“Just like that,” she cries when I press the flat of my tongue hard against her clit. I give her exactly what she wants, soaking up the feeling of her trembling thighs and the blood pulsing under her skin. My cock is pressing so hard against the bed, it almost hurts.
I know right when she’s about to come. I know it by the way her body tenses and breath hitches. I slide two fingers into her cunt just as her climax hits her.
The exquisite moan she makes when she comes almost drags me along with her.
I pump my fingers into her, prolonging her orgasm while I get her ready for me. When the last tremor finishes, I roll onto my back. I yank down my trousers and underwear and toss them on the floor. I’m tearing through the buttons on my shirt when Maura lifts her head, finally on the other side of her orgasm.
“Climb on my cock,” I demand. “Ride me, Maura.”
She pushes herself up on trembling arms, straddling my hips and taking my cock in her soft hand. After what feels like eternity, she finally slides down onto my head. She braces her hands on my chest for support as she slowly lowers herself another inch. Then another. She winces a little, and I press my fingers to her clit to soften the sting as she stretches for me.
“I’ve been waiting all day to touch this exquisite body. To give my wife everything she fucking needs.” I massage her clit with my fingers, feeling a rush of wetness in response. “If that’s all you can take right now, I promise you, I only need those few inches to get you off, and it’s more than enough for me.”
“But we only have thirty minutes,” she gasps.
Fuck, her pussy feels like goddamn heaven. I never want to be anywhere other than here, with my wife on top of me, my fingers on her clit and her head thrown back in pleasure.
“You think I only saved half an hour for this?” I run one hand up her side, feeling goosebumps rise on her soft skin.
“That’s what—” Maura cuts herself off with a moan as a ripple of pleasure runs through her. “That’s what was on the calendar.”
“The calendar was wrong.” I pump into her in small, shallow thrusts, savoring her moans. “Every fucking slot in my calendar should be purple, because I can’t stop thinking about you like this. Stretched around my cock. All flushed for me. Your pussy dripping on my skin.”
“God,” she cries, her fingers digging into my chest. She rocks against me, her rhythm growing erratic as it syncs up with mine. I grit my teeth, willing myself to not to come at the filthy sound of her wet cunt swallowing my cock.
“That’s it, baby. Come for me. I want to see that pretty face when you come all over my cock.”
My words push her over the edge. She throws her head back, moaning as her pussy squeezes the hell out of me.
“Did you hear that?” I ask.
“What?” Her voice sounds hazy and distant.
“That moan you give me when you come for me.” She comes out of the haze of her climax and her eyes focus on mine. “That’s what I think of when I’m in meetings. Not the pitch deck. Not the numbers.”
I drag the back of my fingers along her inner thigh and grin when she moves again.
“That sound, wife. You falling apart for me.”
She leans forward, framing my face in her hands and kissing me. Her mouth is just as hot and wet as her cunt. The world disappears—no work, no contracts, no galleries or calendars. It’s just Maura and me, our bodies hot and sweaty against each other, overcome with want.
My balls tighten, and I press just a little deeper inside her to make sure my seed reaches her womb. Maura moans with pleasure and I unload inside her, shouting her name.
We roll onto our sides, a tangle of limbs and sweaty flesh and shared breaths. My fingers run up and down her back through the fabric of her shirt. My mind goes to the scar on her chest, the one she won’t show me.
Maura might be my wife, but there are parts of her that will never really be mine.
23
MAURA
My hands are angry at me. They’re red and raw from raking through pieces of broken shale rock, which I stupidly decided to process without gloves. It’s my own damn fault for ignoring my own safety rules, but I’ve been so busy, I’m not exactly thinking clearly.
The past week has been full of nonstop show-prep. On top of picking my existing paintings and having them stored and transported, I’ve been prepping the paint for my new paintings. I need a new dark red piece to pull everything together, but none of the stones I have in stock have come out just right.
I rub my aching shoulder. It’s not just my hands—my entire body is mad at me for slouching while I work. If my husband wasn’t in hour three of a fourteen-hour meeting marathon—seriously, what does he even find to talk about for that long—I’d ask him for a massage. Oh, well. I’ll have to rely on a hot shower and Ibuprofen for relief.
With James unavailable and a mountain of prep work for the gallery show ahead of me, I desperately need a pick-me-up. I’d love to run over to the Copper Cup for a latte, but frankly, I can’t afford to waste the extra hour.
