Page 91 of Chasing the Other Woman

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

He parts my legs slowly, looking back up at me as if asking permission one last time.

"Brooks." I try to sound menacing, but it only sounds like a plea.

When his mouth finds me, there's nothing in this world that can stop my hips from bucking up into him. His tongue finds my clit, licking and sucking until I'm panting, riding him, and calling out to God in a shoddy motel room somewhere in Oklahoma.

His fingers slide inside me, crooking upward and I gasp, looking down at him. Our eyes meet and the hunger in them is so furious that my release shatters around him.

And he doesn't stop.

Pleasure builds, hot and bright, too much and not enough. I lose any hope of staying quiet, no doubt anyone even slightly close by hearing what's going on in this room, as if there was any doubt.

I come calling out his name, shaking under him while he works me through it, while the cheap sheets twist beneath my hands and rain taps hard at the window like the storm hasn’t quite finished with us yet.

When he crawls back over me, I pull him down by the back of his neck. He kisses me, and I taste myself on his mouth. It should feel filthy. It does. And I love every minute of it.

He settles between my thighs, hot and hard against me.

"Sammy Girl."

Then, slowly, he pushes inside me.

My eyes close. My whole body goes still around the stretch and heat of him. It has been so long since I felt this full of him, this close to the man I married, this furious with him and hungry for him and stupidly, painfully in love with him.

Brooks buries his face in my neck. “God, Sam.”

I wrap my legs around his hips. “Move.”

He does.

Slow at first. Careful of my bruises. Careful of his shoulder. Careful until I bite his lower lip and tell him I need more, faster, harder.

That gets me the Brooks I remember.

His hips snap into mine, and the bed knocks against the wall. I laugh, breathless, and he swallows the sound with his mouth. Then there’s no room for laughter. Only skin and heat and the rough pull of his breath. Only his hand locked with mine beside my head. Only my body remembering him in ways my pride would have preferred to forget.

He says things against my mouth, my throat, my breast.

That he loves me.

That he missed me.

That I’m beautiful.

That there is no one else. There never was. There never will be.

I roll us carefully, mindful of his shoulder, and I ride him, feeling every inch of him inside me until I'm not sure where I end and he begins. His hands fall to my hips, but he doesn’t guide me until I cover them with mine and press.

The sound he makes is almost enough to finish me again.

I ride him with my hands braced on his chest, watching his face in the yellow motel light. He looks ruined and beautiful.

"God, Sam, you feel so good."

If there was any worry of anyone outside the room hearing us, it's gone. We're lost to the rhythm that's the both of us together.

The sensations become too much and he holds me to him, bucking up inside me until I'm shattering around him, crying out for him, not sure if I'm begging for more or begging for mercy. He thrusts upward once more, releasing inside me with a sound so filthy and low that I swear I'll hear it for the rest of my life in my dreams.