With an ab curl I didn’t know I had in me, I sit up, face to face with the woman I’m more than fascinated with.
With a gasp, her eyes fly open, her gaze locks on mine, and her hands come to my neck, well above the injured spot. Her hardened nipples rubbing against my chest is torture for both of us.
We stare at each other as she undulates on my cock, rippling her pussy around my length, grinding her clit against my pubic bone.
There’s something working behind her eyes. She’s deep in thought, deep in her feelings, and I’m deep inherso I know when she’s here physically but not otherwise.
“Where did you go?” I whisper.
She shakes her head too quickly. “Nowhere.”
Reaching under her armpits, I round her shoulders and pull her down on me. “Can you feel me inside you?”
“Yes.”
“Does it feel good?”
She wiggles a little, searching for friction. “Yes.”
“Do you trust me?”
Her eyes lock on mine. “Yes.”
“Where did you go?”
She fights to lift off me, but I pull her down while pushing up into her as much as I can. “Tell me.”
She shakes her head, and a lone tear spills over her cheek.
“I can’t fix it if you won’t tell me.”
Well, that was the wrong thing to say. The first tear is met by others. It’s an incredible boner-killer.
She rests her face in the crook of my neck, and when I let up from her shoulders, she rises to glide but sinks back down with violence, fighting for something that I fear was lost in the fray.
I find her clit and stroke as she bounces, and I fight to get her there.
When she throws her head back in release, it’s as much metaphorical as it is literal. She’s exposed. She’s chosen to let go. And her eyes are fully gone to me.
If it weren’t for her pussy milking my cock with such force, I’d fight to not release at all. It feels all wrong. It feels like consummating the wrong vow or something. Instead, heat rushes down my spine, and unable to stave it off, I spill into her, knowing shit just went off the rails.
And I don’t know why… or how to fix it.
She’s off me and in the bathroom before my cock has stopped pulsing.
Fuck no. Nope. Nu-uh.
Emo wife? Okay.
Weird sex? Maybe.
But rushing to rid herself of all evidence of me? Fuck no.
I’m through the door and staring as she begins cleaning herself up. It’s far too intimate a moment if I were paying any attention at all. It’s private—or it should be—but all I see is her scrubbing me off her body, out of her.
I see red. “What are you doing?” The words are lethally quiet.
She sniffs and stares at me in horrified embarrassment. “What areyoudoing?
