Page 24 of Sins of Arrogance

I sink to my knees and press my mouth to the heat of her through the thin cot­ton. She arches, whin­ing low in her throat. The scent of her hits me like a punch to the gut – sweet, musky, mine.

I want to tear these panties off with my teeth. I want to push her down and hold her there while I fuck her so hard she for­gets her own name. But I can’t.

I won’t.

Be­cause if she ever sees what’s in­side me, the part that wants to pin her, to mark her, I don’t know if she’ll ever look at me the same way again.

Un­able to hold back ev­ery­thing, I press a hot kiss just above the wet cot­ton, suck­ing at her pussy lips through it. I don’t drink to ex­cess. I don’t do drugs, but I get drunk on her taste.

She moans, writhing on the bed, press­ing her fem­i­nine flesh to­ward my mouth.

I in­dulge us both un­til the frus­tra­tion of even the slight bar­rier her panties make is too much. I want her bare for me. Drip­ping. Open. But I can’t let my­self for­get she’s not just a body, not just a wet, greedy cunt I want to live in­side.

She’s Kara. My wife.

I force my­self to draw my knife in­stead of rip­ping her panties from her body. That would hurt her. Yanked hard enough to tear, even cot­ton will leave an­gry marks like a rug burn.

I did it once be­fore. Right af­ter she got preg­nant, when we fi­nally got to have pen­e­tra­tive sex for the first time. The marks lasted for three days and she winced when they brushed against some­thing…or some­one. Me.

I’ll never do it again.

Press­ing the tip of the lethally sharp blade of my knife be­tween the fab­ric and her hip, I slice up­ward not even brush­ing the silky-smooth skin un­der­neath.

An­other quick slice on the other side and I can pull the panties from her body. I draw them up­ward, rub­bing over the swollen lit­tle clit that is now peek­ing out of its hood and beg­ging for at­ten­tion.

She bucks her hips, hun­gry for more, but I bring her panties to my nose, main­lin­ing her pheromones for sev­eral deep breaths.

“Michael!” She draws my name out in de­mand.

Hell, I love when she calls me by my given name. She’s the only per­son who does and she only does it in the bed­room.

I tuck her panties into my pocket and Kara surges up from the bed, cup­ping my face be­tween her hands, and kiss­ing me like it’s the only way she can breathe.

Her tongue tan­gles with mine, needy and messy and real. She moans into my mouth and shifts so she can rub her soaked pussy against my chest, drag­ging her slick over my skin.

I’m go­ing to lose my mind.

If my cock was out, it would al­ready be in­side her slip­pery, tight folds.

She breaks the kiss, pant­ing. “I need you in­side me, Michael. I want it hard. I want to feel you af­ter.”

Tee­ter­ing on the edge of con­trol, I close my eyes for a beat, swal­low­ing the feral snarl that threat­ens to rip from my throat. “Ye don’t know what you’re ask­ing.”

“Yes, I do,” she gasps with cer­tainty. “I trust you.”

God help me. A woman like her shouldn’t trust a man like me. And her trust shouldn’t make my cock throb like it’s about to tear through my pants.

But it does.

“You’ll have to wait. I want to taste your sweet honey straight from the source first.” I spread her thighs wide and bury my face in her pussy.

Her cry is in­stant, sharp and breath­less. “Michael!”

Both tangy and sweet, she tastes like fuck­ing sal­va­tion.

I flat­ten my tongue and drag it from her slick en­trance all the way to her clit. Her thighs quiver against my shoul­ders, and her hands fly to my hair. She grips tight like she needs some­thing to an­chor her.

She al­ways re­sponds like this. Al­ways melts the sec­ond I touch her. It’s a damn drug, the way her body yields, the way she writhes when I suck her clit into my mouth and lap at it like it’s the only thing keep­ing me alive.