I’m going to come again. I’m going to, even though it’s too much and the possibility’s almost frightening. The way his hold on my airways is frightening and also just right.
He goes tighter, his fingers clamping my flesh hard enough that I’ll see bruises in the mirror tomorrow. I want that. I want those prints. They might be the only thing I have left from this experience. The only tangible thing at least, since orgasms are fleeting.
This one’s barreling toward me, as scary and inevitable as a freight train and, with the way he’s holding me up with that hand beneath my jaw, I’m seeing stars, but they’re beautiful. It’s beautiful.
This whole… sordid… adventure… is… beautif—
I’m gone, bursting open. My body just a bright, impossible light. My clit, my nipples, my useless knees, the hand I’ve wrapped around his at my neck, the other that’s twisting my own nipple—it’s all gone. It’s all nothing.
I’mnothing.
I don’t know how long I float here—a while, I think. Long enough for him to open a condom and somehow roll it on one-handed, then drag my hand over it, to show me that he’s wearing it. Long enough for him to turn me and push me face down on a bench I hadn’t even known was here. Long enough for his strong hands to pull my ass apart before, with a groan, he dips down to lick that, too—not for lubrication, I hope, since I didn’t check that particular box. Also, I’m soaking, so I don’t think lube is needed. I’m slippery enough for anything we might want to do.
He’s licking me there because hewantsto, I understand, when he does it again with a hungry sound, before getting up. As if he has all the time in the world, he runs his hands over my ass, up my sides and down, where he pries me roughly apart again. Then, oh god, then with a quick exhale, he puts the tip of his erection to my opening.
“Now,” he whispers, his voice low and gruff, but no longer a whisper. “Take this cock like a good girl.”
Shock fizzles through me at those words, that voice, the command, straight from the video. Recognition is somehow both ice cold and electric.
Zion.
God, oh god, I don’t move. I can’t. I can’t do anything. I can’t breathe or think or make the tiniest of sounds. All I can do is take whatever this man wants to give.
This man.My husband.
This man whose voice I’d know anywhere.
This man who definitely—after everything that’s happened—should not be about to fuck me.
He sinks in the tiniest bit and just that first inch is huge, too tight. Perfectly, terribly wrong.
It’s just the tip and already it’s too much.
* * *
Zion
This whole thing feels good. Better than any sex I’ve experienced in my life. And it’s just the fucking tip.
I open my mouth and almost say Twyla’s name.
No. No, I’m hallucinating. Fantasizing too hard, wishing it to be her I’m on the cusp of sinking into.
This can’t be real. My tight, aching balls have somehow wished her into existence. No way is this the woman whose life I’ve just destroyed with my bad decisions. My wife.
But, fuck, I want that. I want it so bad. Instead of plunging in the way I normally would, I edge us both, by keeping my hips perfectly still and running a hand slowly from her hip over her ass and the slope of her spine and back.
Fuck, I’ve got to make this fever dream last.
It’s almost not even a surprise when the woman the tip of my cock’s barely wedged inside says my name—and not my camp name, Zed, but the real thing. “Zion.”
One moment, I’m about to have sex with a stranger.
The next moment, everything shifts, reality takes a back seat, and it almost seems like I’m fucking my wife. Myfakewife, but still.
“Fuck,” I whisper, seeing Twyla’s face in my mind. The way her teeth scrape over that bottom lip, the way her little tongue peeks out. “Say that again.”
“Zion,” she whimpers.
