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plsdontmisfire · 1 year ago

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the duke’s illicit affair

4.3k / pairing: duke!joel miller x f!reader

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summary: You want to tame the wild stallion that is 'the Duke', Joel Miller. Even if you have to lose your virtue in the process.

warnings/information: MA 18+ (minors DNI), regency era, overly romantic writing style, pedro’s “swashbuckler” -fran fit, mutual pining, slight religious themes such as virgnity and purity, implied but unspecified age gap, swearing, virginity loss, joel has a big cock and therefore -size kink, praise & degradation kink with accompanied dirty talk, slight innocence/corruption kink if you squint, pet names (1 (one) angel), oral (f!receiving), fingering, unprotected p in v, joel talks goads you through it, joel caves and asks to court reader, is described having pubic hair and wears a ballgown, but otherwise (I believe) no physical description, slightly beta’d, no use of y/n A/N: in order of events: I rewatched bridgerton for the umpteenth time before season three comes out, pedro arrives to the SAG awards in THAT Mr. Darcy fit - the two melded together and in my week of stress and doctor’s appointments, and this was born. enjoy xx - banners by @saradika-graphics

How long does he expect you to stand here? Your hands fixate on your dance card. One last unsigned line you had mindlessly reserved for the most handsome man of the evening.

Duke Joel Miller of Westbrook. An older bachelor, one with stony eyes and beautiful greying curls. He sips on a brandy while you waver with impatience. He looks ravishingly attractive tonight. The summer is unseasonably hot, and he decides to ditch the usual black tailcoat for a breezy white button-up.

You can see his skin, so much of his tan, slick skin. The sleeves are elongated. He’s never been one for fitted trends. High-waisted black trousers adorn his lower half, just barely tucking in the flowy dress shirt. Even in the unfitted look, you can see his broad shoulders and simple white buttons that attempt to hold him together.

He’s slowly been plucking them open all night. The first one at ten o’clock, another one at eleven. By midnight, you could see the pretty silver and black chest hairs peeking out. Heavens, please, one more button.

You grow frustrated at his lack of advances.

It’s not just you, it’s everyone and anyone. Overly excited mamas who pester the Duke with their daughter’s endless excelled abilities like embroidery or playing the pianoforte. He’s polite, smiles, raises his glass, and wishes them well before turning back to his usual group of fellow bachelors. You’ve grown to feel bad for those who try, thinking they might be the one to break his bachelor streak. All while the poor daughter is in tow, heels dragging into the ground.

They don’t fear him. They fear being rejected in such a social scene. Even the diamond of the season couldn’t pull the Duke.

Why does he bother coming to these things if not to find a wife? No man stepped foot in a ballroom amongst the ton’s elite without only assuming he would be on the looks to court a young woman. Maybe he just likes the attention and the liquor. Or maybe he just likes to socialize with his boy’s club.

You cannot deny that the aloof act is working. You maintain a pleasant countenance to the other ballgoers as you daydream.

Another dance, a few more opportunities to be spun in the Duke’s general direction, and just hoping, dare you say praying, that the delicate sweetness of your perfume lingers in his space. That his eyes might meet yours, and the room falls into slow motion. Your dress made of the finest silks gently fanning around you in a graceful display.

But he’s too late.

A young gentleman approaches. You know him well. Lord Alexander Pembrooke, a distinguished and wealthy man who has noticeably been attempting to catch your eye all evening. And as the grandfather clock ticked on, the late hours of the evening approaching, Mr. Pembroke finally makes his move. “May I have the pleasure of reserving a dance on your card?”

As a young woman during these times, the answer is always yes. Even if you wish you could say no.

“Of course, Mr. Pembrooke. It would be,” Force it out. Grin and bear it, “an honor.”

The Lord smiles, a charming one at that. Also very genuine. He would be a suitable husband. He gets along well in high society, where most men cower at the responsibilities it bears. But Lord Pembrooke doesn’t gamble his inheritance or drink his sorrows. He is a man of honor. No engaging in brawls or scandalous affairs that leave a woman alone with an illegitimate child. Not even a public drunk, which was hard to find for a young man his age.

“Ah,” he hums softly, his mouth tilting with pride, “the last dance on your card. I hope you don’t mind spending it with me.”

You glance across the room at the Duke. He’s not even looking at you. A woman could only be so subtle for so long.

“Of course, I don’t mind, my Lord.” You offer your gloved hand, and he takes it with ease as the violinists lift their instruments to attention.

During your dance, Joel consumes your very thoughts, bewitching your mind in endless fantasies that make your head swirl. You could dance blind, knowing the steps and knowing the dancefloor like the back of your head. So you let the fantasies take you away.

You’ve been swooning for him in silence, all this time, all season. You’ve kept the ideas to yourself. All your friends pray they don’t get matched with someone of his age. They dream of romance with someone young and gorgeous, someone who is cocky but charming, thinking they will have a fulfilled life based on those things alone.

They wanted a boy who had just recently become a man. You wanted a stallion. And at all costs, you would tame the silver steed that was Duke Joel Miller.

By the end of the night, the orchestra has left, their gold and pearly chairs unattended. Music stands empty of their sheet music. Servants clean up plates and drink glasses.

You’re so exhausted, heels are a torture device. As you await your carriage, you attempt to loosen your posture but quickly stand straight once you feel a squeeze along your ribs. You are ripping this corset off once you get home.

That’s when you see the Duke, awaiting his own carriage at the end of the pavement. One might wish to call him a rake, but the term can never truthfully come to service. He’s just such a gentleman.

Out of your peripheral, he approaches.

“Hello, Miss.” He sharply dips his head, honey-brown eyes catching fire from the lit torches that line the approach road.

“Your Grace,” you manage through gritted teeth. His eyes can’t help but fall on the way your chest rises and falls with heat, lingering longer than they should along the curves of your breasts that your corset is only boosting with much annoyance. “I didn’t see you dancing with any young ladies. You know the point of these balls is to meet people, to talk.”

The Duke is trying to politely cover his expression but he’s surely taken aback by your braveness. Or maybe it’s your abruptness. Either way, he downplays a smirk.

“I’m sorry?” The Duke gently offers his hand to have you face him, but you resist.

“You should be. I’ve been to a season’s worth of balls now, and have always held the last spot on my dance card open for you. You, Your Grace. Do you know how foolish that makes me? Hoping that you’d decide to leave your little hunting buddies and just ask me for one proper dance? Or anyone for that matter? So at least I could move on from you, seeing you court someone else. Then I could mindlessly chit-chat about the weather and dance with boring conversationalists or have feelings for anyone else, but no, you taunt me. You taunt me, sir. Standing there with your big bravado, having the eyes that every woman in that room wishes they’d fall upon. So stop torturing me-us. You can go have drinks and banter at your stately home or your château, or even the gentleman’s club. No need to dangle a carrot in front of a flock of hungry sheep.”

You know enough to keep your tone hushed, at a shouting whisper because that’s all you can do. Even cursing him out in the esplanade was brave. You know better, you were taught better than to talk to someone of such nobility this way. The punishments were endless. But your frustration has boiled over, and you favor blaming your ill words on the heat of the summer night.

The Duke scoffs indignantly, an irritated yet arousing notch in his smirk. “I am a gentleman, and gentlemen do not… dangle.” His words are tight, like he’s gripping a lifeline. He forces himself to walk further into the estate, the warmth of the night forming sweat along his temple and jawline. Even his damn exposed chest.

You follow him towards the dark gardens because you will be heard by him.

“Forgive my outspokenness, your Grace, but I do not understand your motives. You attend, you watch, but you don’t- you don’t advance.” You sigh and bring a gloved hand to your temple.

The Duke turns quickly on his heel and towers over you, shaded by the tall dark green hedges.

“If I had only just- what?” He pushes, his voice also falling hushed. “You would have wanted me to ask you for a dance? Imagine the scandal that would fall upon you. You could have any gentleman you desire, someone your age. A beautiful diamond such as yourself doesn’t need some Duke double her age ripping at your delicate seams. You can marry anyone your own age, you do not want me. I don’t ask you to dance, I don’t bring flowers, I don’t court, because I will not ruin your prospects.” He’s stern and pointed, succinct as he explains why his affections have never reached the surface.

Both of your eyes are lined with a mix of anger and something else, something forbidden.

The Duke’s jaw juts out, parted cherry lips smacking as he licks them, eyes casting downwards as he takes in your appearance for the first time this close.

“You do not get to decide that for me, sir. You simply cannot intervene divine lust.”

He scoffs. “I will not ruin you.”

“Ruin me, for heaven's sake! Ruin me!”

Your heated breaths mingle in the hot summer air as roses and tulips listen in on your private conversation. A pause falls between you. All tight jaws and heated eyes of passion. He wants you.

“Ruin you, I shall.” Duke Miller mutters before closing the dreaded distance between you both and kissing you with the fire of a thousand suns. His hands tighten at your waist, and you have never felt such desperate affection.

Your lips find a home with him, and he guides the pace. It’s fast, needy. He wants you. He wants, he wants, he wants. And now, he finally has a taste.

There’s so much you need to say to the Duke. We cannot. What about my purity, my honor? What of God?

No one must know.

“Take me,” is all that tumbles from your mouth as the Duke’s greying scruff scratches your delicate skin, his pearly teeth nipping at the supple skin along your neck. “Take me, your Grace. I’ve wanted you for so long, please,” you beg. The hold he has on your body tightens, a protective instinct to keep you shielded in the dark depths of the garden.

The Duke pulls away, both of you panting with desperation. His forehead rests against your own, and you close your eyes. You cannot bear to see his beauty so close, you fear you might get lost in him forever.

“You are what I desire,” he whispers, and your eyes flutter open in surprise. You part your lips to speak, but he insists on continuing. “I’ve desired every last dance, I promise you. I’ve been forced to watch you give your sweet smiles to others who are undeserving, I cannot stand by any longer. Be with me tonight, even if it is only tonight,” the Duke swallows a lump in his throat as your hands delicately fall to his exposed chest, undoing button after button with sensitive haste.

“I want you, your Grace,” You remind him as you press a delicate kiss to his lips, your eyes falling to his beautiful tanned skin.

“Joel- Call me Joel, Miss,” you feverishly nod and run your fingers down his jawline, cupping the strong bone and skimming your thumb upwards. He grows lost in your eyes, almost defeated by how much he needs to be with you. “Please, I must make you mine, but not here,” Joel takes your hand and guides you out of the gardens, too open.

He whisks you away past the gardens and the grounds, below the large estate to a descending staircase. You kiss and tangle all the way to the stone cellar where he drops to his knee. He hikes up your precious silks, and you feel his warm tongue for the first time on the inside of your thigh.

The soft skin of your back shudders against the cold stone, but it is the vice your simmering skin begs for. The Duke has your head in a twirl, having never been with another. There were so many thoughts flooding your mind.

What would it be like? What would he do?

The pleasure he contrived was monumental.

A shrill gasp leaves your parted lips as the Duke easily tugs aside your silk undergarments, releasing your core to the free air of midnight. He moans simply at the sight before him as you assist him in hiking up your ballgown.

“Please,” you whisper with a sense of urgency. “I need you more than you know.”

The Duke simply scoffs and smirks up at you past the tulle.

“Trust me, my lady, I know.” A shiver is sent up your spine. He alludes to your dripping arousal sent down to you from the Gods. You believe it is his fountain of youth as he begins to lap like a dehydrated man.

You bring your gloved hand to your mouth, fearing to make a peep that the servants could hear just above your head.

The sensation is glorious, his tongue is succinct and persuasive as it moves about your wet cunt. The Duke fists the tuft of hair dancing along your mound, all the more arousing. He kisses your cunt with swollen lips and suckles at your eager bud. He moves languidly, exploring your folds and your taste for the first time.

“Fuck,” he curses against your core, “You’re intoxicating,” he breathes, hiking your leg up and over his shoulder, only allowing him more access to what he craves.

You can feel the coil tighten in your stomach, a pleasure you’ve only come to know from touching yourself in the late hours of the evening in the privacy of your bedroom. This was far better.

At last, you cannot help but moan as your thighs twitch against his head, one of the Duke’s thick fingers slowly nudging into your entrance and tightening around each knuckle as he presses onward.

“That’s a good girl, take it,” he praises as heat slips down your spine. You remove a glove, determined to rake your fingers through his glorious curls. He slurps your entirety, causing you to quiver before him.

“Joel, please, I need you,” you whimper as your form begins to feel like jelly. Your stomach tightens as he suckles and grazes his teeth against your pearl, a sweet moan of his name leaving your lips that seems to only drive him mad.

Joel’s tongue traces your seam, teasing flicks by the tip of his tongue sending you into overwhelming pleasure that makes your cunt squeeze around his singular finger. He tastes your sweet come and you gasp as your muscles clench. He places a final kiss on your overstimulated gem and stands up in a rush.

You’re still seeing stars by the time he kisses you, your tastebuds mingling with your own finish. Heat laps at your neck as you bravely move your hands to his waist, untying his trousers and shucking his pants down to his thighs, along with his undergarments.

With all the excess fabric, you don’t even see him. But Gods, do you feel him.

Joel presses you hard against the cool stone, your shoulder blades aching as he glides the tip of his cock up and down your puffy folds. You soak him in your juices while he kisses along your sweet neck. Your senses are in overdrive, the scratch of his beard and whiskers unknowingly forces your hips to buck against his.

“Please, my Lord, fulfill me,” you whisper against the shell of his ear. Joel grabs your leg by the underside of your thigh and hooks it around his waist, your arms wrapping around his broad shoulders as you brace yourself.

“Have wanted you for so long,” he mutters, deep and almost animalistic as he sizes you up. “This is your last chance, to send me away.” He shakes his head, forehead against yours as your eyes bore into his own amber ones. “I shall not disparage your virtue- I am a gentleman.”

You cannot help but to scoff.

“Forgive me when I say I do not care about purity or virginity. I want you, Joel. I want all of you, to fill me to the brim. I ache for your cock, to be made yours. Screw the Gods for making me wait so long for you. Fuck me.” You insist, lust glazing over Joel’s eyes as your desires spill into the night air.

He shakes his head with an astonished smirk.

“You will stay quiet, do you hear me?” He grits. You hastily nod as his hand comes up and clamps against your mouth. You think you don’t need him to take this extra measure, you can control yourself, your desperations. But nothing could have prepared you for him.

Your eyes widen as his tip notches at your entrance. He thrusts onward, and it breaks the seal. You cry out against his hand and are thrown back harder against the frigid wall.

“Fuck-” You sob out against his hand, eyes clenching closed as your jaw drops against his palm.

“Fuck,” he groans out long and hushed, trying to breathe around the strangle of your tight cunt. “Yeah, that’s a good girl, taking all of me, fuck- you’re so damn tight,” Joel grinds his hips flush against your own and the pain is excruciatingly sweet. There’s a distinct pain as you bleed for him, your walls doing all that is possible to accommodate his stretch.

He’s not what you imagined- he’s even bigger.

Tears well in your eyes, tears of pain as he aches deep inside your cunt. Your walls pulse around him and he wills himself not to move. His hot pants fan across your neck and shoulder, attempting to distract himself as he lays lazy kisses upon your skin.

“M-Move,” you beg against his hand, your body still shuddering at the after-effects.

He pants and ultimately shakes his head. “No, just- just fucking wait, angel.”

You need the release, to feel him move. You beg him for his urgency as anyone could circle around to the back of the courtyard and remove the barrels of ale and wine to the cellar stairs where you two lurk. He needs to-

“Move,” you beg again, to which he smirks.

“Such a brat for this cock,” he pauses and narrows his eyes. “Aren’t you?”

You whimper and nod feverishly, weaving your fingers through the curls at the nape of his neck and holding on for dear life.

He slowly removes his palm from your mouth, only once he’s sure you can withstand him, and you let out a small whimper of words.

“I am, sir,” you weep as he snickers.

“How does it feel, my lady? To be fucked for the first time, by a man, no less?”

His feet falter as he presses you even harder against the wall and you shudder at the movement, at the slight drag of his cock.

“Fuck- it feels… it feels so good, Joel,” you hum as you quickly nod and reunite your heated kiss.

His thrusts begin steady, rocking you up against the wall as your leg lightly loosens around his waist, allowing his hips to move as they please.

It is a clash of teeth and tongues as he begins making headway, fucking his pretty little mess of a woman. Your hands fall to the wall, gliding over the smooth stone before eventually returning to the Duke’s broad frame. Your body begins to jut with each thrust as he picks up his pace, skin slapping as you fist the fabric of his white flowy shirt.

You both appear in awe, jaws dropped in pleasure that begins to flood over both of your bodies while your foreheads remain pressed against one another, needing to be close.

He’s large, splitting you open and making your cunt take shape for his ungodly cock. His tip presses deep, hitting a spot undiscovered that nearly left a mangled cry to flee into the air. His hand is already at the ready, smirking down at you as he conceals your moans.

“If you want to come, best be quiet,” Joel warns with a warped smirk gracing his features.

You whimper against his hand and nod, eyes slipping closed as he rails you faster against the wall of the cellar. Your thighs clap, and with each thrust, you begin to moan louder and louder against his palm.

“Oh, fuck,” you whine, feeling that familiar tightness in your stomach you only contrive when you are close to your breaking point. Joel must feel it too because he’s buried his face into your neck and lays wary kisses to the column of your throat.

His hips snap feverishly, both of you so desperately close.

“Yes, yes, please, right there, fuck!” You spill into his palm. He groans into your skin and his pace falters.

Your eyes widen as he removes his palm and slips it between your thighs, close to where you both meet. He’s quick to find your bulb and circle it with intent. You part your lips, afraid to moan, but he crashes his lips to yours before you have the chance. His tongue slips into your mouth, languidly gliding against your own as he groans into your mouth.

Finally, he cannot take any more gentle care. He takes you, full on. He grapples both of your thighs to wrap around his waist, allowing him to jackhammer you against the wall as you arch your back against the stone. His face falls to your beautiful breasts where he licks and kisses the perfumed skin. Your corset only forces them to be pressed upward and with each thrust, they jump and nearly spill on display.

You cannot breathe, you only know Joel, and you can only praise his name as he pushes you to oblivion.

With his thick fingers toying with your clit and his tip reaching the narrowness of your cervix, you finally combust with soft moans of euphoria. You moan in each other’s mouths, feeling his hips flush with yours before he presses you still, his warm come painting your sweet cunt.

It’s warm and sticky, your bodies tangled in one another. Your fingernails gently glide along his scalp as he shudders against you, still in the minglings of working through his orgasm.

“That’s it,” you coo as he smiles tiredly against your cheek. “Right there, my Lord,” you smirk against the shell of his ear as he shakes his head against your own, his nose coming up to nuzzle against your own.

“Gods,” you both breathe out in unison which causes laughter to erupt between the both of you.

It was everything you had ever wanted. You had ridden the stallion, perhaps there was no such thing as taming him. However, you were so pleased to be wrong.

“I’m afraid… I must see you again.” He admits as his dark lashes flutter, his hand coming to cradle your cheek as you playfully ponder his courtship.

“I’m afraid I enjoy this feeling too much to say no.”

Joel smiles in agreement, slowly releasing himself from you. Your thighs grow sticky as he leaks from within. Your muscles are still twitching with overstimulation as you adjust your ballgown. By the time you look up, the Duke is watching with slight amusement.

“Tomorrow. The artist’s latest gallery opening. I’ll provide us with a private tour.”

You hum playfully, thinking he is purely jesting with his aims to take you to a proper outing.

“Not many places to fool around and shag in an open art exhibit.” You point out as he takes your hand and helps you up the stone stairs, your heels clicking with each step you take.

Joel sighs and sets his hand low on your waist as he peers from the left and to the right, confirming that the coast was clear to move to the carriage line.

“You will need to be chaperoned if I am to court you, my lady. When I said I must see you again, I meant in the light of day; where all the gentlemen who attempted to sweep you off your feet tonight can see you with the Duke, your arm on mine.”

A bashful smile grows on your lips, shaking your head at his mischievousness. “Won’t it be a bit of a scandal for us to promenade tomorrow, especially since we have yet to be formally introduced and you were not on my dance card last night? The gossip sheets will be hot off the presses, I am sure.”

Joel takes a deep breath, appearing almost nervous as he shrugs. “I’ve wanted you for quite some time. I’m afraid I’m simply not strong with the waltz.” He whistles for your carriage, and the horses gallop closer.

All you can think about is him inside you just moments ago, how he still feels like he’s inside you now. You attempt to remain unphased, but he has this look in his eyes that makes your stomach flutter.

“I thought you said you didn’t court, your Grace.”

“I also don’t bring flowers. I am allergic.”

Joel opens the carriage door as you eye him up and down slowly.

“Tomorrow?” He presses again. Your hands clutch the sides of your dress, lifting the train as the footman lowers the pedal to step up and into the carriage. Joel takes your hand and holds it for a few seconds too long. Your eyes hold contact, hearing both of your hearts beating.

“Tomorrow. And if not flowers, chocolate, then.”

A bemused grin lines his lips, a gleam in his eyes. “Good day, my Lady.” He drops his chin, and you do the same.

“Goodnight, Duke Miller.”

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plsdontmisfire · 1 year ago

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I'm in the mood for some Marcus Pike and omg isn't this just what I'm looking for 😭♥️♥️♥️ this is sooo naughty and sweet

Naughty Or Spice? - A Marcus Pike Christmas One Shot 🎄

Written for @hellishjoel 's 12 Days of Pedro. Thank you for inviting me to participate, lovely! Thanks to @undercoverpena for the 12 Days of Pedro banner. 🖤

Character: Marcus Pike

Prompt: Holiday Meal

Read the other amazing fics here 👇🏻

🎄Hellishjoel's 12 Days of Pedro Masterlist🎄

Summary: You and your husband Marcus are preparing a Christmas feast for your relatives, when you both give in to a hunger of your own.

Pairing: Husband!Marcus Pike x WifeF!Reader (No name or physical description of reader. It’s you, bub. Image used for aesthetic purposes only, no reference to Reader.)

Word Count: 4.3k

Scoville Smut Rating:🌶️🌶️🌶️ “You tell me I’m doing well, and then, you try to kill me.”

Check out my Scoville Smut Ratings here.

Explicit - Established relationship/unprotected PIV (wrap up, folks!)/oral M & F receiving/69

NSFW. MINORS DNI! OVER 18’s ONLY. YOU ARE SOLELY RESPONSIBLE FOR WHAT YOU READ. ☝🏻Don’t come at me; you’ve been plenty warned.

If this story isn't for you, that's fine. Just slip quietly out the back door. No need to make a fuss. It's just a work of fiction.

Author’s Note: Really enjoyed writing this and being a part of this amazing group of writers for 12 Days of Pedro, & I hope you enjoy reading it too! 🎄

MAIN MASTERLIST

Enjoy & Happy Holidays! 🖤

The heady aromas of brandy and honey glaze can be smelt wafting around him, creeping up his nostrils, making his stomach rumble and mouth water in anticipation of the festive banquet.

The kitchen, the epicentre of your shared world in your cosy home together as newlyweds, is alive with the fervour of holiday feast preparations, embracing a melange of scents that paint the air with vivid notes of fragrance.

The pièce de résistance, the roast turkey, emits an enticing aroma; a melody of savoury richness that speaks of crisp, golden skin and succulent, juicy meat, infused with the earthy blend of rosemary and thyme.

A harmonious mix of umami and sweetness mingles in the air. The citrusy notes of orange and lemon zest adds a bright, effervescent zing, cutting through the savoury with a refreshing counterpoint that teases the palate.

Marcus wanders back into the kitchen after discarding his shoes; a sprig of fresh garden herbs contributing their own verdant movement to the olfactory composition, as he brings them to his nose to smell sage flooding down his trachea in abundance.

"I got the sage, baby." He says.

He soon discards the leafy bunch on the counter top when he sees you standing precariously on a chair with your arms rummaging deep into the cupboard.

You wobble a little unbalanced, and he rushes to you, supporting your butt in his giant hands, and grabbing a hold of your waist to stop you falling and cracking open your skull on the wooden floor that heats his socked feet pleasantly underneath.

It’s only a matter of time really - he can’t leave you alone for more than five minutes before some casualty will undoubtedly ensue.

But then, when Marcus isn’t having a panic attack about you accidently slicing off your thumb when you chop the vegetables - real fast with warp speed, and simultaneously skimming the iPad screen for the best honey types to roast them in - he kinda finds your inelegance endearing.

He married a clumsy one, and he couldn't be more pleased about that as you smile warmly at him coming to your rescue. You still take his breath away as he feels his lungs struggle, smiling warmly up at you.

“What are you doing?” Marcus asks, as you shove a stack of bowls down into his big hands.

He places them on the counter top and stays close to you with his arms ready to catch you like the swoon-worthy hero he is.

“I’m looking for that big glass dish, you know, for the bread rolls.” You explain, your voice echoing around the inside of the cupboard stacked high with dishes and plates of all variety and size.

“Out the way, honey,” he lifts you down off the chair, kissing you on the cheek as you slide down his warm body.

“Mmm,” you smile at him as he blushes a little.

And your husband has never looked more appealing, with freshly washed hair styled in neat waves; a spicy scent of his cologne tickling your nostrils, and dressed in a smart, yet relaxed, cream sweatshirt teamed with jeans.

He pushes the chair aside to the sink whilst he looks for it, reaching up into the cupboard without needing a chair, or to stand on his tip toes.

You clock his sweatshirt riding up to reveal golden tanned hips with his jeans resting low on his svelte waist, tantalising you further.

“This one?” Marcus asks, pulling out a frosted glass serving platter a few seconds later.

“Yes, thank you,” You glance up as you sprinkle flour over the freshly baked bread rolls that have cooled enough on the rack.

He plonks it down beside you as you start arranging the bread buns on it, stopping only to tap his hand away as he reaches for one cheekily, and to blow the flour off your hands. You absentmindedly wipe your dusty fingers on your jeans, leaving white patches.

The best cooks are also the messy ones, Marcus thinks, smiling as he watches you happily thrive in your environment that’s piled with dishes to be washed, spoons stirred in various pans simmering on the hob, and pastry rolled out ready with festive cookie cutters that you'll press in.

He smirks, seeing you have a faint flour handprint on your butt as you lift the dish off the counter top and walk it out into the dining room.

He steals another kiss as you pass, pulling you gently by the elbow, making you giggle softly. And it’s a sound he’ll never tire of.

The table is heaving with enough food to feed the five thousand, and yet it still doesn’t seem like quite enough.

The grand Christmas tree in the background twinkles with golden lights, carefully arranged like shimmering stars, casting a warm and inviting glow over the tree's boughs. Ornaments of various shapes and colours adorn the branches, each telling its own magical story.

Shimmering globes catch the light, scattering it in a dazzling display of red and green reflections. Delicate icicles dangle from the tips of the branches, capturing the essence of winter's frosty beauty.

The whole room reminds you of something out of an old fashioned Christmas card - just how you’d envisioned it when Marcus and you spent a day putting it meticulously together - and you’re proud of Marcus for his decorating efforts, if but a little obsessive.

You make space for the dish of bread rolls on the table, groaning and creaking with more added weight. You pull your phone out of your back pocket and check the time. They’ll all be arriving soon.

“I think we need more chairs...” You groan coming back into the kitchen. You look up at Marcus, who has a spoon in his mouth and freezes on the spot.

“Caught red handed, Agent!” You playfully scold.

“I can’t help it, it tastes so good.” He smirks, pulling the spoon from his mouth and you zone in on it, smirking through those pink, wet lips of his. “Is there chestnut in this?”

You nod, smiling.

“Damn…” He praises with a keen grin, resting casually against the counter top. The blend of tart cranberries and smoky bacon makes his cheeks tingle as he licks around his teeth.

“You have to share this recipe with me.”

You shake your head reaching for the sage. “No way. My grandma would turn in her grave if I gave away her secrets.”

“Here, taste it…” Marcus holds out the spoon to you with a nub of the cranberry stuffing.

“I know how it tastes, I made it.” You smirk as you brush past him to turn off the hob. "Besides, it still needs the sage, it's not done yet."

He slips it into his mouth instead groaning in delight. "Honey," he begins, his voice a warm blend of appreciation, "you've truly outdone yourself.” As he points around the kitchen with the spoon.

You scoff.

“I mean it. Although, I’m probably going to gain at least twenty pounds.”

“You will if you eat that whole thing.” You giggle. “You married a feeder. Your fault.” You take the bowl of stuffing from him and place it on the counter top. You turn back to glance at him as he watches you with twinkly eyes.

“What are you looking at?” You ask, admiring him curiously, as his smile widens across his sculpted cheekbones.

“You,” he reaches forward and pulls you towards him.

His hand starts wiping down your butt as he cradles you close to his chest. “You look so hot in the kitchen; did I ever tell you that?”

“Excuse me, Mr Backwards century!” You say to him wrinkling your nose through a smile.

“You know what I mean. You’re a great cook. What’s not sexy about that, hmm?” Marcus asks with hooded, dark eyes.

You know that look, know that when his eyes are swallowed up by the lust of his pupils like this, that you’re helpless to resist. He looks at you with a quiet, brewing hunger; a hunger that will last for hours as he devours you and leaves no morsel left.

You feel his large hands squeeze at your ass lavishly, but you scarper out of his grip giggling. There’s still so much to do and not enough time to do it.

"Stop distracting me."

"But I'm so good at it." Marcus responds with a wink.

“Mhm, can you get the potatoes out for me?” You ask him, and smile sweetly.

You toss him a dish cloth, quashing all his wily charm, and he catches it before it lands on his head.

Marcus spins on his heels and pulls open the oven door; the blast of heat in the face makes him squint. He can smell the flavoursome scents from the herbs, making him salivate as he reaches in.

“Watch out, it’s hot!” He can feel the heat from the tray biting into his skin even with the cloth. He drops the tray down quickly and feels the sear of the burn cooking him. “Ah, shit!”

He snatches his hand back as the tray clatters on the drainer, hissing as he puts his hand straight to his mouth, sucking on the fleshy piece of skin between his thumb and forefinger with a frown.

“Let me see,” you say, coming up beside him and running the faucet.

“It’s just a little scald. I’ll be fine,” Marcus assures, holding his hand out under the cool flow. He can feel the rawness of its sting, even under the water.

You dab it gently with a dry, clean cloth and inspect it. It’s a little pink, but no signs of a bad blister brewing.

You look up at him and kiss it gently. “All better.”

“You’re so sweet to me.” Marcus smiles, and runs his hand through the frazzled wisps of your hair coming loose.

He pulls you in for a kiss and you kiss him back, only refuting it when it mutates into a swamping, dizzy smooch that begins to make your head spin.

Reluctantly breaking away from the kiss, you share a moment of breathless laughter; the gritty reality of the kitchen chaos juxtaposing with the sweet and savoury notes of the holiday feast filling your nostrils.

“Stop it, I need to uh...” Your voice trails off, distracted by his kisses that now run over your cheek and to your neck, where he knows it will make you melt like butter in a hot pan.

His wandering hands are sliding up the outside of your thighs and groping your ass again.

“Yes, you have to do what?” Marcus prompts through breathy puckers. You feel his tongue, hot and wet, licking carnage on your skin. Instead of dousing the fire, it inflames it.

“The food… Marcus, I-I need to... fuck...” You whine as his lips graze across your throat.

“You taste so good,” Marcus purrs, nipping at your skin and completely forgetting about the soreness of his burn. The feel of your ass inside his hands probably has something to do with that as he kneads and massages away.

Hands become reacquainted with body parts as yours run up his chest over his sweatshirt, whilst his runs the gauntlet up your back, leaving tingles and shudders.

Damnit, he smells so good.

You can feel his hardness press into your lower belly, foreheads together, panting a little, as you both watch your hand start sliding down over the bulge inside his jeans and groping it.

You hear him groan into your eyelashes; that wanting, little whimper making you buzz between your legs.

“We should stop... they’ll be here soon.” You whisper, not wanting to stop at all, not now he has you right where he intends to keep you.

“We’ve got time for a little fun,” Marcus breathes through swollen, cherry lips as he watches you unzip his flies. "I want you... I wanna fuck my really hot, chef wife on the kitchen floor."

“Mm, God.” You whine as he beguiles you into utter sedition.

“Get it out, honey,” he urges in a devilish whisper as you undo his top button and pull the prize of his cock out from his jeans. "See how hard you make me?"

He lets out a groggy gasp as you squeeze his cock gently, gasping in want as you slide your thumb over the tacky stickiness he leaks.

You run your hand around it, feeling him pulsate and twitch a few times before kissing him again, swallowing and gorging on his moans.

"You're so hard for me..." You praise. He’s rock solid; stiff and heavy, and seeping from his thick head into your palm as you pump him slowly.

"Always," He smiles, bashfully.

You kneel down, running your tongue over the tip before taking him inside your mouth.

“Shit,” he breathes out. Marcus pushes the denim down his hips, scooping the hem of his sweatshirt out of the way so he can get a better view of you.

Looking up at him, you let out little murmurs of satisfaction as you mouth on him; running your lips over his warm, pulsing skin and licking your tongue around his fantastic length.

He looks down at you, eyes filled with that swaying lust turning them black, biting down on his bottom lip as he grunts.

“Baby…” He whines like he can’t produce coherent words. The basics of sentence structure lost to him.

You pump him as you suck the swollen head; back and forth, sucking on him that bit harder. Tasting all the notes of him on your tongue.

Marcus rests his hands against the countertop, his hips sticking out at you as you take him deep. You run your tongue over him, shiny and down his shaft before you lick back up again and suck deeper, making his eyes roll into the back of his head.

“Oh my God.” You hear him pelt into the ceiling.

As you pull him back out, crystally strings of your saliva coat him and dangle from your mouth; that yummy mushroom head of his cock popping in and out driving him crazy.

“I need you to sit on my face,” Marcus whines as he helps you up to your feet and kisses you harshly.

He licks all around your mouth desperately; the wet and stickiness from your saliva mashes into his, and he can taste the faint salt of his cock on your tongue.

His hands strip you of your jeans and panties quicker than you realise, and he pulls you down clumsily onto the kitchen floor with him, laughing and giggling in a tangled heap of knotted limbs.

You perch over his head, knees pressed against his broad shoulders, facing away from him and lean forward; his cock back in the vicinity of your mouth.

You suck him in to your mouth as Marcus starts licking away and sucking on your clit; that barely-there, ragged graze of his shaved stubble giving you a pleasant scratch against the inside of your thighs.

“Mmm...” You coo around his cock as you feel him tickle and tease your lips.

He pushes his face right up into your slit, his nose ghosting around your ass and thrashes his tongue around with adept precision. The swollen folds of your pussy are pressed flush to his lips; he kisses, mouthing and smooching gently.

Tongue probing, exploring as he licks long, laborious stripes up the length of your cunt, teasing and prolonging the agony.

A scrumptious sixty-nine taking place on the kitchen floor that’s warm on his butt cheeks, whilst the oven continues to cook the food ready for his family gathering, who could all turn up at any given moment for their Christmas Smörgåsbord of festive treats.

But right now, neither of you care, gorging on your own feast of each other stuffed full and succulent in your mouths.

You groan and moan hungrily around his cock as he licks and sucks in tandem with you, devouring one another’s naughty bits and getting a good fill of them; a pre-course starter, as it were.

Marcus’ hips buck gently up into your mouth, getting in deeper and making you gag a little, but you don’t quit, if anything it makes you suck harder around him because you know he loves it when you choke a little on his impressive cock. You love it too.

“Ah yeah!” Marcus breathes out into your pussy as you massage his plump balls while sucking. You can feel him swell and pulse around your fingers as you roll them, squeezing and pulling gently.

But then you stop sucking, his cock slipping out of your mouth and whine out; unable to concentrate on him where he’s doing an absolute number on your clit with his own mouth.

“Oh God! Yeah!” You pant, whipping your head up and turning to glance him over your shoulder, but can’t see him - face buried deep into your cunt. “Shit! Marcus! Don't stop!” You cry, head lolling forward as your thighs quiver and tighten.

It feels amazing, his tongue, fuck...

He strokes his finger in, smearing and running your slick outwards, clearing the sticky tracks with his tongue. Groping your ass affectionately as he tastes you. Tonguing your hole; slipping in and out, and in and out, then in again as he feels you jostle and jerk above him.

Your own mouth becomes full of him again; that wet, delicious suction around his cock makes him groan into your folds.

“Baby, that’s so good,” he pants. He can feel you tease around his head, swallow him down deep and then pop him out to lick his length.

You start rocking, grinding on his face a little as the wet sucks around his mouth intensify.

His fingers grip into the warm flesh of your ass cheeks; unspoken encouragement for you to ride his face as he subtly pulls you back and forth onto it with the movement of your hips.

“Mmm, Marcus… fuck.” You moan. You can feel it all tingly and pulling tighter on your clit.

He sticks his tongue out, as far as it will go as you grind and bounce against it.

He slips his finger fully in your hole, index to the hilt, pushing and rubbing against that fleshy engorged spot inside. Working you up deliciously.

“Mm-hmm,” he enthuses, as your pussy slides up and down on his tongue with more uncouth abandon.

You groan around his cock, your mouth full of him as you start to soar. Heating up, reaching maximum temperature before you start to boil over.

“Yeah, mm-hmm… mm-hmm, like that, baby. God, you taste so good.” He mutters.

Your raspy pants tell him you're near; the way in which you get louder, throatier. The way your body starts to tense, to shiver against him. How you rock with more desperation and need. How your tight hole clenches around his finger, spasming wildly, as it builds within you.

Tight and binding until you finally snap and release.

“Uh-huh,” he groans around his tongue flicking at your clit. He can feel the tremors on his cock from your voice ribbing around it as you shudder and shake.

Marcus groans in delight as you come, flooding his mouth with the saccharine taste of you; basting him with your own sweet glaze.

And Marcus could die right now, happily pass on to the next life with his face buried under your pussy that’s gushing for him all in his mouth.

“Marcus!” You wail, gasping hard and burning up.

He kisses you through it; making out with your sopping pussy with heated strokes of his tongue and groping at your hips.

His hands slowly stroke over your smooth skin; your back, your hips, your ass cheeks as he feasts. Mouth open and tongue flicking across your pussy as you writhe and grind against him.

He can hear it, the way your own mouth sloshes around his cock more feverishly; sucking, drooling and God it feels so wet. He can feel how drenched his dick is, soaked in your saliva as you suck him harder and deeper.

He thrusts his hips up and little, sinking himself further into your mouth and soon he can’t bear it anymore.

“I need to fuck you,” Marcus pants, the strain in his voice palatable when comes up for air. “I need to be inside you, baby.”

“Do we have time?” You groan, trying not to dribble as your clit thunders and your legs buckle.

“There’s always time for pussy,” Marcus smirks, hungrily. You wipe at his chin, sticky and glistening with your slick, as he nuzzles into you.

He takes your remaining clothes off in the middle of the kitchen, unclipping your bra and groping at your breasts, pinching your nipples gently before he turns you around.

“Bend over, gorgeous.” Marcus croons over your shoulder in a wicked, enticing voice.

He places your knee up on the counter top; the bowls of food ready to serve up and congested all over it are shunted out of the way a little too harshly.

You feel the swollen head of his cock push gently, feel yourself opening up around him and sucking him into you.

“Fuck, you’re so hard, so big,” you mewl out to him as he slides in.

“Love it when you tell me I’m big...” Marcus smirks inside your ear.

“That’s because you are. Shit!” You gasp as he’s fully sheathed inside you, pussy stretching around him and feeling wonderfully tight. "I will never get tired of this."

"Good, because I'm going to keep doing this to you."

Your hands are flat on the counter top as he pulls your hips back onto him each time he rocks into you. You push back onto him willingly, hips doing the work; dancing on the end of his cock as you groan for him.

His big hands grip tight around your waist, holding you steady and in place so he can really go some.

He fucks you harder, upping the pace; his breath pelting your shoulder as he breathes out.

“God… you feel so good,” Marcus pants.

You turn over your shoulder to kiss him, clutching at the back of his head desperately as he fills you up with each shunt of his hips; twisting his hair inside your fingers as you cry out.

You push back more, his thighs slapping against your ass cheeks as he builds you up to another glittering crescendo.

“Marcus! Oh shit, I'm coming!” You call out as you contract and cream around him again.

"I can feel it, baby." He praises, mouthing into your shoulder blade. "I can feel you coming all over my cock. Shit, like that!"

Smirking after you've come again, he sits you on the counter top, hooking his arm under your leg as you hang off of it; pussy draped all over his cock as he thrusts, bouncing up into you.

Deep slaps of your skin with each pound echo around the kitchen as he whimpers through ragged breaths.

You cling on with one arm around his bronzed neck, your hand slipping on the counter top behind you and threatening to knock off one of the bowls at any given second, until crash!

“Shit!” He sighs with a breathy smile.

You both giggle, glancing down at the contents splashed all over the floor whilst you still fuck.

“Not the cranberry stuffing!” He sighs, and genuinely looks forlorn for a second, until you turn his jaw and focus back to you. You squeeze around his cock with your pussy and he grunts.

“There’s more, don’t worry.” You sway him back to your lips.

“Of course there is.” Marcus takes you upright in his arms, carrying you practically as he fucks harder up into you; bouncing on his cock like a space hopper in his arms as he stands upright.

Your hand is still behind you, pushing against the edge of the counter top now as you wrap your legs around his waist tighter.

He works you up and down his cock, rolling you around on it and panting wildly, groaning with you.

“I’m gonna come soon,” Marcus gasps into your face; his cheeks are glowing red on the apples, sweat glistening around his collarbone that you long to taste.

You nod encouragingly at him. “Come inside my mouth,” you urge as he starts to wind up into you again.

"Oh, baby!" He growls.

Marcus reaches blindly behind him and tugs at the chair you’d previously stood on and sits down with you riding in his lap.

He kisses over your clavicle, running his tongue around the skin until he gets to your nipple and sucks it, looking up at you.

“Oh, shit… baby. I’m close.” He groans, his eyes closing for a few seconds as you can see the strain on his face. His brown eyes hold wildly dilating pupils when he opens them, and you know he’s almost there.

You hop off his lap and drop to your knees and start sucking his cock again, tasting yourself all over it.

He places his hands gently on your head and pushes you down further onto him until he can feel your throat tightening around him.

"Yeah, like that... Oh, shit!"

You suck in air heavily through your nose, and feel him pulse and shudder. Seconds later, the blast hits the back of your throat as it gushes out of him.

“Ah, shit-shit!” Marcus drones as he comes, his socked toes curling inwards before relaxing as he empties out.

You come up for air, swallowing him down and smiling at him as you lick your lips.

“Mm, you taste really good.” You sigh contentedly. You plant delicate kisses on and around his stomach.

“Not as good as you,” he smiles with sparkly peepers.

The oven beeper goes off moments later as you’re rubbing at his thighs, scratching gently in the downy hairs at the top of them, and you glance over your shoulder at it.

“Good timing!” You giggle, as he growls and snorts into your neck as he envelopes you in a swamping cuddle, refusing to let you go.

Fighting him off, you grab a dish cloth and open the oven; the blast warms your bare nipples as Marcus stretches in the chair and watches you pull out the tray, full of the turkey, sniffing at it eagerly as you set it down on the counter top where he’d fucked you only minutes ago.

He smirks, rubbing at his arm and elbow as you catch his gaze.

“What?” You ask him. “I’ll die before I serve dry turkey to anyone.”

He starts laughing and reaches for his jeans. "Always a perfectionist."

"You love it."

"I do, I do." He agrees.

After you've both dressed and cleaned up the escaped broken bowl pieces and stuffing splattered across the floor, you’re in the middle of a deep, mesmerising clinch in the centre of the kitchen.

“Hell of a cook,” Marcus mutters to you, glancing at all the food. “I can’t wait to dig in.”

“I believe you’ve already had quite a fill.” You say, nuzzling into his nose and he chuckles.

“Not nearly enough.” He says, cupping your ass again. “I’ll be coming back for seconds, later. Maybe even thirds…”

“Mm, I’ll get the Pepto ready.” You breathe dreamily, licking into his succulent mouth.

“I wasn’t talking about the food,” Marcus chuckles.

“I know.” You smirk.

“Although, I'm definitely going to have to loosen my belt later.” He glances at all the food on the counter top and you watch as he licks his lips at it all.

The doorbell rings, startling you both, and you watch Marcus pull away from you reluctantly with a heated grin.

He opens the front door to be swamped by the many faces of his boisterous family members piling in.

You smile, fixing your hair as you go to greet them.

Good timing indeed.