Page 79 of Guilty as Sin

Brady positions himself behind me as I put my hands on the wall. With my skirt lifted, he rubs the head of his cock along my wet folds, and I moan when he hits my swollen clit. He keeps rubbing himself there, his thick cock sliding against my sensitive spot. Just feeling how hard he is for me makes me even wetter, and my orgasm takes me by surprise. I shudder, my pussy clenching around nothing.

We both know it wasn’t enough.

I’m about to beg for his cock when I feel his broad tip nudge against my entrance. Then he’s sliding inside of me, stretching me so wide I feel like I might burst. He sinks himself in up to the hilt as I bite my lip against screaming. Beneath my skirt, he slides one hand up to my belly, pressing lightly to feel how deep he is.

He groans in satisfaction as he starts to move inside me.

I’m breathless, trying to cling to the flat wall for support. Brady angles my hips back so I’m leaning forward slightly, and I’m able to brace myself against the wall as he thrusts. He goes slowly at first, with both of us savoring every delicious inch.

I feel him nudge my ankles together with his feet, and then I’m standing with my thighs pressed together, with Brady’s cock hitting my G-spot at the perfect angle. I gasp as I beg for him to give it to me harder, and he grips my hips tighter, slamming faster in response. The feel of his thick cock against my inner spot is so good it’s almost unbearable.

Then he slips one hand down between my legs, and I’m done for.

With my thighs pressed together, he has to shove his fingers roughly against my clit, and it’s exactly what I need. I feel my entire body tense up, the pleasure building like pressure inside me. I cry out that I’m about to come, and he rubs harder, shoves deeper until the pleasure bursts.

There are stars behind my eyes as all of my muscles convulse, and Brady starts slamming into me so hard that I know he’s coming too. I spasm around him until I go limp, my entire body spent.

When Brady slides out of me, he has to support me by my waist, my legs too weak to stand. He scoops me up and carries me to the bed, laying me down like I’m precious. Somehow my ballet flats are still on, and he slides them gently off, tossing them and my panties to the floor. He arranges my skirt so it’s not uncomfortably bunched around my waist, then he climbs into the other side of the bed.

As he settles onto his back, he lifts me toward him so I’m curled into his side. I lay my head on his chest, and he strokes my hair absentmindedly as we lie there in peace.

“I love you, Brady,” I say, looking up at him. This was how I’d meant to say it.

His lips curl slightly, his smile almost entirely in his eyes. When he says nothing back to me, I get a little bolder.

“I don’t love you, Brady.”

“Lie.”

It’s the happiest that accusation has ever made me.

Chapter 37

Brady

I drive my wife home as the sun rises. I could tell she wanted to ask if I was okay to drive, but we both know that I proved how strong I am. And then some. She handed me the keys without protest. The keys that she stole.

I bought this car two months before it was available to the public. A BMW M4 Competition Coupé, 523 horsepower, zero to sixty in 3.4 seconds, black sapphire metallic. A thing of fucking beauty. My wife has yet to apologize for stealing it. But frankly, the fact that she was able to jump behind the wheel and drive this beast is pretty damn hot.

“Since when do you know how to drive stick?” I ask, downshifting instead of braking for the light.

“Since I wanted to be able to steal Connor’s car.” She grins at me from the passenger seat, and I shake my head in amazement. I keep learning yet more pieces of the puzzle box that is my wife. And I’m impressed by every new piece I learn.

“What kind of car?” I ask.

“Vintage Mustang. A fastback, but she was slow. Cormac was into classic cars, so naturally he assumed his son would be too. Bought the pony for Connor when he was eleven.” She gives a little noise of disgust. I don’t comment on the fact that she calls her father by his first name.

“And you?” I ask. “Are you into classic cars?” I secretly hope not. My Cora deserves a fast beauty.

“Not at all,” she says, and I grin inside.

“What did you drive, then?” If it’s still in production, I’ll buy her the latest model. But she just barks out a laugh.

“Nothing. I happened to choose the week before my sixteenth birthday to start protesting the Church. Spitting out the Eucharist got me out of Mass, but it got my car privileges revoked too.”

“Seriously?” I laugh so hard my throat gets sore again. “You spat out the Eucharist? You really are a sinner.”

“An unrepentant one.”