His fingers curl around my hip with a tight grip. Solid thighs slam against the backs of my own as he powers deeper, and his girth is harder to take than usual because I’m so tight, resisting the stretch. I bite down on my lip, determined to take the pain with the pleasure.
I draw in a surge of cologne-infused air, and my senses are unusually heightened. The sounds filling the room have me ready to come for him—our heavy breathing, him pushing in and out of me as I get wetter by the second.
The sex has always been incredible, but he’s just… so fucking good. He’s not just a big dick on legs. He’s skilled and intuitive, knowing when to give me more, when to slow down, when to speed up.
He picks up his pace as if he’s just heard that thought, and it’s like I said.
Fucking intuitive.
His grip eases off my hip, then he rubs my back, the touch of his palm feeling comfortingly familiar—warm, broad, a little rough. A chill races down my spine as he brings his hand down again, until he’s gently holding my waist, pumping into me again as that tension I’ve craved builds deep inside.
“Harder.”
He does as he’s told, and before I can think another word, I’m falling apart, fighting for air as I clench around him.
A breath hisses between his teeth from behind me. “Holy shit. You feel so fucking good. I feel you gripping me,” he grunts out, thrusting harder, deeper. “So. Fucking. Tight.”
My eyes slam shut, and I’m seeing stars behind my lids as a surge of liquid heat fills me. Another throaty moan leaves West’s throat, and the pleasure rippling between us is unmatched as he empties into me. And even when he’s done, he stays buried deep inside me, locked together, connected in a way we haven’t been in far too long.
The room grows quiet and still, and as he finally pulls out, I’m sure he feels it too.
The awkwardness.
The way I’m questioning everything.
I keep my back to him as I pull my shorts back over my hips and he does the same behind me. When we face one another again, there’s no regret for having given in to what we both so clearly wanted.
There’s just this sense of… our problems still lingering in the room.
I hug myself, only able to hold his gaze for a few seconds before choosing to stare at the floor instead.
“I should um… I should go shower,” I stammer, pointing toward the bathroom, but West is quiet, not giving a response when I pause.
I peer up at him again, and the look I find on his face can only be summed up with one word.
Confused.
His gaze narrows, darkening his green stare. “Can’t you do that when we get home?”
My mouth feels dry at the realization that he thought this changed things between us. All of a sudden, I’m feeling more vulnerable than before, and I cross my arms over my chest.
“West, we… We haven’t resolved anything. Sex won’t fix what’s wrong in our marriage.”
He takes a step back, clearly caught off guard. “And you think staying away from me will?”
“I’m not—”
I stop short of finishing. This is pointless, futile, because he doesn’t get it.
“I just… I need space.”
He breathes deep, stepping back until he’s leaning against the wall. “Space,” he grumbles.
“Yes. To clear my head.”
“This is bullshit,” he scoffs, and the room fills with fresh tension.
“Really? Things getting so bad that I need to step back and evaluate is bullshit to you?”
