Page 41 of Westin

Clarity hits me like a wall of bricks, and I release the tension on the belt. She gasps around my cock. Her eyes lock with mine as I empty the last of my cum into her mouth.

She’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

I pull from her mouth and slip the belt from her throat. She snaps her lips closed, like she doesn’t know what to do next.

“Did you swallow?”

She shakes her head.

“Show me,” I order.

Hesitantly, she puts her tongue out. My cum sits on it, pooled in the dip in the middle. I’m still rock hard, and my cock throbs at the sight.

“Jesus fucking Christ, you’re a dirty slut,” I breathe. “Swallow it.”

Her tongue darts in and her throat bobs. My head buzzes with satisfaction as I pull her to her feet and kiss her mouth, her neck, the dip between her breasts.

“You’re so pretty,” I murmur.

It feels like I've said some version of that a hundred times since we’ve met. She’s just so fucking pretty, and I can’t stop marveling when I see her big, brown eyes look up at me.

I might be done for, wrapped up around her little finger.

“Thank you,” she says, unsure.

She needs reassurance. I set her on the counter and find a washrag. Her hands knot together in her lap. I wipe her face and hands, then spread her thighs and clean her there. By the time I’m done, the fire is back in her eyes.

“You alright, darling?” I ask.

She nods. “I liked that. A lot.”

I think I might have met my match. She’s new to this, but she’s a natural when it comes to the fundamentals.

She jumps down and smooths her skirt. “You hungry?”

I’m not, but I am if she’s cooking. “I could eat.”

She starts moving around the kitchen, her cheeks still flushed. I sink down at the table, unable to keep my eyes off her. I’m just playing house in my head, pretending this is our home and nobody else exists.

It’s heaven.

She makes a plate with cheese, fried green tomatoes, and ham. I don’t want to leave, so I talk about anything I can think of. The haying season, coming up soon. The cattle we’re planning to auction this fall. I get her to tell me a little about her grandmother, but not much. Her soft, brown eyes go from happy to sad, so I turn it back to things she likes.

She likes being outside, but she doesn’t get to go out very much. We go upstairs, and she shyly shows me a box she has of pressed flowers, dried and preserved between two bits of clear plastic. Each one is labeled with their scientific name.

I ask her where she learned all this. She says she quit school when her grandmother died because David said she had to. But it’s clear she’s smart. The handful of books in a crate under her bed are worn through.

I listen to every word she says. I get the feeling I’m the first man who has.

“You like the yellow lilies best,” I say. “What are those called?”

She’s sitting against the headboard, feet bare. “Glacier Lily.”

“Why don’t you like me picking them?”

Her eyes go distant. “Nobody likes being locked up. I feel like…maybe I shrivel up being at home, just working in the house. I’d like to be able to go out, do what I want.”

“Why can’t you?” I ask.

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