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“You love it.”
“I do.” The proclamation is followed by him asking, “Your father was a 7th grade English teacher at a private prep school-”
“You remember that?”
“You aren’t the only who listens, Twinkle Toes.”
My mouth lowers to receive the offered bite.
“Did you ever wanna be a teacher? I know you looked up to him, so did that thought ever cross your mind?”
“Fuck no.”
Nero bursts into laughter as he finally feeds himself a piece of our dish.
“There wasn’t a day that went by where he didn’t have to grade some kid’s atrocious first essay. Back then, I would be reading a Judy Blume mystery on the couch nearby – wanting to be close to him because you know, Daddy’s girl – while he sat in his recliner with his trusty red pen, huffing and puffing over the work he was grading, reading pieces out loud to me before lecturing me on why that was wrong.” I laugh softly at the warm memory, surprised Nero’s eyes are alight with interest. “People called Dad boring all the time because he was interested in old literature and being one with nature, but Mom and I called him passionate.”
“Like you with interior design.”
“Exactly.” I prepare to reach for my wine glass that’s filled with juice thanks to the knot on my skull that’s thankfully shrinking. “What about you? What are you passionate about?”
“You.”
His purred answer causes my fingers to miss the stem of my glass.
Before I have the chance to teasingly snap back that I was being serious, his mouth is on mine. Gone are the gentle touches. Dismissed are the cautious caresses. The tall, dark, brooding male, who swooped me into his arms in our bedroom prior to carrying me all the way to the kitchen like some sort of mafia Superman, banishes whatever tameness he was temporarily holding to unleash the brutal beast within.
Dishes are knocked over during his swift repositioning of me onto my back yet there isn’t a second to acknowledge the mess he’s making. Each time my mouth seems to be given a moment of reprieve because his has wandered off to taste my neck or collarbone, it’s promptly covered again. His tongue filching my words, my thoughts, my fucking oxygen right out of me with no remorse.
The silk robe that kept my bare chest covered from the doctor meets the same floor fate as the plate that we were sharing just a minute ago. While I feel like I have barely any room to maneuver, Nero repeatedly proves me wrong, removing all barriers that stand between him and being buried deep.
I somehow manage to steal a gasp on his first thrust, a sound that spurs the ones to follow to be given at a faster speed. He slams into me over and over and over again causing my back to slap against the hard surface and my knees to bump into the underside of the table. Wetness leaks past his swollen shaft to slide down onto our thighs, sealing us together in what has become one of my favorite ways. Moans steadily grow louder and needier in spite of his endless pursuit to imprison them with his tongue. My slick walls struggle to stretch to accommodate the pace as much as the pounding that’s being delivered; however, I never insist he stops.
The only plead I make is for more.
More him.
More this.
More us.
“Tell me you’re mine, Mrs. DeLuca…” His command is echoed instantly by his cock snatching the orgasm I had been holding at bay out of the wings. “Tell me you’ll always fucking be mine.”
“Yours, Nero.” My body arches into the fierce pumping, feeding him more of my pussy, more of my muted screams, more of my soul that he has to know by now belongs to him. “Only yours.”
Airy groans and moans fill every inch of Nero’s massive kitchen.
I pull at his hair.
Yank.
Claw at his back and biceps, not giving a shit about the way my elbow knocks into the furniture or the fact that I hear footsteps coming and going.
Our frames wildly collide as I do everything that I can to take every last inch of him. Sweat cakes us both while orgasms flow from me like it’s the only thing my body remembers how to do. The endless taps of my clit keep my mind reeling in circles and my soaking wet walls anxiously pulsing around his cock. His inevitable breaking point is abrupt but delicious. One hard, head-knocking grunt is followed by blazing bursts of cum that spark my own salacious inferno. I scream in ecstasy, and his teeth sink into my bottom lip, digging deeper and deeper in tandem with the kicking of his cock.
Regardless of the new aches – and definitely new bruises – I couldn’t be happier.
And more importantly, I know that there is nowhere else I would rather be than right here.
In his arms.
Forever.
He may have started out as my fake husband, but there’s no denying that our love is the realest I’ve ever had.
