My hands are everywhere, gentle and soothing, rubbing her tense thighs and caressing the full teardrops of her breasts and cradling her flushed face. “Logan,” she says, and it’s not so much a word as an exhalation, as a prayer.
“Devi,” I exhale back. “Come here.”
I help her lean forward into me, her naked chest pressed against the white button-down I wore under my graduation robe, and then I tip her face up to mine and kiss her. Rubbing her back and smoothing her hair, stroking her arms and legs, I languorously explore her mouth, give her the kind of slow, luxurious kisses that a queen like my Cass deserves.
And out of all the dirty things we do, out of all the rough, kinky sex we have, this right here is my favorite. The kind of sex that combines dirty and deep, raunch and romance. I know it seems like a contradiction, or maybe even an impossibility, that anal sex could be romantic, but it’s an act that requires so much more patience and so much more communication than almost anything else I can think of. It forces you to slow down and look your partner in the face, examine how they’re feeling and what they’re thinking. To be done right, it requires an incredible amount of trust, and what could possibly be more romantic than that?
My lips slide over hers and our tongues press and twist together. Our breathing unites and our heartbeats pound the same heavy, hot rhythm, and we move together, rising and falling, pushing and pulling. I reach between us and start kneading her clit with the pad of my thumb, and that’s how we come—together—kissing and grinding and panting. And when my climax stabs through my balls like a hot knife of ecstasy, when I feel the deep contractions of her own orgasm squeezing my dick, I hold her tight and breathe her name against her lips,
Devi
Devi
Devi,
until we both come down, until I feel her body ease and slump against mine, until my cock stops pulsing inside of her. I lift her off my dick and place her back on my lap. It occurs to me that I’m probably going to have to change into a new pair of slacks for dinner, but I don’t care.
“That was a hell of a present, Cass,” I murmur into her hair.
Her face is pressed against my chest, and I can both feel and hear her happy humming deep in her throat.
“Are you purring, little kitten?”
She nods lazily, still humming.
I glance at the clock—five in the evening. We’re supposed to meet our parents for a big family dinner at seven, which is when I planned on giving Devi her graduation present. But her present to me was so amazing, and honestly, I’d give anything to this naked goddess curled up on my lap right now.
“I have something else to make you purr,” I say, standing up and resettling her on the chair. She looks perfect, her hair mussed and her lips swollen, wearing nothing but her heels. I button myself back up and jog over to the small alcove that serves as my office, where I open a filing cabinet and pull out a little box I stashed behind all the files.
I also leave the camera running. I’ve been looking forward to this moment for years, and I want to capture every naked, sex-rumpled second of it.
My hands start to shake and my pulse starts to race, my heart somehow hammering a frantic beat in my chest and choking my throat all at once. But I manage to walk over to the chair and hand her the box as casually as possible, given the circumstances.
She smiles up at me. “Logan, this better not be expensive.”
“I only had to pawn off like half of our sex toys to buy it, it’s fine.”
She laughs and turns her attention back to the package, which is a small square box with a massive bow on top. She unties the giant silk ribbon and it falls into her lap in sinuous loops. And then she opens the lid to see what’s inside.
A ring box.
The moment it hits her, her eyes snap up to me, but I’m already on one knee in front of her.
“Devi Daryani,” I say, my voice trembling a little, “I love you more than Manjun loved Layla. I love you more than I love anything else in this life. I know you wanted to wait until we were completely done with school to move forward, but Devi, I can’t wait another second. I want to be your husband. I want you to be my wife. I want to be loving you and giving you orgasms until we’re too frail to get out of our beds in the nursing home.”
She blinks those long eyelashes rapidly, tears shimmering in her amber eyes.
“Will you marry me?” I ask, realizing I hadn’t actually said the words yet. “Will you let me be your husband?”
She takes a deep, choking breath and opens up the box. I see the reflection of the diamond in her eyes. For the first time, my vague fears crystalize into an extremely concrete and immediate terror that she’ll say no. That she wants to wait or that she doesn’t want to ever get married or, worse, that she doesn’t love me enough to bind herself to me.
“Please marry me, Devi,” I say anxiously. “Please say yes.”
She eases the ring out of its box and then she looks up, those tears finally spilling over and tracing streaks down her face.
“Yes,” she whispers. “I’ll marry you.”
My chest expands into that hugely dizzying big feeling, and I collapse in relief, my head falling onto her lap. “Thank God,” I mumble into the silken skin of her thighs. “I would have died if you said no.”
She runs her fingers through my hair. “As if anyone could say no to you.”
“You did once,” I remind her, nuzzling her thighs.
She parts them for me, half instinct and half banked desire from earlier. “But you had to know that I was still yours, even when I left,” she says.