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He’ll come to bed with me and fuck me in whatever way he pleases.
When he’s had a trying or violent day, the sex will be rough. He’ll fuck me hard enough that I could swear he’s still inside me the next morning, my body stretched and used in a way that makes me ache.
After he’s had a day of meetings and conversations about things I’m not privy to caught in his head, he’s tired. He’ll pull me on top, my knees straddling his waist while he drinks whiskey and watches me asIfuck him. Fuck, he looks good on those nights. I may be in control, but the power he oozes from merely sitting in a chair while I gyrate on his lap brings me to orgasm in next to no time.
If he’s working in his home office, I’ll play with myself on our bed, knowing he’s watching. I’ll pinch my nipples and moan his name, and within seconds, he’s inside me, calling me filthy names that make my pussy throb.
I look at him, sleeping soundly on his back, arm thrown over his eyes, his soft breathing making his chest rise and deflate.
He’s had an extra knot of barbed wire inked onto his side since the cabin. Twenty-four lives forever marked into his skin as a reminder. I can’t decide if he wears them as a badge of honor or if they’re a form of punishment.
I slide my phone onto the bedside table without reading Gabriella’s text.
I climb over my husband, leaning down to trail my lips over the grayscale tattoo on the side of his ribs. They’re lives lost, sure, but Vincent doesn’t kill innocent people for fun. He’s not a psychopath who finds sexual gratification in murder. To me, these barbs represent moments in time when his choice was stripped away. He’s loyal, likely to his own detriment. Threaten the family, and in Vincent’s complicated psyche, that equals death.
“Hope you plan on moving those lips lower, wife.”
His voice is hoarse with sleep, and I hum. Every part of me tingles with the anticipation of an orgasm or two.
“Nope. Not these lips.” I kiss him again.
He groans.
Moving up his body, I fit my already slick pussy over the underside of his morning erection.
Pulling his arm from his eyes, face creased in sleep, he smirks. “I haven’t even done anything, and your pussy is leaking for me,” he burrs.
“You’re very attractive when you’re unconscious,” I tease, sliding myself up and down the underside of his cock.
“Put my dick inside you.”
I shake my head, loving the way his flared head kisses my clit on every upward slide. “When I’m about to come, you can bury yourself inside. I’m enjoying myself.”
I lean back, hands to his knees, my hips rolling, my pussy jerking him off with a slippery finesse.
“Fuck,” he grates. “When you hit my tip...”
“So good,” I moan.
My body is stretched out. His remains half in slumber.
Eyes drunk with lust, he watches the way I bring myself pleasure.
“Jesus. The way you use my body, Bianca. I used to fuck my hand imagining moments like this. Fuck, I’d come so hard.”
I speed up, my stomach tightening and my clit pulsing in time with the race of my heartbeat.
I’m panting. I want him inside. I don’t want him to move. I want him to play with my nipples. I want him to grip my hips. I want him to tell me he loves me. I want him to call me a whore. I want...
“You’re about to come,” he growls, hand to the nape of my neck to pull me down.
I go easily, my body floating, ready to explode.
I slide over his tip, my body trembling. Before I can slip back down, he grabs his cock and angles it toward my entrance.
“Down.”
I do as I’m told, impaling myself on the rigidness of his cock in one quick drop.
