“I… I can’t…”
“Yes, you can.” He squeezes my flesh, his thumbs brushing my nipples through the fabric. “Or I stop touching you.”
I whimper, but I start reading again.
His other hand slides down over my stomach to the waistband of my yoga pants. I watch him slide inside. The rustle of fabric, loud in the quiet room.
“Don’t stop,” he growls.
I keep reading. Even as he slips his hand inside my panties.
I gasp.
“Read, Nadia.”
I can barely focus. But I keep going. My voice is breathy, broken.
Zak’s fingers slide through my folds. Finding me wet. So fucking wet.
“Fuck, baby. You’re soaked.”
I can’t go on anymore. Can’t even think.
“Read,” he growls.
I try. Fumbling through the words.
He circles my clit. Slow. Teasing. Then he stops.
“Zak!”
“You stopped reading, baby.”
“I can’t…”
“Yes, you can.” He kisses my neck. His lips are soft, his stubble scratchy. “Read, wife. Make it to the end of the scene, and I’ll let you come.”
It’s torture. Pure torture. But I do it. Reading through the filthy scene. Stumbling. Gasping. Barely coherent.
His fingers work me. Sliding inside my pussy. Curling. Finding all my magic spots. His thumb on my clit. Driving me fucking insane.
The scent of his cologne mixes with my arousal. The room feels hot. My skin is tingling everywhere.
Finally, I reach the last line.
“Good girl,” he rasps. His voice is wrecked. “Now come for me.”
I let go, the book falling from my hands as I arch against my husband, crying out his name. He works me through it, drawing out every last bit of pleasure until I’m trembling and boneless.
“Fuck, I love you,” he whispers against my sweat-damp hair.
I freeze.
Wait. Did he just…
I turn in his arms. Looking at him.
He’s staring right back. With tender eyes. Still breathing hard.
