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“Yes.”
“I’m not. I’m your husband, and before I claim you as such, you will ride my fucking face. You will fuck my mouth until I tell you to stop.”
I was a second away from objecting and telling the infamous Van Gogh where he can shove his arrogance, but then the realization hit me. I get to shut Van up with my pussy. This man deserves a smothering like no other. And what better way to give it to him than by pleasuring myself?
“All right, Husband.” I rip off my T-shirt and toss it to the floor. I’m not wearing a bra or panties because it’s after nine. Who wears bras or underwear after nine? Instead, I straddle him, wearing nothing but my bravery.
“Are you scared of me, Flower?” That’s the same question he asked me when we reunited in the woods. And just like then, I’m not scared.
“Are you scared of me?” I tease, my voice light and playful. There’s something thrilling about having control of a man. Especially one as infamous as Van Gogh. So, when his back touches the floor, and his eyes lock on mine, nothing but sheer pleasure courses through my body.
“We won’t stop,” he reminds me. “Not until I say.”
And I won’t stop. Not until he says. I know he’s a good man. He’s more than just a vigilante seeking justice that he didn’t get for himself. He’s done more for this world, for his mother and himself, and for that, he can be proud.
I delight in the way his throat works as he gazes upon my bare body. It’s the first time he’s ever seen it.
“You like this dark side of me, don’t you?” I memorize the way his eyes pierce me with conflicted hate. He can deny it, but the truth always comes out. Van feels something for me, something that never left even after all these years, and that knowledge is enough for me. I move up his body, hovering my bare pussy an inch over his face. “Are you scared to touch me, Husband?” His hands move like lightning as they flash beside me and grab on to my ass. I’m thrown forward onto all fours. And then there is no more taunting. I’m consumed with the heat and fire of Van’s mouth as he pulls my lower body to his face, smothering himself in my wetness and my desire. There’s no talking, just a thrill and the heat, as Van says everything with his mouth. He works me to a fever pitch. His tongue pierces my center and stretches me to the point of sheer bliss.
His tongue laps and worships, consuming me as if I’m a forbidden treat.
Van and I have always burned bright around one another.
We are combustible materials. We are tortured souls. But in the heat of one another, we become one.
And the moment that I feel him bite my clit, sucking fantastically hard, he stops. His breath falls in uneven pants, as his mouth glistens with my need, but it’s his eyes asking for permission that sobers me. Van Gogh doesn’t ask, he takes. “Ride my cock,” he finally growls, seeming to find the dark side of himself again.
“No,” I pant. “Not until you say it.” He knows what I need. And from the way his hard cock presses against my ass, begging for entry, I know exactly what he needs, too.
He wants to claim his wife, and he wants to do it his way. But not today.
I recite the sentiment I swore I’d never honor. “From the vows we’ve taken, my body is yours, and yours is mine. You will sacrifice your desires and compromise for mine.”
Van’s hands dig into my side seconds before letting out a vicious roar that sends my heart straight into my throat.
“I’m not a good man!” he growls. “But I can be… with you.”
He doesn’t give me time to digest his words. Instead, he steals my breath as he slams my hips over his cock. He doesn’t allow me to ride him and claim him as my husband. Instead, he fucks me from below, grinding himself deep and hard and angry. It’s everything that’s inside of him boiling to the surface. He is a good man but would never want anyone else to know.
“Say it,” he growls. I guess I’ll say it right now.
“I am not your prisoner.” I can see the strain in his neck as the veins protrude. “Say it right now,” I pant with seriousness.
“What am I to you?” Another silent second passes by, and his hands come up to palm my breasts.
And then he roars, “You. Are. My. Wife.”
We come together, collapsing onto one another’s sweat-slicked chests.
Reese
“Say it one more time.”
This man and his ridiculous threats.
I let out a big sigh and roll my eyes dramatically.
“If I reveal who you are, my sister will burn, blah, blah, blah.” I cast him a grin and hold up two fingers. “If I attempt to run or ask for help, I’ll burn with the poor soul who was stupid enough to help me.” My eyelid quivers as the mascara brush drags along my bottom lash, coating my annoyance with Van’s signature color.
