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Her eyes were exultant. Her face was set in an expression of fierce concentration as she rocked on him. He dug his fingers into her ass again, all the way around, so that they brushed against her labia, her asshole. He pulled at her, dragging her up her body, tugging her vagina toward his mouth. Once she saw what he was after, she knee-walked up the bed in three or four quick steps and then she was on his face. Her smell and her taste and her texture and temperature filled his senses, blotting out the room, blotting out introspection, blotting out everything except for the sweet urgency. He sucked at her labia before slipping his tongue up her length, letting it tickle her ass, her opening, her clit. In response, she ground against him, planting her opening over his mouth and he tongue-fucked her in hard, fast strokes. She reached back and took hold of his cock, slipping her small, strong hand under the waistband of his boxers and curling it around his rigid shaft, pumping. The somewhat muted riot of togetherness in the Carter home—the Douglas venue thereof—was a close second.The pancakes and bacon were consumed with a passion. The hopeful toasts that followed the food, made with coffee mugs and water glasses, were for my benefit.“To the brother who saved my life,” announced Ronald.“To my daddy, David Carter,” howled Jenna; I say howled because she cried in the doing of the toast. I wondered what exactly she meant referring to me as her daddy, but, the scene was still playing out.“To a wonderful nephew,” avowed Aunt Delia.“To a man worthy of the name,” said Stacey. “Oh my yes.”Oh yeah, I was honored as hell. And I was embarrassed, and not in a good way. Toasts, formalism, all of it meant nothing to me, never had. And, all the while my wife, Rozelle Carter, held me back from retreating from the room. Boy did I want to retreat. The celebration had no allure for me, not yet, maybe not ever.Then it was time for a speech, so I was informed by the crowd of.
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