Her screams were muffled by the thickness of joyous tears in her throat.
Her orgasm ripped through her as the muscles of her sheath tightened around his cock, squeezing it, hungry for his release.
His whole body tensed as he roared into the ceiling, his hot seed erupting into her, filling her.
His last spurt of come shot from him, and he collapsed atop her, his weight welcomed.
Her utter bliss only lasted a moment. A handful of seconds ticked by before he pulled his still semi-hard length from her. Though he lay down beside her, and gathered her still thrumming body into his embrace, she felt empty.
Throughout the whole mind-blowing sexual encounter, he hadn’t said a word. Though she’d commanded his silence before the fun parts began, she wanted to hear his deep voice dancing across the heated skin of her neck.
Long minutes later, once the chill of the room began to cool her hot flesh, he still hadn’t spoken.
Since the bliss of their bed-shaking fuckery still pulsed through her, she’d let the silence go for now.
If he wanted to keep quiet she would give him that, but one thing kept circling her mind.
“Who was she? The woman in the portrait. Did you love her?” Her questions would kill their post-coitus mood, but she couldn’t lie next to him in a bed he may have shared with the woman he loved. No woman liked being the ‘other woman’, and if another woman, dead or alive, occupied his mind, she wanted to know.
Silence met her delving question, and tension rippled through his arms. He loosened his hold on her, and turned to his back, leaving her bereft of his warmth.
She sucked in a fortifying breath, and turned over to face him, immediately regretting eventhinkingthe question.
A mask of bitterness, sadness, and disgust flooded his face, he refused to look her in the eye, and a grimace pinched his features.
Oh, God. What have I done?
Time to go.
Mindful of her nudity, but uncaring, she slipped from the bed, and gathered her discarded shift from where it had landed. She pulled it over her head, and looked over to where he lay, staring at her in the dark. They’d just had the most incredible sex she’d ever experienced, and now the fire they’d built together was doused by the icy cold water of reality.
What could she say that would take back the terrible questions she’d asked?
Nothing.
She took one last moment and looked him in the eye, telegraphed her regret at her words, and then turned and left.
He didn’t do anything to stop her.
The door clicked shutbehind her, and he released a heavy breath and willed his skin to cool. Heat still thrummed through him, and he pulsed with the pleasure of his release.
He cursed, slamming his fist into the mattress, and then rose from the bed.
Pacing, he groaned.
Why did she ask me about the portrait?
He couldn’t understand why the answer was so important to her.
She was still coming down from the highs of her orgasm, and the first thoughts in her head were about a portrait?
Why didn’t I answer her?
He couldn’t.
She’d gone from hot, supple, and satiated, to tense, frustrated, and disappointed.
When he pictured her expression, he cursed again. He’d been so stunned by her question, he couldn’t form words.
