“Amelia, fuck,” His hands thread through my hair,holding it. “You’re a fucking goddess. My wife on her knees, begging for my cum, fuck me, I’ll worship you forever.”
I take his cock into my mouth, slow at first, my tongue swirling around the tip. He shudders violently, his grip tightening around my hair.
“That’s it, baby, you’re perfect,” he babbles. “My beautiful wife, sucking my cock like a good girl. You look so pretty taking me down your throat, fuck, I could watch you forever.”
I hollow my cheeks, taking him deeper, continually stroking his shaft with my hand. His thighs tremble, his hips stutter, and his eyes roll back as he moans wrecked praises into the air.
“Dollface, fuck, my everything—” His voice cracks, broken. “You want me to cum on that pretty face? You got it, baby. I’ll paint you in it.”
His cock throbs in my mouth, his whole body jerking, and I pull back at the last second, stroking him fast and firm. He erupts with a hoarse roar as his cum spills across my lips, my cheek, my chin. His hands clutch my hair, his chest heaving as he stares down at me like I just gave him salvation.
“Fuck,” he pants, voice gutted. “Look at you, wearing my cum like you were made for me. You’re everything, baby. Everything.”
I lick a bead of cum off my lip, smirking up at him even though my chest aches at the way he’s looking at me like I hung the moon. Like, this isn’t just sex for him.
And that’s the most dangerous part.
I’m still kneeling between his legs, my skin slick with sweat from him, my breath ragged as Maverick sits up. His chest rises and falls rapidly, his hair damp and wild, blue eyes locked on me.
For a second, I expect him to crack a joke, to let the moment fade into laughter and teasing, but he doesn’t.
He leans forward as his hands slide under my arms, then down my back and thighs. In one smooth motion, he lifts me off the mattress, cradling me against his chest.
“Maverick—” I start, but my voice catches.
“Shh,” he murmurs, his lips brushing my temple. “Let me take care of you, dollface.”
He carries me into the bathroom, the sound of the shower kicking on as he shifts me in his arms. The steam curls around us, and when he sets me down inside the stall, his big hands are still holding me steady.
The hot spray hits my shoulders, washing away sweat and cum, plastering my face. Maverick takes the soap, his palms sliding gently over my skin as his broad, callused hands move with a tenderness that guts me.
He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t joke. He justworships, even now.
“Look at you,” he says softly, rinsing me clean. “Prettiest fucking thing I’ve ever seen. My wife.”
I want to roll my eyes, make a snarky comment, push him back into that easy lane where things don’t matter. But my throat burns, and my chest feels too tight.
It’s supposed to be fake.
A game.
I’m supposed to enjoy the sex, take the studio, and keep my heart locked up where no one can reach it. But here he is, washing me like I’m something fragile, kissing my shoulder like I matter more than all the noise outside this bathroom.
And the worst part? I want to believe him. I want to embrace this, to let myself be his wife in every meaningful way. But people don’t stay. Men don’t stay. So if I let this matter, if I let him matter, I’ll only have myself to blame when it all falls apart.
He tilts my chin up, blue eyes burning into mine through the steam. “You good, baby?” he asks, his voice low, rough, so full of care it makes my knees weak.
I force a smirk, masking the ache threatening to break me open. “You just like playing husband.”
He grins, boyish and wrecked, kissing the corner of my mouth. “I like being your husband.”
I laugh, because it’s easier than admitting the truth, that every time he says it, every time he treats me like this, I feel myself slipping closer to something I swore I’d never want again.
amelia
. . .
“Fuck, I could listen to you laugh forever, baby,” he murmurs, kissing the top of my head. “So… ice cream?”
