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Harder.
All of her.
I want her next orgasm, and the one after that.
I want to hear my name coming out like a curse word and to mess up that pretty hair.
I want to see her eyes wild with lust and insatiable desire for me.
I want to fuck her again—faster, harder—and then make slow love to her after that, feeling every damn measured movement together.
My forehead drops to the mattress next to hers, and I thrust and feel, relishing in the raw fire burning inside.
“Come with me,” she urges, her body writhing beneath mine in search of her own orgasm.
Like a wave rushing through me, I come, my body and soul dragged under with her when she calls my name like it’s a sin she’s just confessed.
My lips part, and air enters my lungs, filling my chest. The blackness disperses, and the small room with a little lamp shining next to the bed comes into focus. Swallowing is rough because my throat is dry, but my body feels free from the confines I’ve felt for days, months, even years. Then I find peace in the aftermath.
Soft touches and little kisses cover me, and I open my tired eyes to find hers as bright as they were in the sunshine, and her face more beautiful in its sated state. “Hi,” I say.
“Hi,” she breathes, my weight causing her more trouble than she admits.
I smile and roll to the side. “Sorry about that.”
“I liked it. I like feeling you on top of me with your weight holding me down.”
Resting my arm across the top of my head, I peek over at her. “Why do you need to be held down?”
“Feeling this good, this light means I’ll surely float away.”
It’s interesting how such a simple shared emotion makes me feel better. Or maybe it’s her. The lightness, this peace, is something I desperately craved for the past few years. “C’mere.” I encourage her over on top of me. When she’s settled, her body relaxed and her head resting on my chest, I add, “I feel the same.”
I can’t see her pretty face, but I can feel the smile that graces it, and I can hear the happiness in her voice when she says, “That stunt you pulled this morning, stopping traffic and making demands you had no right to make . . . I’m glad you did.”
Fuck yeah. My smile could probably rival hers. “I am too.”
Her fingers run through the light hair on my chest. “I know I don’t have a right to ask more of you,” she starts, resting her chin on me so I can see her eyes. “But I’d like you to stay the night. No pressure, though.”
I kiss the top of her golden locks. “I have no intention of leaving tonight.”
Her smile lights up the room brighter than the small lamp ever could. “What intentions do you have?”
Repeating her words from earlier, I say, “So much talking. How tired are you?”
“What do you have in mind?”
“To show you exactly what my intentions are.” I move her to the side of me and kiss her until those little mewls begin again, signaling the start of the second round.
The smell of bacon and eggs rouses me from sleep. I reach over to find the bed empty beside me, much to my dismay. I love a hardy breakfast after a night of hot sex, but I’d rather have Delilah waking me up. Maybe with her mouth on me or with my mouth on her.
Fuck.
I’m hard.
I rub over my hard cock, attempting to get it to go down, but I’m not sure that’s possible with her scent all around me.
Flipping the sheets off, I get up to find my clothes clean, dry, and laid out at the end of the mattress. I pull on my underwear, still warm from the dryer. She’s good, too good. Hopefully she washed them because she wanted to and not because she felt obligated. That bullshit about women being barefoot and pregnant and waiting on a man hand and foot doesn’t fly with me. I don’t need my wife to serve me.
My hand stills with my jeans halfway up.
Wife?
Where the fuck did that come from?
I pull them up and head to the bathroom. The word wife didn’t kill my erection like I’d have thought, but my mind is spinning over the words, letting it rumble around, trying to find where it fits. I take a piss and wash my hands, but when I look in the mirror, I see myself in a light I thought I had lost touch with a long time ago. Maybe I can be who I used to be. I wasn’t so bad back then. A little heartbroken. A lot ego-shattered. Losing your girl to your best friend wasn’t something I could control back then, but it’s nothing I should be ashamed of now.
