“Probably not.”
“Tomorrow this will be complicated again.”
“It’s already complicated.” She’s close enough now that her breath mingles with mine. “But tonight I don’t care.”
When she kisses me, it’s different from before. Less desperate, more deliberate. Like she’s made a choice and she’s owning it completely.
I try to pull her up, to bring her into my lap, but she resists. Instead, she pushes me back slightly, hands firm against my chest, claiming control of the moment.
“Let me,” she murmurs against my mouth.
“Let you what?”
Her smile is dangerous. “Take care of you.”
Before I can process what she means, her hands are at my belt, working the buckle with steady fingers. Everything in me wants to take over, to direct this encounter the way I direct everything else in my life.
The look in her eyes stops me. There’s a challenge there, a demand for trust that’s more intimate than anything we’ve done before.
I force myself to lean back, hands gripping the edge of the couch hard enough that my knuckles go white. Letting someone else take control goes against every instinct I have, but something about the way Elara is looking at me—like she needs this, needs to be the one in charge right now—makes me willing to try.
She opens my pants with deliberate slowness, and I have to suppress a groan when her hand wraps around me through my boxers. The touch is exploratory, curious, like she’s mapping new territory.
“Still think this is a bad idea?” she asks, voice low and teasing.
“Terrible idea.” My voice comes out rougher than intended. “Worst decision we could make.”
“Good.” She pulls my boxers down, freeing me, and the cool air against heated skin makes me hiss. “I’m tired of making good decisions.”
When her hand wraps around me properly, skin against skin, my head falls back against the couch. She strokes me slowly, learning what makes me tense, what makes my breath catch, what makes my fingers dig harder into the cushions.
“Elara—” Her name comes out like a warning, but I’m not sure what I’m warning her about.
She doesn’t respond with words. Instead, she leans forward, and the first touch of her tongue against my cock destroys whatever coherent thought I had left.
I’ve had this before—countless times, with women whose names I don’t remember, encounters that meant nothing beyond physical release.
This is different. This is Elara, my wife, the woman I’ve manipulated and protected and possibly destroyed, kneeling between my thighs and taking me into her mouth with an intensity that suggests this means something to her too.
Her technique isn’t practiced or perfect—there’s hesitation in her movements, uncertainty in how deep to take me, when to use her tongue.
What she lacks in experience she makes up for in sheer determination, in the way she watches my reactions and adjusts accordingly, in the soft sounds she makes that vibrate against sensitive flesh.
My good hand finds her hair, not to control but to ground myself, to maintain some connection to reality while pleasure threatens to pull me under. She looks up at me through her lashes, and the sight of her like this—lips wrapped around me, eyes dark with desire—nearly undoes me completely.
“Christ, Elara—” The words come out strangled. “You need to stop or I’m going to—”
She doesn’t stop. If anything, she doubles her efforts, taking me deeper, using her hand in conjunction with her mouth, and the combination is devastating. I try to pull back, to give her an out, but she follows me, refusing to let me retreat.
The orgasm hits like a bullet, sudden and overwhelming and completely beyond my control. I come with a harsh groan, her name on my lips, fingers tight in her hair. She stays with me through it, swallowing around me, gentling her movements as I come down from the high.
When she finally pulls back, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, I’m completely wrecked. My carefully maintained composure is in pieces, my control shattered, and I can’t bring myself to care.
She climbs into my lap—carefully, avoiding my injured arm—and I wrap my good arm around her waist, holding her close. We sit like that for several long moments, her head tucked under my chin, both of us breathing hard.
My hands find her hips, enjoying those lovely curves.
“That was—” I start, but I don’t have words for what that was.
