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Then, I kiss her before she can say it back.
Hearing her try to mumble it against my lips anyway just makes me chuckle and kiss her harder.
I don’t stop kissing her until I feel the pale crescents of her nails pressing into my back.
“Horny, honey?”
“Fuck me,” Emilia gasps.
And how can I say no to that?
We’re drunk on equal parts tequila and love. When I first got on that plane, Em was drinking to forget me. By the time we got off of it, she was drinking to celebrate.
I have a wife, I tell myself as I kiss her long, slender neck.
I have a wife, I tell myself as I worship her firm, heaving breasts with my tongue.
I have a wife, I tell myself as I scrape my teeth across her wide, wiggling hips.
“Stay still or I’ll punish you,” I tell my wife.
“Make me, husband,” she giggles.
And then I do anything but.
I can’t blame her for not staying still while my fingers are knuckle-deep in her cunt, after all.
I imagine it’s pretty fucking difficult for a woman to orgasm as hard as she is while staying completely still.
I punish her anyway, of course.
A husband has to be firm with his word.
And oh—I’m firm. You’d better fucking believe I’m firm.
“Bad slut,” I say with a grin, nipping at her clit. I dig my fingers into her thighs as I drag her closer to me on the bed, licking her slit up and down until she cries out.
“H-hey,” she pants, chest rising and falling like she’s running a marathon. Backwards. In heels. “That’s wife-slut to you, asshole.”
“Asshole?” I say, getting the dirtiest fucking grin on my face. “You are a slutty wife, Em…but if you insist, babe.”
I love the way she squeals when I flip her over, too. It’s cute as hell, the way her knees tremble as I smack her ass and sip my tongue into it.
“Oh, you’re…you’re bad, husband,” Em moans.
That’s fucking rich. As if she’s not loving every minute of it.
I just smack her ass again and relish the way I can make her come in my hand with just a flick of her clit.
She’s orgasmic. She’s incredible.
And she’s mine. She’s all fucking mine.
I can’t get enough of her. Her taste. Her heat. The scent of her fucking skin—not just the perfume she wears, but the smell of her beneath it.
The smell of my wife.
I could breathe her in all fucking day and I still wouldn’t want to breathe out ever again.
