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I thrust harder, watching her struggle, knowing her body as well as my own.
"Riggs," she says again.
"No," I reply, thrusting even harder, to the point that I struggle to stay in control.
"Please," she murmurs again, her body quivering harder and harder against me.
I grit my teeth, snarling, "No. And don't you dare disobey me." I slide my tongue into her mouth. She moans, flicking her own tongue against mine, digging her fingers harder into my skull, shaking even more violently.
But I know she's not there yet. She's not over the edge, and she has more in her.
More than ever, I need her to keep submitting to my dominance—to reiterate that this is who we are and how we thrive. And to prove to her that we need each other equally. Neither of us can function without the other in the roles we've chosen.
So I retreat, demanding against her lips, "Decide what you want, pet."
"You," she claims again, with no hesitation.
I wish I could believe her. I'd pay my entire fortune to quash the fear brewing since she left.
There was a point last night I thought it was gone. I assumed it would never come back. But then she revealed her inner thoughts, things I had no idea about—things I didn't understand how to take. Things that still make me question if she loves me. And it's a pain I can't control. It swirls around me, pummeling me at all hours of the day.
Desperation to keep my wife and get back what we had consumes me, and I order, "This is us. Say you want us." I force myself to slow down my thrusts, aware I'm going too fast and about to lose all control.
"Us," she whispers.
My balls tighten. I pull out of her. I'm unsure if she's telling the truth or saying it because I'm pleasuring her. But I need a break, or I'll go over the edge. I'll get the high that I crave, and then it'll all be over.
I force her onto her feet, keeping her pressed against the wall. I kneel and tuck her thighs over my shoulders. I lean my face into her pussy, enthusiastically flicking my tongue over her clit, on a mission to show her I'm the only one who knows how to give her what she craves.
"Riggs," she cries out. I glance up, not taking my mouth off her, locking my eyes on hers, sucking on her until she screams.
Then I spout, "The only thing I better hear out of your mouth is the word us. You need to choose us."
The chaos in her eyes swirls faster. She pushes my head back to her body, shoving her hips up. I keep my gaze pinned on her, reaching my palm over her breasts and tweaking her nipple while my mouth tornadoes through her pussy.
She cries out, "Us," so many times her voice turns hoarse. The only other word I hear from time to time is, "Please."
It's the begging that haunts my dreams. It's another thing that never leaves my mind. But hearing it in person only accelerates all my adrenaline.
I take her past the point of her self-control. I know where it's at. No matter how long we've been apart, I still know when she can no longer control her orgasms or obey my demands. I normally permit her to release the instant before it happens, but right now, I don't.
I can't. I suck her pussy so hard, her body convulses and her knees turn weak. But I don't let up. I've craved it for too long. And sometimes she needs to think she's disobeyed me.
This is one of those moments. I'm in charge of her body and I want her to see there's no use fighting me—fighting us. No matter how hard she tries to take the reins of control, she can't. It's my job to take care of her, and I'll die before stepping away or not protecting her.
She falls over my back, and I don't let up. Her nails scratch my skin so hard it stings. She shrieks, "I'm sorry. I can't, oh God! Riggs!"
Another violent round of adrenaline fills her. Her stomach quivers against my head. When the earthquake slows, I carry her to the outdoor mattress on the deck. I lay her down and cage my body over hers. I reenter her trembling body, no longer worried about containing myself. I move her hands to the umbrella pole and position her fingers around it, ordering, "Don't you dare let go."
She grips it. Her knuckles turn white. Her hips roll toward me, matching my thrusts. Her blues flare, wild, echoing my inner demons.
It's exactly how I love to see her—out of control, dependent on me, knowing I put her in this state.
How can she not see what we are?
How can she ever want anything different than what we had?
I bury my face into her neck. Muttering, "This is us, pet. Us."
