Chapter 170 You're My Favorite Arthur Winston

Chapter 170 You're My Favorite Arthur Winston
Cecilia

My hands came up to his face, trembling fingers tracing the familiar contours.

"Arthur?" His name came out uncertain, questioning, like I was afraid to believe what my hands were telling me.

"That's right," he confirmed, and I heard the relief in his voice. "It's me, baby. It's always been me."

Understanding crashed over me in waves—the bedroom, the bed, the way he'd been touching me with such familiar possession. This wasn't some stranger. This was Arthur. My Arthur.

"Oh," I breathed, and then I was throwing my arms around his neck, pressing my face against his shoulder as fresh tears started to fall. "Arthur. I thought—I was so confused, I couldn't—"

"I know," he murmured, his arms coming around me to hold me close. "It's okay. You're safe now."

I pulled back just far enough to look at him properly, to study his face in the moonlight streaming through the windows.

"I love you," I said, the words tumbling out with drunken sincerity. "I love you so much. You're my favorite Arthur Winston in the whole world."

His expression softened, some of the coldness melting away. "Is there another Arthur Winston I should know about?"

"No," I said seriously, my hands coming up to cup his face. "Just you. Only you. My Arthur."

I leaned forward to kiss him, but stopped suddenly, a thought occurring to me with the kind of crystal clarity that only comes from being extremely drunk.

"Wait," I said, pulling back. "I forgot. I was supposed to get you a gift. I need to—" I tried to sit up, tried to slide off him. "I need to go buy something. The best gift ever."

His hands tightened on my waist, keeping me in place. "Ceci, baby," he said, his voice taking on that particular quality that always made my stomach flutter. "You're the best gift I could ever want."

Before I could respond, before I could process what he meant, his mouth was on mine—hot and demanding and perfect, his tongue sliding against mine in a kiss that made my toes curl and my brain short-circuit.

His hand slid down my back, finding the zipper of my dress and pulling it the rest of the way down, and I felt the fabric loosen around me, felt cool air hit my heated skin.

His mouth had moved to my neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin there, and all rational thought fled in the face of sensation.

"This is such a realistic dream," I heard myself murmur as his hands pushed my dress off my shoulders, as he worked it down my body with efficient movements. "Better than all the others."

Arthur's hands stilled immediately, and I felt him pull back to look at me, his expression unreadable in the dim light. "Others?" His voice came out carefully neutral. "What others?"

"The dreams," I said, like it should be obvious, my alcohol-loosened tongue apparently having no filter whatsoever. "I've been having them for four years. Ever since you sent me away. Dreams where you—where we—" I gestured vaguely between us, my face heating even through the alcohol haze.

Something shifted in Arthur's expression—surprise mixed with satisfaction mixed with something darker, more possessive. "Four years," he repeated slowly, his hands resuming their exploration of my body, sliding up my thighs with deliberate intent.

"Mm-hmm," I confirmed, already arching into his touch, my body responding with embarrassing eagerness. "But this feels different. More real. Usually I wake up before—oh!"

The word cut off in a gasp as his fingers found their target, sliding between my legs with practiced ease, and I felt my whole body jolt at the contact.

"Before what?" Arthur asked, his voice dropping to that low, dangerous register that always made me melt. "Before I do this?" His fingers pressed deeper, finding that spot inside me that made stars burst behind my eyes. "Or this?"

I couldn't answer, couldn't form words beyond incoherent sounds of pleasure as he worked me with the kind of focused intensity that suggested he was trying to prove a point.

"Oh, darling. I just wanted to kiss you, but you’re the one who tempted me," he commanded, his thumb finding my clit and circling with just the right amount of pressure. "Tell me, do your dreams feel like this? Do they make you this wet?"

"No," I managed, my hands clutching at his shoulders for support. "Never this—oh god, Arthur—never this good."

"That's because this isn't a dream, baby," he said, and I felt him shift, felt him positioning himself between my legs. "This is real. And I'm going to make sure you never forget the difference."

The feeling of him pressing against my entrance, sharp and impossible to ignore. I felt the blunt pressure of him—thick, hot, demanding—and my entire body went rigid with sudden awareness.

"Wait," I gasped, my hands flying up to his chest, fingers splaying across the hard planes of muscle there. God, he was so solid, all that strength coiled beneath warm skin. "Arthur, I'm—this is—"

"Real," he finished for me, his voice a low rumble that I felt as much as heard. His eyes locked onto mine, dark and intense, as he pushed forward in one slow, deliberate thrust that forced my body to accommodate his size. "Very, very real."

The stretch was immediate and overwhelming—it was big, every time it’s like experiencing it for the very first time. My back arched involuntarily off the bed, a strangled sound escaping my throat as my body struggled to adjust to the intrusion.

He was perfect—hard where I was soft, his body fitting against mine like we'd been designed for this exact moment. The muscles of his abdomen flexed with each controlled movement, and I found myself staring at the defined lines of his torso, at the way his arms bulged as he braced himself above me.

"Please," I heard myself whimper, though my alcohol-soaked brain couldn't quite articulate what I was begging for. My hands slid from his chest down to his sides, feeling the way his muscles moved beneath my touch. "Please, Arthur, I need—"

He pulled back slowly, and I felt every ridge and vein of him dragging against my inner walls, sending sparks of sensation shooting through my nervous system. Then he thrust forward again, harder this time, and I cried out at the intensity of it.

The rhythm he set was devastating—each thrust deep and purposeful, designed to hit that spot inside me that made my toes curl and my vision blur. I could feel him so completely, the thickness of him stretching me almost to my limit, the length of him reaching places I hadn't known existed.

"You feel that?" he growled against my ear, his breath hot on my skin. "I've always felt that your body was made for this—made for me."

I wanted to respond, wanted to tell him yes, God yes, but all that came out was a series of broken moans as he continued his relentless pace. My hands clutched at his shoulders, nails digging into the solid muscle there as I tried to anchor myself against the onslaught of sensation.