“Are you remembering that you just got out of the hospital after a very near fatal- a- you could have died!” Bursting into tears, I wrap my arms and legs around him, clinging, squeezing him.
“Way to kill the mood, huh?” I sob.
“Sweet wife, are ye forgetting everything ye went through?” His big, warm hands are in my hair, stroking me soothingly like I’m Murder Mittens.
“I’m fine.” My face is buried in his chest, so my lie is muffled.
“I dinnae believe ye.” He cups my cheek, forcing me to look at him. “I know what goes on in rooms like those, with evil fecks like him. Dinnae pretend it’s nothing. Ye canna act like killing a man was nothing for ye.”
“Oh,that?”I’m shocked how little I care.
I should, shouldn’t I? I killed someone.
“Aye,that.”Wallace says, eyeing me keenly.
“Do you want the truth? I haven’t thought of it. Not since we all talked about it at The Clinic. That probably makes me a sociopath or something but I’m glad he’s gone.”
He’s still got that little frown between his brows, worried for me as he wipes away my tears.
“Looking over the balcony and seeing you caught up in the chandelier? That was…” I shake my head.
“Morgan had a tile set she used for divination. Hand painted ones, they were beautiful, even though they were made of bone. She drewa tile for you, The Fallen. A Guardian Angel, plummeting to earth with his wings on fire, the tips black. The angel’s back is bent in a horribly impossible way, almost an inverted U, like it’s broken. You looked…”
“My Little Cinder,” he croons, sitting up with a wince and bringing me with him. “I’m still here. I will always be here.”
“Promise me.”
“I canna, and ye know it.” He’s solemn. “Not in our world. But life is no more certain for the average businessman, or shopkeeper, or… opera singer. We’ll live it together. In this world, and the next, I will always be here.”
This man. This beautiful, infuriating, complex, incomprehensible husband of mine. I slide my hands across his back, fingers spread wide to feel as much of his skin as I can, and he does the same for me. It’s quiet, just the soft sound of our breath in this cold, stylish bedroom. But I can feel the heat cycling slowly through me, making my legs spread wider, my center feels swollen, plumper.
And when his calloused thumb runs up the seam of my pussy, swirling a sheen of slick against my clitoris, I shudder.
Slowly, deliberately, Wallace lies back against the pillows, one arm behind his head, lounging like a king. “I’m injured, wife. Ye need to be on top. Yewouldn’t want me to injure my ribs further, aye?”
“I hate you,” I breathe. I don’t. Not at all and he knows it, his insolent grin getting wider. His thick fingers pull aside the seam of my undies and stroke me. The wet sound of his fingers driving inside me is so lewd, so wildly erotic that my knees press tight against him, forgetting about his broken ribs and bruised side until he winces.
“Sorry!” I gasp, “I’m sorry!”
“Make it up to me, then,” he groans. “Put me inside ye.”There's a tearing sound as he rips off yet another pair of my underwear.
The feel of his cock, it’s so good. Thick and hot, I squeeze him experimentally until he growls at me. Rising up, I tilt my pelvis, smiling wickedly at his expression as I slowly sink down on his shaft.
This is always my favorite moment.
When I’m so wet and he’s sliding inside me and there’s a moment when he feels like too much… too much, so thick inside me but I want more. The sleek feel of him throbbing inside me, his hands, squeezing my ass or cupping my breasts and when he’s finally all the way inside me, the crisp hair at the base of his cock tickling against my clitoris…
Itconsumesme.
I’m bouncing on him, trying and failing to keep my hands away from his sore chest until he gathers them behind my back, holding my wrists together.
“Lean over,” he orders hoarsely, “put that perfect, pink nipple in my mouth.”
It’s hard, arching my back against his hand gripping my wrists together at the base of my spine. His hot mouth sucks in most of my breast in a greedy mouthful and my orgasm tears through me, like a lightning strike on a power line, sparks flying everywhere.
My thighs are wet, his are too, and my husband swells impossibly wide, stretching me to a burn that’s just on this side of too much, and he floods me, groaning. “So fecking snug, crammed up inside ye. So good, wife.”
Slumping on top of him, I sigh as he pushes my sweaty hair off my face. When he circles his hips, I realize he’s still hard inside me.
