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“Fuck!” I moaned.
“Yes, ma’am.” Without warning, Matt plunged two fingers inside me, his palm rubbing against my clit with each thrust.
My head had fallen back against his shoulder, pleasure taking all my decorum to Hell. Matt took advantage, his free palm wrapping around my throat, squeezing just enough to fog my brain.
Jesus fucking Christ this man knew what he was doing.
I couldn’t hold the gasps and blissful moans that escaped my mouth. I couldn’t believe this was happening. I was supposed to make him go through a living Hell, and now here he was, so dangerously close to sending me to Heaven.
I felt all my muscles tighten as the pleasure rapidly grew inside me, lodging in my core and building up like an untamed wildfire.
“Eyes open.” He ordered with a harder hold on my throat and a shove of his cock, his fingers picking up to a pace that would soon send me over the edge. I quickly complied, looking straight into his gaze, not an ounce of shame at the image of myself getting finger fucked in front of a mirror by my bastard husband.
“Oh God, Matt.” I moaned. It was a plea for him to keep doing exactly what he was doing because I’d soon fall. “Matt! Don’t… Jesus I’m…”
I couldn’t hold it anymore. Matt’s fingers kept hitting all the right spots making my vision blur with bright sparkles and shooting fucking stars. The feeling almost unbearable just before the perfect free fall into the pit of my climax.
Matt rode off my orgasm, holding me against him when my knees gave out under me, his fingers still trapped inside me.
He slowly drew them out, making sure I watched him licking my arousal off each digit that had been buried inside me, his expression hardening again.
“Fake it to your heart's content, but I know you want me as badly as I want you.”
With that, he left me there in front of the mirror, picking up the pieces of my broken mask.
Very fucking well-played Francesca! You have just shown him your whole hand and painted a clear picture of your bluffing tell.
I replayed his words in my head over and over again before being able to move from that spot. I did want him. I wanted him so badly it was fucking embarrassing. He wasn’t supposed to know that. Because it wasn’t supposed to be so. I shouldn’t crave him the way I did.
Matt’s fingers played me like he was a damn maestro, and I simply hummed to his tune. I had to fight this pull. Fight the strange things he did to me every time he came close. My husband needed to understand that I wasn’t a thing. I’m not a little rag doll he could toss around and play house with.
Despite the burning craving I had for him, I didn’t belong to him, and neither did the decisions about my life. I had to make him realize he didn’t get to decide for me. My body might be weak when it came to Matteo Battaglia, but my mind and life will not ever be controlled by any man.
I laid alone in this big bed the whole damn night, tossing and turning, trying to figure out where to go from here. What to do with myself and how to make peace between these two opposite poles – the primal need I felt whenever he was near and the rational knowledge that Matteo Battaglia was not my lover.
I tossed and turned, and every time I got a grip on my fleeting thoughts, my mind raced back to him in a frenzy, thinking about how he’d be dealing with the erection he pushed into me. He left with his cock standing tall, with my arousal coating his tongue, and I had no doubt that the woman at the bar, the one that was calling, or even any other one he could easily pick up, would gladly help him with that predicament.
Could I blame him? I did tell him to go carry on with whatever I interrupted. It was still his choice to leave, though, and even though I was the one who pushed, I did blame him for following through. Female math.
So here I was, a jealous mess, wrinkling satin sheets with my twists and turns, unable to shut my eyes because of the uneasy feeling these thoughts tugged along.
Every time I moved, I could still feel the dull pressure between my legs from his intruding fingers. And just like that, my mind went back to replaying each detail in my mind.
The bites on my neck.
The possessive kisses on my skin.
His groans in response to my moans.
Jesus, he was sexy in all his glorious darkness. I watched him through that mirror, and his expression worked me up just as much as those expert fingers of his.
Admittedly, I was moving more than normal so that the physical evidence could brighten my memory further.
Fuck! He had done so much with so little. The demanding edge to his touch, the roughness of his possession, the sweetness of the stinging bites on my neck. All of it drove me over the edge together with those probing fingers.
Ugh. Stop it. He forced you into this marriage, you’re not supposed to just accept it.
The night progressed in an exaggerated slow motion while my mind kept an active debate about whether or not I should try to carry on where we had stopped once he came back.
