“Fuck,” he said. “Just like that,mywife.” His eyes seemed to roll back, and he hissed when I started to meet him thrust for thrust. He positioned us differently. He fit between my thighs as though he was made to be there.
His eyes looked so deep, and so far, into mine, he was home. He was with me wherever I would go. I could not escape him. He was inside of me—in all ways. I could not shrink, hide, preserve a part of myself that he could not know of or touch.
I was his.
He had showed me this when we were first together.
There was no running. No place far enough. Hidden enough. To ever be apart from him. He knew it the moment he saw me. I knew it the moment our eyes met.
This.
What we were doing.
This was only a formal way of sealing our vows.
“Ah.” My mouth was slightly open, his was over mine, and I sucked in a breath,hisbreath, when he moved inside of me, still stretching me, going deeper and deeper, then he pulled out and came back harder. My back arched and my legs wrapped around him, bringing him even closer.
“Fuck,” he barely got out. He growled after. Then his spectacular eyes came to mine. They were dilated, the light run out, the wildness at his surface, making him seem like the hunter he was. “Fuck.” He stilled, his neck arching back, his throat vulnerable to me.
I set my trembling hand over it, feeling his cords, every vibration. I moaned, and my delicate sounds met his groans, and we started to move faster together. Harder. Our eyes were locked. It was the most intense moment of my life. He was inside of me, and I was inside of him.
Neither of us had a place to run, to hide.
Perhaps this was what made us crash in the first place.
We had always been running toward each other.
A noise tore through me as my orgasm ripped through my body, and he growled as his ripped through him, and our mouths came together at the same time.
I trembled.
He shook.
The pleasure ran through us as though it was a connected lightning strike, and we could not stop the fire it caused. Our mouths continued to come back for more. Our hands refusedto stop touching. My heart. His. Raced toward each other, demanding to meet in some place only lovers could.
We could not stop.
I knew we would never be able to.
Not as long as we lived.
Suddenly, or perhaps not, it was the only way we knew.
Inside of each other—we created a path home.
My husband rested behind me, stroking my shoulders and back with his fingertips. The motion felt so good. It was making my eyes droop, although I kept opening them, watching for any wild animals to roam in front of the gazing window.
“You have the sexiest fucking arch to your back,” he whispered, his voice raspy and low.
He took the route he was just speaking of. Between my shoulder blades, down each knob of my spine, to the deep dip of my lower back before it filled out and became myculo. He took a handful of one cheek, squeezing, before he went for the other one, doing the same.
My eyes shut tight and I groaned, pushing into his grip.
He flipped me over. Our faces were a breath away. His eyes were looking deep into mine.
“Too far from me,” he whispered, his voice rough.
I closed my eyes, my head already high off the mint and whiskey on his breath, the woodsy and spicy scent of him, the heat from his body, the way his hands explored my skin as though he were creating a map of it in his mind.
