Page 114 of Sexting My Ex’s Dad

“Sit up,” I rasp.

She ignores me, continuing the circling, tiny movements that make her whole body shiver, and I realize she’s going to make herself come without letting me inside. The thought sets my blood on fire.

“Fuck, Athena, please…”

“Beg,” she whispers.

“Please,” I manage, the word strangled.

She smiles, wicked, and finally sinks down. The heat envelops me, tight and wet and perfect, and I groan loud enough to rattle the window. She doesn’t start riding yet. She just sits there, buried to the hilt, letting me feel every flutter, every stroke of her inner muscles. Sweat beads on my brow. My hands flex behind my head, but I keep them there because she told me to.

“Move,” I growl when the torture becomes too much.

“Not yet.” She leans forward slowly, bracing her hands on the mattress on either side of my head, breasts brushing my chest. Her breath fans my cheek. “You ran from us once. You don’t get to run anymore. Promise me.”

“I promise,” I breathe, sincerity pulling something sharp and soft in my chest. “I love you. I love her. I’m not going anywhere.”

Her expression melts, and she kisses me, deep and soft now, then sits up again. “Then hold on.”

She starts moving. Slow at first, rolling her hips, grinding her clit against my pubic bone. The pace is languid, almost teasing. Each stroke slides heat up my length, and every nerve in my body lights. I hiss through my teeth, fighting to stay still.

She increases the pace gradually, the grinding turning into true riding. She bounces, faster, ankles digging into my sides, palms flat on my chest for balance. Her breasts bounce with each movement, hair whipping around her shoulders, and she looks down at me with that mix of hunger and triumph that makes my heart feel too big for my ribs.

“Touch me,” she demands at last.

I drop my hands immediately, grab her hips, and guide her, encouraging. “That’s it. Fuck, yes.”

She tosses her head back, moaning, pace frenzied now. I thrust up to meet her, our rhythm syncing, the bed groaning. She stares down finally, eyes blazing.

“Tell me,” she pants.

“You’re perfect,” I say, voice raw. “You’re my wife—soon—and I want to watch you come on my cock.”

Her lips part. “Again.”

“You’re my wife,” I repeat, the word detonating between us.

She convulses, orgasm surging. She clamps around me, inner muscles milking me, and I feel the slick gush of wetness spill. She cries out, a rough, beautiful sound. I hold her steady, let her ride it out, let her soak me.

Before she collapses, I flip us, pinning her to the mattress. She laughs breathlessly, still shuddering, and wraps her legs around my waist.

“My turn,” I rasp.

“Take it,” she whispers, nails digging into my shoulders.

I drive into her. Deep, hard, relentless. Her eyes roll back, hands grasping at the sheets. I don’t hold back. I pound her into the mattress, each thrust a culmination of every night I lay awake imagining this, begging silent air for another chance. The sound of our bodies colliding is loud, wet, obscene. I brace one hand beside her head, the other on her thigh, keeping her open for me.

“That’s it,” I praise, voice shredded. “Take me. You’re mine.”

She moans as I slam into her, the pace ruthless. The wet slap of our bodies colliding fills the room, the headboard creaking under the punishment, my breath tearing out of me in ragged exhales. She cries out with every thrust, throat raw and gorgeous, eyes locked on mine as if she’s tracing every pulse that slams through my veins.

“Look at me,” I grind out, voice scraped thin. “Look at what you do to me.”

She does. Head tipped back, hair spilled across the pillow, she watches me with blown pupils and a wild devotion she’ll never admit out loud. I grip the back of her thigh, bend it toward her chest to open her more, and drive in deeper. She gasps, fingers clawing at the sheets, body arching into mine.

“That’s it,” I praise, heat pouring into every word. “Take my cock, Athena. Make me proud.”

Her body answers before her mouth can. She clenches hard, muscles gripping me like a fist, and the sound that tears out of her throttles me. I fight to keep control, to keep the pace relentless. Sweat runs down my spine, drips onto her stomach. She’s trembling, strung tight. I slide a hand between us, find her clit, thumb already slick with both of us, and rub fast circles.