“Closer,” she whispers.
Inching closer, I curl around her, pushing my thighs into the curve of her ass.
“Closer.”
Tightening my arm, I try to roll her into me.
“No,” she says, reaching behind her until her hand finds my dick.
“Fuck me, like this,” she begs, tugging me until I’m on top of her, my hard dick probing at her wet entrance.
Grabbing my arm, she tugs it beneath her, holding my hand under her cheek. Positioning my knee behind hers, which is pulled up toward her chest, I keep my weight off her, held up by the other leg that’s braced against the mattress on the outside of her straight leg.
It’s a position I’ve never tried before, but as I push my dick into her, our bodies are touching as closely as we can be.
A soft whine of pleasure slips from her lips as I roll my hips, filling her cunt until she’s full of me.
“No,” she protests when I start to lift my weight off her, so I can thrust. “Just slow and deep, just like this,” she says, her eyes closed, as she grips my fingers beneath her cheek tightly.
Gently grinding against her, I fuck her so slowly, I’m not sure it even counts as sex. It’s nice, but not explosive, and as shesoftly whines, I realize this isn’t about sex. This is about us being as close as possible with our bodies connected. It doesn’t matter if either of us comes. This isn’t about that. This isn’t about us making a baby or orgasming. This is us reconnecting. It’s us resolidifying our need for each other, and as I pull her onto her side a little, keeping myself inside of her, I close my eyes and finally allow myself to relax.
EIGHTEEN
OCTAVIA
After the day of our first argument, things between Knight and me start to change. Now he’s not the only one unwilling to let me out of his sight, because I’m the same, needing to be able to see him at all times. I’m not sure if it was the argument, our talk in the shower, or the night we spent impaled together, refusing to allow even sleep to separate us. But whatever it was, I feel addicted to him in a way I’m not sure is particularly healthy.
I wake up in the gym every morning, needy and desperate for his dick. I’ve never felt this sex consumed before, and I don’t know if it’s a good thing or not. There isn’t a wall or flat surface in his home gym that we haven’t fucked on, bent over, or against. The scent of sex has started to seep into the walls, and the lingering smell of cum and panting breaths that hits you the moment you step through the door only seems to exacerbate our cravings each day.
After Knight has fed me breakfast, he finger fucks me or eats me out in the tub before we get dressed and go to work. By lunchtime, I’m desperate for release, and we’ve started retreating to his car, because Betty told me everyone could hear us when we were in the break room. Even though no one hasopenly complained about us, it was making walking into the studio a little weird, because all of my coworkers know what I sound like when I orgasm.
Knight’s security bros came and fitted a new state-of-the-art security system last week. Despite Betty and Leo regularly teasing Knight and me about being a little too obsessed with each other, after a guy tried to hit on Leo by groping her breast, I think everyone is grateful that not only was Knight there to throw the guy out, but that we also had the security video to show to the cops when the groper tried to press charges against Knight for assault.
Knight and I have been married for a few weeks now, and I’m happy. I love our house. I love our relationship. I love that he makes me feel safe, cared for, and seen. I love that he doesn’t want to change anything about me. I love that he buys me more clothes than I’ve ever bought for myself. I love that I don’t feel like I need to be someone else to please him. I love that he’s complicated, but so unflinchingly honest that I always know when he’s happy, and I recognize when he’s tense and how to make things better.
I just love him. I haven’t told him yet, but I plan to, because he tells me that he loves me all the time. I want to say the words to him, but there’s something niggling at the back of my mind that stops me every time I open my mouth to tell him.
That something is Abel, my asshole of an ex. I haven’t seen or spoken to him since he destroyed my pinball machine and left me crying in my Airbnb almost a month ago. But since I posted on my socials about being in Rockhead Point and working, he’s been messaging me nonstop.
I haven’t replied, but every time I delete his messages and block his profile, he creates a new one, and the cycle starts all over again. Knight knows Abel is trying to get in contact with me.He knows I haven’t been replying, but he also knows that Abel isn’t giving up.
I’m not interested in being in contact with my ex. Honestly, the last time we were together, my eyes were opened to who he is, and I have no desire for him to be a part of my life. I just don’t know how to get him to go away.
We got together in the first place because he relentlessly pursued me, and I’m starting to wonder if he thinks my ignoring him now is a game. But I’ve moved on. I’m with Knight. I’m married to Knight, and Abel is a part of my past that needs to stay in my past.
“Let me help,” Knight says, lifting me off the floor and sitting me on the dresser. Taking my lace-topped thigh-high stockings from me, he eases them over my toes, then smooths them up my thighs. He makes sure that his fingers touch every inch of me while he flattens the lace band around my leg, stroking the inside of my thigh perilously close to the bite mark he left there earlier this morning. Repeating the action with the other leg, he lifts me down, palming my ass when I push up onto my tiptoes and press a kiss to his lips.
“Thank you,” I say into his mouth, curving my arms around his neck and pressing as close to him as I can get.
“Your first client is at eleven.” Since buying the new interactive calendar that he mounted on the wall in the kitchen, Knight has basically taken over arranging my time and bookings. Conveniently, he makes sure we have time for lunch at one p.m. and dinner at seven p.m.
I don’t hate the consistency of eating at the same time each day. I’ve seen the way being out of schedule affects him, and I don’t want to be the reason that look of helpless anxiety takes over his body. My husband is a controlled man, but his control is tightly wound, and although he can cope with deviating from his rigid routine, it takes a toll on him.
Since we met, some of his rigidity has softened, and instead of trying to force me to fit into his life, he’s learned to adapt a little, although I doubt he’ll ever be someone who can do anything without meticulous planning. But while he’s trying to be flexible, I’m learning that structure doesn’t always have to be restrictive. Every day starts with the man I love, loving me enough to wrap me in a blanket and carry me into the gym.
I wake up looking at him and knowing that I don’t have to doubt how he feels about me, because he shows me in a hundred different ways, and the least I can do is show him that I love him too.
He cooks, but I clean, putting everything back just the way he likes it. On the rare times that we shower together, I bathe him, wanting him to see and feel that I want to take care of him the same way he takes care of me.
