Gripping her hips hard, I flutter my fingers over her clit and I pound into her like a demon unleashed.
“Oh God, Augu— Oh, fuck.”
“That’s it baby,” I pant. “You wanted it harder. This is fucking harder.”
I fuck her so hard, her hips are bruising against the leather saddle, but she’s still holding her own against my thrusts, pushing backward into me with the little traction her feet can find on the ground.
“I can’t take this,” she whimpers.
“Yes you can,” I growl, pumping my lengthened cock so deep it knocks her forward, again and again. “You’re mine now. You’ll take everything I give you, Erin.”
Her pussy clamps down almost strangling my cock and she comes with a throaty cry, not caring if anyone hears. I hold still,relishing the repetitive squeeze of her muscles as her body sucks me in.
I come with little warning, a lightning hot bolt of possession thundering down my spine, through my balls and out the head of my cock. I grab onto her shoulders, pulling her down onto me so it enters her deep.
She’s fuckingmine.
Erin
A knock ripples down the corridor like a warning shot. I stare at Augusto whose reassuring expression could easily have me fooled that I’d dreamed the whole thing up to now.
“Tell me again,” he says, softly. “Where were you last night at four a.m.?”
My brow dips, just a touch. “I was in bed, asleep.”
“All night?”
“Yes, of course—all night.”
“Where was your husband?”
The word makes me swell. “He was right beside me,” I whisper.
He nods. “That’s all you have to say.”
I release a nervous breath. “You’re sure the security footage was wiped?”
“Yes. I’ve seen it with my own eyes.”
My gaze tracks him as he walks to the window. “How did the cameras not capture you?”
Looking back over his shoulder briefly, he replies, “Because I used a back exit, remember?”
My memory of last night is patchy, dominated largely by the overwhelming sensations of Augusto declaring his true feelings and fucking me like his life depended on it.
The sound of doors opening and closing down the corridor put my nerves on edge. Voices carry on the air, low and controlled. The retreat staff is different now. The people hired to deliver the best in everything have lost their softness. Whatever spa-trained politeness they once had is gone, replaced by cold efficiency.
I’m glancing at my phone and kicking myself for forgetting to charge it when the knock reaches our door.
It sounds, to my ears, like a ticking bomb.
“Open, please.”
Augusto does as instructed and two men step inside without waiting for permission.
They’re not familiar—I would have recognized their braced jawlines and too-slick hair. One stays by the door while the other scans the room. He looks about methodically, his gloved hands lifting cushions, opening drawers, checking behind the headboard like he expects to find a confession taped there.
“Is there a problem?” I ask.
