like the profiteroles. He’d been to the Ritz often enough to sample each of their desserts. Sticky toffee pudding happened to be his favorite—devastatingly British, but also the largest portion featured among the dessert menu. He settled back against the cushioned seat, lanky legs spread wide, your foot slowly teasing, slowly inching back-and-forth the hardened flesh hidden between his thighs.

The desserts arrived quickly—yours a small tower of tan-colored rolls, Sinclair’s a brown, circular lump of a fluffy, cake-like mixture, a scoop of vanilla ice cream that could more accurately be called two, and a generous portion of gooey, sticky caramel resting in a small pitcher on the side. Mouth upturned in a devilish grin, Sinclair reached forward toward your plate, large, narrow fingers nearly all the way enclosed over one of your spherical desserts. The smirk disappeared with a small yelp disguised as a cough—Sinclair retracted his smarting hand, upon which you had bestowed a heavy smack.

“That wasn’t very kind, Y/N.” He was pouting now, his fork overflowing with ice cream, pudding, and the caramel liquid. You gave a soft snort, red lips wrapping around the profiterole, taking a healthy first bite of the puffy pastry. White cream stained your lips and dribbled back onto your plate. The moan you gave had the corners of Sinclair’s mouth twitching, the flesh beneath your foot pulsing madly.

“Must you tease me, woman?” His low voice was a whispered growl, and you could see from his shimmering hazel eyes the desperation coming to a head.

“I find I quite enjoy it,” you smiled, licking the white fluff from your lips, the profiterole now finished.

“One day you’ll be my ruination, my undoing, darling.” The sensuality in his voice was mixed with a bit of fear, his needy hazel eyes quickly turning to his half-eaten dessert, tucking in to the treat with a ravenous hunger that suggested he had not just eaten his entrée twenty minutes prior. Your foot continued its work beneath the table, sliding across the inside of Sinclair’s left thigh, his eyes closing, a low moan released around his fork.

“I’m so full,” he half-whimpered, half-murmurred. All that remained of his sticky toffee pudding were a few crumbs, a puddle of melted vanilla ice cream, and the golden brown residue the caramel had left on the pitcher and his plate. You could feel his slight stomach pressing against his trousers’ waistband with your toes, his penis now at full length, pushing up against his zipper. Your nylon-clothed heel left the soft material of his trousers only to return moments later, sliding with a bit more force between his legs, massaging his hard cock with a newfound, steady rhythm.

Sinclair groaned, thighs falling open, back lightly flopping against the cushioned seat, head tilted, dirty blond hair slipping forward to hide his pinched expression. “Don’t,” he whispered, hazel eyes glancing around the dining room, several more tables in their section full after an hour at the venue. His chest rose, hair rippling with the tired release of breath blown from his parted lips at the mischievous look darkening your face.

Your foot continued to stroke his shaft, big toe hitting the sensitive bit along the underside of his tip. Sinclair shivered, a deep moan wrenched from somewhere within his gut. His hips jerked forward, the space beneath your foot grew damp, and you could feel the flesh of his cock start to soften.

The dirty blond man was panting, struggling to hide his panicked expression, his panicked feelings, from carrying out to the other diners meters away. “Can’t believe you did that,” he groaned, voice like gravel, sweat dripping down his temples.

“I can’t believe you actually came,” you teased victoriously. You tipped the rest of your moscato down, noticing the way Sinclair’s eyes followed the fluid movement of your throat. “It won’t be the last time tonight, either, love.” Sinclair’s eyes bugged out of his head, like a pair of hazel saucers. You motioned for the check, watching Sinclair scramble to hide the mess spread across his lap with a white serviette as the waiter darted forward.

Sinclair’s heaving sigh broke across the empty night air. Cars gleamed underneath the flickering moonlight. You took your purse from his trembling hands, his damp crotch uncovered, the shiny silver car key soon in your possession. Your husband hurled himself into the car immediately after the lock clicked open from the other side, his limbs landing rather awkwardly all about the tan leather seat.

“Sorry about your trousers, love.” Your lips met his lightly stubbled cheek, hands gently carding through Sinclair’s limp hair, a puff of air leaving his relieved mouth with a sigh.

“‘S fine,” he mumbled, a sleepy, involuntary yawn following. You ruffled Sinclair’s dirty blond hair, his locks of hair falling back, his hairline and pale forehead exposed.

Throwing the car into reverse, you glanced out the car’s side mirrors, but no one lagged behind in the empty lot. You hit the main street with ease, Sinclair’s hazel eyes warring between focusing on familiar city sights he’d not seen in weeks and you. “Maybe I can make it up to you.” Your hand left the wheel, finding one of your husband’s knobby, bony knees.

Sinclair glanced down his hooked nose, one brow raised—half in question, half as a dare. The curious man already suspected where your mischievous thoughts were headed, yet raised no protest. “Going to ruin my trousers again, dearest?” Your hand was now massaging the space between his knee and his thigh, his crotch tenting in anticipation once more.

“Again, Clair? They’re already ruined, love, I don’t think I can make them any worse.” Sinclair’s ears were pink in the moonlight. “Although, I suppose you could pull your cock out if you don’t want to wear your mess—but then, you risk all of London seeing your pretty dick.” His neck and face were red in the shadows of London’s bright neon lights, his hazel eyes affixed on the road to avoid your overpowering gaze. “I don’t see how that’s a problem, Clair,” you palmed his cock now, the flesh fully engorged and desperate. Sinclair lowly moaned. “When you just came for every dining guest at the Ritz’s special entertainment.” His hips bucked forward, cock thrust into your waiting hand. You allowed him a few quick strokes before returning to massaging and heavily petting his right thigh. Sinclair disappointedly sat back in his seat.

London’s bright lights, narrow streets, and stop-and-go traffic soon disappeared through the rearview mirror. Your husband’s breaths now came in deep pants, his narrow chest heaving as he pressed himself to the back of the tan leather seat. Green fields, now black, passed outside your slightly cracked windows. The sound of sheep baaing ghosted into the heavy, tension-filled air of the dark blue Triumph.

The road curved, and Sinclair Bryant’s family manor soon came into view in the crippling darkness, the lights in several windows kept lit for your return. You found the head of Sinclair’s cock, still buried within his trousers, with one hand, squeezing the aching flesh in your grip. He grunted aloud into the car, neck bending low to inspect his lap before quickly being tossed back against the headrest. His large hands covered his mouth, stopping the mewls and breathy moans from leaking out. You desperately wanted to hear him as he came this time.

You twisted his cockhead, flicking the underside of his tip repeatedly, before, soon enough, his pelvis jerked, cock twitched, and his trousers grew wet. “Mmmmph,” he tapped your hand, still tightly gripped around his trembling, slowly shrinking shaft.

“Sorry, love,” you released him, then squeezed his knee in apology. Sinclair rested his large hand over yours, his narrow fingers still shaking. He couldn’t say or do anything else but nod.

The Triumph pulled to a stop in front of a black, wrought-iron gate. Gravel crunched and shifted beneath your feet as you walked over to the towering darkness, unlocking the latch with a long, black key. The iron gate swung forward, providing the car passage into the manor’s winding drive.

You brought the car up the driveway, Sinclair, still seated beside you, had finally managed to corral his breaths into something far steadier. You left him to re-latch the gate, heels slipping and turning amidst the uneven ground.

You sat in the driver’s seat, the car turned off, the door still open. Cool night air blew all around, whipping your curled hair back into a veritable mess, the smell of the Thames invading your nostrils. Sinclair sat slumped to one side, hazel eyes glassy—somewhere half between sleep and the waking world. Struck with a sudden surge of lust, you tugged him down by his striped tie, his startled lips meeting your insistent ones, hazel eyes panicking wide before closing in the throes of passion.

Sinclair broke off the kiss first with a gasp, the night air entering, rejuvenating his parched lungs. You pulled him forward again, and he yelped as your tongue latched against his. One hand was stroking his soft hair, the other making fast work of loosening the knot of his tie. You tossed the offending article of clothing somewhere into the dark abyss of the backseat, fingers now unbuttoning the top three buttons of his white dress shirt, the light fabric full of wrinkles and creases.

With one red-painted nail, you traced the exposed skin of Sinclair’s chest, the light brown hairs that grew there sparse. The moan he gave was far more sinful, far more scandalous, than any noise he had made thus far that night. You broke apart again, the car filled with synchronized, labored gasps. You gestured with one hand for Sinclair to remove his black suit jacket before exiting your side of the car, the door slamming closed with a bang in your enthusiasm.

The passenger door wrenched open, Sinclair struggling to untangle each of his arms from his jacket. You unbuttoned the remaining buttons of his white shirt, untucking the material from his still buckled trousers. His stomach was revealed beneath the thick white fabric—the protruding, straining flesh firm under your touch. You glanced below his lightly furred, full belly to see that his crotch was half-tented for the third time that evening.

You fell to your knees on the sharp, stony gravel ground, Sinclair, ever the gentleman, tossing down his rumpled jacket for you to kneel upon. He moaned as you gripped both his knees at once, hands delicately inching their way upward to his trousers’ belt. The buckle loosened with a metallic click, button and zipper popping open, his trousers and grey boxers meeting the gravel in one fluid motion of your hands.

His straining cock was now exposed to the cool night breeze, precum beading at the tip of the red head, his pink balls loose in a nest of darker brown curls below. He gasped at the sensation, cock bobbing, while you admired your husband’s naked form for the first time in weeks.

Your hands settled on his calves, lips sensuously pressing open-mouthed kiss after kiss from the inside of his left knee up to the place where his thigh met the rest of his pelvis before switching over to his right leg to do the same. Sinclair’s limbs wobbled, a noise higher than any pitch you expected his baritone capable of producing lay caught under his shuddering Adam’s apple.

“Mmmmph,” he whimpered into the summer breeze as your lips ghosted across his inner thigh, the muscle tensing, his breath reduced to shallow pants once more.

“Look at you, already so worked up again,” you teased, the pale moonlight shining along Sinclair’s bare legs, red lipstick staining the porcelain skin. You smiled as your husband’s hips inched forward, his firm erection leaking clear fluid, now pooling amidst the rocky ground.

“Yessss,” he hissed, as your warm breath tickled the velvet, untouched, dark skin of his wet cock.

Your lips were a hair’s length apart from him now, teasing smirk staring up at the pained, desperate face of the tall man above. “What do you want? What do you want, Clair?” His cock twitched in silent insistence, his eyes closing in harsh, barely held restraint.

“S-Suck me. Suck me off, please,” his deep voice was ruined, expression pinched, defeated by so vulnerable an admission. After so many years together, dirty talk still seemed to manage to rattle the man raised to be so proper.

“With pleasure,” you waggled your brows, lips wrapping around the very tempting flesh of his hard cock. Sinclair whined, muscles surrounding his stomach fidgeting as he attempted to keep himself from rutting into your warm, wet hole in excitement. Sex had eluded him for weeks, every inch of his body sensitive, tensed, and positively aching to experience the familiar pleasure that continued to surprise, to overwhelm him.

You reached one hand out to cup Sinclair’s loose, heavy sack, until then neglected, giving the tender orbs gentle squeezes. Pleasure shot straight up his groin to his spine, and a series of soft moans was wrenched from his chest. Your cheeks hollowed, suction increasing across his sensitive, spongy head, Sinclair’s legs falling further apart. You eased yourself forward onto him, nose tickled by his smooth, dark brown pubic curls, one hand still holding, kneading his balls.

Sinclair gasped, face a dark scarlet, his narrow fingers now stuck, clenching a fist full of your tresses, not to trap you against his cock, but to ground himself in the reality of the moment, to combat the incessant fear that in seconds he’d be waking up in a New York City hotel bed in a white sticky mess following the most vivid wet dream he had experienced in decades.

He was regularly twitching and squirming within your mouth, hips subtly bucking into your warmth, though not unkindly nor uncomfortably. The bright, pale moon had traveled high above the clouds, high above the manor’s rooftop, the sole voyeur of your coupling.

“Close,” Sinclair whimpered, baritone voice as coarse as the gravel beginning to dig into your bare knees, even with Sinclair’s jacket offering some small semblance of protection. Precum flooded the tip of your tongue, the flavor unnaturally sweet and purely him.

Seeing his lack of movement, you decided to take the initiative, bobbing up and down his scarlet-colored erection, lewd slurps erupting into the night as you continued to suckle. Sinclair’s grip tightened in your hair, hips stilling, balls drawing up close to his body. You felt his penis shiver, ropes of white cum hitting the back of your throat. You swallowed, continuing to hold him in your mouth as remnants of his sticky load dribbled out over your tongue, Sinclair whispering a steady mantra of, “Ah, fuck,” between breathy pants above.

You felt him begin to soften, his thighs shifting around your shoulders as the stimulation became too much. You pulled off his cock, lips creating a wet plop, knees popping as you stood up from the rough ground. Hazel eyes darkly scrutinized you as you swiped a hand across your lips and chin, both covered in drool mixed with Sinclair’s cum. His eyes flickered with appreciation and want, a soft growl tearing through his throat.

You bent low to kiss him, his own seed still at the tip of your lips and tongue, your husband deepening the kiss with a groan at the taste, at his taste. Your hand slipped under his open white dress shirt to clutch the bare, lightly freckled pale skin of his left shoulder. Long, sharp nails imparted crescent-shaped indents below the white shirt. Your hand retreated, lips leaving his to search for oxygen.

“Bedtime?” You murmurred, your own voice hoarse and missing the smooth, silky sensuality from earlier. Hazel eyes glimmered in the moonlight, filled with love and arousal, locking with your own eyes. Not trusting the strength of his own voice, Sinclair nodded, picking up stray articles of clothing and shutting the car door with a snap.

As you walked to the large, solid oak doors, you glanced at his groin, illuminated in the streaks permitted by the glowing moon, now partway blocked by a grey cloud. He was already semi-hard, penis and balls hanging low.

You slipped through the doorway, Sinclair already halfway up the steep steps leading to your bedroom, a smile spreading across your ruined lips at what next you had planned for Sinclair. Your poor husband would be lucky to walk the next day, and just might end up sleeping straight into next week. A chuckle, your chuckle, echoed off the dark hallway walls at the thought.

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