We could cook dinner together, then spend the evening cuddled up on the sofa, each day a repeat of the perfect one before. Perhaps the structure that has driven each hour of my life toward the next, checking off each item on my agenda, could become a day full of her and us and hopefully soon a baby or two, or three, or as many as I can convince her to have.
Despite the physical exertion, I’m not tired, but I’m more than content to stay beside her, watching her while she sleeps. I removed her panties before I fucked her, but she’s still wearing her bra and the knee socks that make my dick twitch with a renewed sense of excitement.
There’s something about the way she dresses that I find incredibly sexy. From the babydoll dresses, to the socks, to the bunches in her hair, she’s a real-life doll for me to bathe, dress, and play with, but she’s so much more than that. Octavia is sweet and sensitive, but complicated in a way I’m not sure I’ll ever fully understand.
Learning what makes her tick, what makes her smile, and what makes her mad is exciting—a challenge that I’m exhilarated to conquer. I want to know everything about her, and while I know that won’t happen in a week, finding out something new about her each day makes me happier than I realized I was capable of being.
The urge to part her legs and push back into her body taunts me, but no matter how much I enjoy the sensation of being inside of her, I want to hear her pleasure sounds and watch as she tumbles over the edge into release. I want the connection we share, which is so much more than just physical release.
I love my wife. Before her, I don’t think I understood the emotion, but I do now. I’m hers entirely, and that sensation is so huge that perhaps, to other men, it might be intimidating, but for the first time in my entire life, I feel like I completely understand.
She is my mate, my wife, my everything.
While she sleeps, I mentally categorize each of her tattoos, wondering what each piece of art means to her and what prompted her to permanently etch them onto her skin. I add, licking each design to my list, wondering if they’ll taste different and if I’ll find a favorite. When she finally starts to stir, my mouth is watering, and my dick is rock hard.
Her legs that have stayed splayed open while she’s slept, fall closed, hiding her cunt from my view. Scrunching her face in discomfort, she makes a quiet hissing sound as she rolls to her side, and I tense, worried that she’s in pain.
Her eyes flutter open, and she blinks at me. “Hey.”
“You’re in pain?” I question angrily, needing to know as unexpected worry gnaws at my gut.
“Just a bit sore,” she says softly.
“I hurt you?” I ask, my voice barely more than a growl.
“You fucked me hard, but I asked you to, and it was.” Sighing softly, a slow smile tips the corners of her lips.
“You enjoyed me hurting you?” I question slowly, not sure I want to know the answer, because the idea of causing her real pain is completely abhorrent to me.
“No,” she says, propping her head up on her elbow. “No. I enjoyed us being a little rough and…” She pauses, her cheeks turning red. “I liked it when you spanked me. But I don’t think I would say that’s me enjoying you hurting me.”
“But you’re in pain,” I remind her.
“I’m sore, Knight. That’s all.”
“I…” I try to explain what the turbulent mound of things I’m feeling means, but I struggle to articulate it into words.
“You didn’t hurt me, Knight, and I didn’t want you to,” she says slowly, her brow furrowed. “I loved every moment of everything we just did. It was incredible, it felt incredible, and I came so hard.”
“I didn’t hurt you?” I ask again, needing to hear her say it.
“No. You didn’t hurt me. You could never deliberately hurt me. But sometimes, I’ll be a little sore after rough sex. I just need a warm bath and a little time, and I’ll be fine.”
“I’ll go and start the water,” I say, climbing out of bed and heading for the bathroom. Turning on the faucet over the tub, I clench my jaw so tight I feel like my teeth are about to crack. I hurt her. Ihurther.
“Knight, baby,” Octavia calls, and I rush from the bathroom, scanning her for signs of pain or injury.
“What’s the matter? Are you okay?” I ask frantically.
“I’m fine,” she says softly. “I was just going to ask if you wanted a drink. I’m going to go and grab one.” Shuffling to the edge of the bed, she carefully pushes to her feet, fighting to hide a wince that I notice anyway.
“I’ll go. What do you want?”
“What do we have?” she asks.
“Water, juice, or coffee.”
“Juice, please.”
