She smiled and rocked her hips anyway. I wrapped an arm around her middle and held her there, my palm splayed wide across her stomach, anchoring her down because I didn’t trust myself not to move.
Not when she was this warm and wet and this fucking perfect.
Not when I could still feel the ghost of that gym video in my bloodstream. Her writhing against my hand, fucking it as I dry-humped her to completion. My past self crawled toward her like he already knew we wouldn’t survive apart. And now she was here. Around me. Wearing my ring. Taking me into her like it was a privilege for both of us.
No thrusts.
No friction.
Just heat and pressure and possession and a pulse inside her that matched the one hammering in my chest.
She held herself still on top of me like she knew I was one movement away from coming like a fucking teenager. Like she could already feel how deep this went for me—what this meant.
I wasn’t just inside her. She hadme, fully and completely.
And I think she knew it.
I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. So I leaned forward, buried my nose in her hair, and whispered like a man being punished.
“I’ll never get over this. You know that, right?”
She didn’t answer. She just sat there like a fucking goddess while Ivy and Marco bickered like schoolchildren with crushes, and I sat balls-deep in my wife, ruined.
Worshipping. Worshipped. Undone.
A server appeared at the edge of the booth then, notepad tucked to her chest like this wasn’t the single most unhinged moment of my fucking life.
“We’ve just opened a beautiful Barolo,” she said, smiling like this was a normal table, “and the chef recommends the fig tart tonight if you’re in the mood for dessert.”
Auri stayed perfectly poised. Serene, polite, almost angelic. Still seated on me like she wasn’t soaking my cock with every slow breath. Like she wasn’t the most dangerously controlled submissive, an expert in weaponizing stillness.
And all I could do was sit there, choking on the truth that she held more power in this moment than I did.
“Fig tart sounds fucking elite,” Marco agreed, already nodding. “Wait, do we want to share a few?”
“I want chocolate,” Ivy announced, dead serious. “I’m not eating olives and ending on figs. No. That’s a hate crime.”
“Seconded,” Lucy said, giggling as Kimi popped another olive in her mouth.
Marco turned to Ivy with a warm little smirk, eyes fond and teasing. “You’re such a chocolate snob. What kind of desserts do you have with chocolate?”
The server smiled, flipping her notepad. “Tonight we have a dark chocolate torte with espresso ganache and a hazelnut crisp.”
Ivy gasped dramatically. “Oh yeah. That. That one. Immediately.”
Kimi shrugged. “I’ll eat whatever you don’t finish, just get both.”
Auri tilted her head.
Just the tiniest bit.
Then her lips parted, soft and innocent, like she was about to offer a helpful suggestion, except her voice was fucking weaponized.
“I thought I saw baklava on the dessert menu,” she said casually. “Flaky pastry, warm honey, crushed pistachio…Ouais, I think sticky and sweet is what I’m in the mood for tonight.”
My cock twitched so violently inside her I almost dropped my wine glass.
She didn’t even look at me, simply said it like she was musing over the idea of it—dripping syrup, soft layers, crushed nuts—like she wasn’talreadystuffed full of me under the table.
