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Fuck.
I grit my teeth, biting back the pleasure that climbs too fast.
When I rock my hips, she follows my lead. I close my fingers, squeezing hers. Squeeze my eyes shut. Only for a moment. Because I want to look at her. I lower my head and taste her lips. Hungry for the depth of her mouth, I sweep my tongue over hers. The kiss is unhurried and tender, our lovemaking slow.
And fuck.
Because I’m going to shoot my load.
I kiss a path down her neck, finding her breast, savoring her nipple. My actions are languid even if the urgency in my body is a breakable thing, a thing about to explode.
Because I don’t want it to end.
Not before I take care of her pleasure.
Even as the intention enters my mind, my body gives out. I empty myself in her pussy, filling her up with my seed. Letting myself go and finding my pleasure inside her is so powerful that all thoughts except for one weakening need disappear.
Untangling our hands, I spear my fingers through her silky hair, cupping her face between my palms as I pump with a dry cock and grunt out, “Say it. Say my name.”
Laying her hand on my nape, she pulls me in for a kiss. “Stop talking, Mr. Russo, and make me come.”
That something that fitted so perfectly falls out of place. There’s something wrong with those words, with the formal way in which she addresses me, but I’m too caught up in the moment to examine the notion. I’m too scared to look too closely and find something that will shatter the peace. So I kiss her. Deeply. Deeper than I care to look. And I slip a hand between our bodies and use my cum to lubricate her clit before I rub that little button the way she likes, the way that makes her lock her thighs around my hips before her inner muscles clench on my cock.
I kiss her through her orgasm, lapping up her pleasure, owning her breaths and her firsts. Owning everything, but not her heart.
It’s a fucking bitter pill to swallow, and it tastes all the more acrid because of the sweetness of this moment.
It’s unfair to expect something of her that can never be. It’s downright dumb to want something I can never have. It’s wrong to think of love when I’m still kissing her. Because it fucks with my head.
Yet I don’t stop. I don’t tear my lips from hers, and I don’t stop thinking. That nasty little splinter has lodged into my brain, and it’s there to stay. To torment me. To fester like a thorn under the skin with a throbbing discomfort that won’t be ignored.
“Air,” she says, pushing on my shoulders.
I get off her, just enough to let her breathe. I must be crushing her beneath my weight. I got carried away.
She winces when I pull out.
“Does it hurt?” I ask, framing her cheek in my palm and drinking in her beautiful features.
“No.” She smiles. “It just burns a little.”
I kiss her forehead. “Stay, cara.”
She turns her face and follows my progress to the bathroom with her gaze. Her quiet acceptance both pleases and worries me. There’s something off about it. I can’t accuse her of being disobedient or unaccommodating. I only know it’s not right.
After wetting a washcloth with warm water, I return to the bed and wipe away the cum between her legs.
“Does that burn less?” I ask when I’m done.
“Not really.” She bites her lip. “But it’s not so bad.”
“Come on.” I offer her a hand. “I’ll clean you in the shower.”
She lets me pull her to her feet. Interlinking our fingers, I lead her to the bathroom. I only let her go to open the tap and set towels out on the bench. I like this marital duty too—taking care of her needs.
She says nothing while I wash her hair and our bodies. She doesn’t comment when I massage her scalp. Neither does she complain when I clean a little too thoroughly between her legs. She only speaks when I make quick work of rinsing myself.
“The tattoos.” She traces the head of the wolf with a finger, sending a ripple through my skin. “Why did you get them?”
