The alchemy of his deep voice, hoarse and greedy, his fingers stroking my strained entrance and then, he pinches my clit. The flame shoots up my spine and I come, waves and waves of pleasure scorching me and I come again because I can’t stop. His heat sears me inside as he fills me, until just as he said, it’s dripping from me, slicking our thighs and the couch and his pants.
“Scarlett?”
“Mmmhmm?” My face is buried against his neck.
“Are ye all right? I was rougher than I should have been, our first time.” I hear his concern and laugh weakly, feeling his still hard cock move with me.
“I want to do that again, husband.”
Wallace takes me on nearly every horizontal space in the house and a few vertical ones, too. The man’s upper body strength is spectacular.
“You’re a wee fairy princess,” he says, hoisting me up and down on his cock, bracing my back against the wall outside of his bedroom. We still haven’t made it to a bed.
I laugh until I’m wheezing. “That’s the first time anyone has ever said such a thing to me.” His head’s against my shoulder as he sucks on my sore nipple. “You married a sturdy woman, husband. I’m 5”10 and by no means dainty.”
His biceps flex as he lifts me up until just the tip of him is still inside me and I shiver, remembering how hard I came when he did that to me during our first time on the couch. His grin is savage as he drops me, sending his cock up inside me to the base, feeling the crisp hair there tickle my (also) sore clitoris.
“Dainty.”
Wrapping my legs around his narrow hips, I groan happily. I don’t care that I’m sore as hell. I don’t care that it’s possible I may never walk again without wincing and sitting down will probably be completely out of the question. I’m dizzy with dopamine and I'm warm, my heart filled to bursting with the sheer happiness of too many orgasms and for the man talented enough to give them to me.
Chapter Twenty-Three
In which we Meet the Parents.
Scarlett…
The sun is sending the first, hesitant rays of pink and red through the pines surrounding the house when Wallace falls into bed with me, pulling me close, nestling my ass against his thighs. He’s asleep almost instantly, his soft breath warm on my shoulder.
I’m exhausted. Scrubbing the entire house on Beacon Hill, making dinner, and then going to clean the offices was less of a workout than this, though getting thoroughly ravished by my husband is certainly more satisfying.
I can’t sleep, though. This is the first time I’ve been in the master bedroom, and it feels like Wallace.
There’s a deck past the French doors overlooking the stream and the valley and I idly wonder if I can balance on the wood railing long enough for a round with him without toppling over theedge. I have a feeling he’s going to give it a shot.
The bedroom’s walls are a dark gray and a comfortable blue sectional in one corner facing a big screen TV and a bookcase stuffed with first editions and battered paperbacks. The enormous bed, though, is centered right in front of the fireplace that takes up half of one of the walls. The fire he’d built when we crawled into bed is small by his standards, the wood burnt down now to glowing embers.
Wallace kept his shirt on the entire time we had sex.
Even when the remains of my dress were shredded off me, his shirt stayed intact. I was so turned on by his gorgeous chest and all those tattoos that it didn’t hit me until I tried to slide my palms over the skin on his back. He’d gracefully repositioned me, moving my hands in the process.
When he’d carried my drunken self to bed back at the hotel, I’d felt raised skin on his shoulder, under the neck of his sweater. So what if he’s scarred? He’s Mafia. To be in this life means a body covered in scars from bullets, knives, fists, broken glass, tire irons… whatever’s available. Even my father hid scars from stab wounds and injuries under his expensive suits.
Is it something worse than just a few war wounds? No one understands that better thanme. Eyeing his black t-shirt, I’m tempted to explore a bit while he’s asleep.
How would you feel if he did that to you?
Shut up, conscience.
I would feel violated. He’ll keep his secrets until he’s ready to show me, just like I’ll keep mine. The Moon tile Morgan drew for me comes to mind. Secrets meant to be shared…
My eyes finally close, my cheek against the arm he wrapped around me.
“It’s time.”
My hand holding a piece of toast, dripping with jam, pauses halfway to my mouth. “For what?” Wallace looks grim, like we’re about to undertake something disturbing and possibly deadly, like fondling vipers or mud-wrestling with a wild boar.
“We need to call my parents.” I’d feel better about it if his jaw didn’t look so tight.
