His hands move to my ass, lifting me slightly so his cock brushes against my core. A guttural moan escapes me when it almost slides inside, and I know he's just torturing me now.
I try to make my body move closer to him, but his hands are there to stop me.
"Want something, baby?" he asks, laughing.
He doesn't understand how desperate I am to feel him inside me, but he deserves a taste of his own medicine, so I stop trying to pull him closer.
His eyes find my face, and I know he feels the moment my fingers leave his cock to move to where I need him.
The instant my fingers make contact with my core, I don't hesitate. Two fingers slide inside, and the relief is immediate, a gasp escaping my lips as my head falls back against the pillow. My eyes flutter closed, and I let myself get lost in the sensation for just a moment, knowing exactly what this will do to him.
"Roxanne." His voice cuts through the haze, rough and strained. "What the hell are you doing?"
His hand wraps around my wrist, stopping my movements entirely. The loss makes me whimper, and I open my eyes to find him staring at me with an expression caught somewhere between fury and hunger.
"What my husband won't," I tell him, pushing out my bottom lip in a pout I know drives him insane. I watch his face, waiting for the exact moment the restraint snaps. And there it is.
His eyes flash dangerously when they land on my mouth, pupils blown wide with want. In one swift motion, my fingers are replaced by his, and God, the difference is staggering. Thicker, longer, more demanding. He knows exactly where to touch, how much pressure to apply, and my back arches off the bed as pleasure shoots through me.
I know I'm clenching around him by the way his jaw tightens, by the sharp intake of breath he tries to hide. Heat pools low in my belly, building and building until I really do feel like I'll catch fire if he doesn't give me what I need.
"Say it again," he orders, his voice barely more than a growl.
And because I'm an obedient wife, at least when it suits me, I give him what he wants.
"My husband better get inside me before I get my toys out and handle this myself—"
I don't get to finish because I feel him align with my entrance, the thick head of him pressing against me. Then in one powerful thrust, he's inside, filling me completely.
We both gasp at the intrusion. Me at the delicious stretch, him at the tight heat enveloping him. My hands fly to his back on instinct, nails digging into muscle as I try to anchor myself to something solid. He stills for a moment, letting me adjust, and I take the opportunity to press my lips close to his ear.
"I love you," I whisper, the words tumbling out before I can stop them.
I don't know why I keep saying these words, why they feel so urgent, so necessary. But I can't stop myself. Not when I know how long he's been part of my life. Not when I know that from the first moment, he's done nothing but take care of me even when I didn't deserve it. Not when he's given me all his attention and love without me ever having to ask for it, without conditions or expectations.
The words hang between us, vulnerable and raw, and I feel him shudder against me.
His eyes find mine, and for a split second I want to turn my head because I feel uncomfortable with all the emotions hanging in the air around us.
He kisses one cheek, then the other, and says, "I've loved you for twenty-one years, nine months, and fourteen days."
And he doesn't need to say anything else, because I feel it. For the first time since that cursed night, I feel loved, truly and completely loved. I pull him closer, wrapping myself around him while our bodies are physically one, trying to eliminate any space between us.
I can't stop watching him. Every line of his body, every flex of muscle as he moves above me, the way the tendons in his neckstrain with restraint. I love all of it. The sheer power he holds back, the control he maintains even when I know he wants to let go.
"Fuck..." he pants, his breath hot against my skin.
His pace is punishing, almost brutal in its intensity, but his hands contradict the force of his thrusts. They soothe over my skin, gentle and reverent, helping me adjust to the stretch and fullness. "You feel too fucking good," he groans, his voice strained. "Look how perfectly you take me, baby."
And maybe it's all the emotions swirling through me, maybe it's the praise falling from his lips, maybe it's the way he makes those delicious sounds that drive me insane. But my hips start to roll, meeting his thrusts, matching his rhythm, and suddenly I'm there. The pleasure crests, and I come.
I gasp as my entire world erupts into a million pieces, shattering and reforming all at once.
For a second, I think I black out, my vision going white at the edges. But Damien keeps thrusting inside me like his life depends on it, like he doesn't know when he'll get to do this again, like he needs to memorize the feeling of me clenching around him.
"I'm coming..." he groans, the words ragged and desperate. He pushes my knees to my chest, the angle allowing him to get impossibly deeper inside me, and I feel him pulse. His hot cum coats my inner walls, filling me completely, and the sensation makes me shudder beneath him.
I kiss him until we’re fully spent, but somewhere in my mind, a whisper tells me I've put a target on his back and that, sooner or later, the Universe will rip him from my arms.
