"That's it," he murmurs, his hand sliding down from my breast to my abdomen, fingers splaying possessively across my stomach. "Feel what you do to me. This is what perfection feels like,slonko."
His words send sparks of electricity through my veins. I push back against him, meeting his thrusts, and the angle shifts just enough that he hits that spot inside me that makes stars burst behind my eyelids.
"Fuck, just like that," he groans, his grip tightening. "Take what you need from me. Use me."
The permission, the encouragement, breaks something loose inside me. I start moving with more purpose, rolling my hips, chasing that building pressure. His breathing becomes harsher, more ragged, and I feel him twitch inside me.
"You're going to make me lose it," he says through gritted teeth. "The way you move, the sounds you make, how tight you are around me. Jesus Christ, Roxanne."
When I feel his palm lower, moving to where he's still sliding in and out of me, where we're joined, I turn my head to him and capture his mouth with mine. I need to taste him, need that connection. The kiss is messy, all tongue and teeth and desperation.
He doesn't stop, doesn't pause, like he physically can't, like stopping would cause him actual pain.
His fingers trace where we're connected, feeling himself move in and out of me, and the intimacy of the gesture makes my breath catch. "So wet for me," he murmurs against my lips. "Feel that? Feel how perfectly your body takes me? Like you were made for this. Made for me."
When his fingertip brushes circles over my clit, the touch light but deliberate, I know I'm not going to last much longer. The dual sensation is too much. The fullness of him inside me combined with the focused attention on that bundle of nerves has me trembling.
"Damien," I gasp out his name like a prayer, like a plea.
"I know, baby. I've got you." He increases the pressure of his fingers, the circles becoming more insistent. "Let go. Show them all who makes you feel this good. Scream my name."
The command in his voice, the absolute certainty that I will obey, sends me over the edge. My toes curl as the knot in my belly snaps, pleasure washing over me in waves so intense they border on pain. I cry out, his name torn from my throat, and I don't care who hears. Let them all know that my husband is fucking me in their bathroom.
The moment my walls start to pulse around him, clenching and releasing in rhythm, milking him, he curses against my lips and follows me over the edge. "Roxanne, fuck, I'm..." His words dissolve into a groan as I feel him throb inside me, feel the warmth of his release filling me.
His movements become erratic, uncontrolled, each thrust punctuated by a harsh breath as he rides out his orgasm. I watch him in the mirror, watch the way his face contorts with pleasure, the way his eyes squeeze shut before flying open to lock with mine.
"Mine," he growls, still moving inside me with shallow, possessive thrusts. "Say it."
"Yours," I breathe out, meaning it with every fiber of my being.
I'm breathing hard when I pull away from his lips, my chest heaving with exertion. So I just look at him, taking in everydetail. The dimples in his cheeks that appear when he smiles, even now. That earring catching the light. The cross tattoo on his neck, dark ink against flushed skin. Every part of him feels familiar and new all at once.
My lips are swollen and sensitive after the marathon I've put them through tonight, tender to the touch. But when he approaches them again, drawn back like a magnet, I let him. I'll always let him.
"Perfect. And mine," he whispers against my mouth, the words a promise and a claim.
"Perfect. And yours," I whisper back, meaning every syllable.
Everyone at the table pretends to ignore us except for Cora, who asks me some questions about work, about Luna, whom she knows, and about my wedding.
I answer each one without going into too much detail, and then I go to the kitchen to wash the dishes. Damien's outside, talking to Vasili on the phone about an important shipment, and the rest are in the living room, enjoying coffee.
"Looks like things worked out for you," Aria says from behind me.
I don't answer her, because I know I'd just be giving her ammunition, but since every visit to this house has to grate on my nerves, she continues.
"I’d really hoped you'd have had the decency not to come. Considering that last time you threw yourself at my fiancé, what little dignity you have left should have stopped you from showing your face."
I set the last glass down and turn to her while drying my hands.
When we were little, there were moments when I believed she'd be my lifeline in this house. But with each passing year, another crater formed between us.
"For the hundredth time, I have eyes, and believe me when I tell you I wouldn't subject them to the torture of looking at someone like Zion."
"Of course not. Because you're Roxy. You can have any man you want at your fingertips. I wonder, how would you feel seeing me do what you did?"
A smile full of compassion takes over my face because she's exactly like a small child. I never realized she was begging for love too, just in her own way. Because in this house, she got the attention, but outside of it, I was the one who shone. I always had better grades than her, won more dance competitions than her, got more boys' attention than her. At home, attention and love came easily for her while I fought for every crumb. But that made me fight for attention outside the house too, so she started with a handicap against me.
