Page 43 of The Marriage Blunder

He stopped at my left nipple and latched on, sucking hard enough to send a jolt straight through my stomach. I gasped. He switched to the other, and this time he grazed it with his teeth before soothing it with his tongue, then sucked until I arched off the bed.

“Sensitive?” he asked, mouth on my skin.

“Shut up,” I said, which made him do it again, slower, just to hear what else I’d say.

His hands moved lower, running down my sides, kneading at my hips. I was aware, in the abstract, of being soft—not gym-soft, but not the kind of body that looked good in anything but clothing.

Kenneth didn’t seem to care. He just explored, mapping every inch of me with his palms and his mouth, like he was memorizing the territory for later.

He dropped lower, tongue tracing the line from my navel to my cock. He paused to look at it, and then at me, a smile at the edge of his mouth that was somewhere between approval and hunger.

He wrapped a hand around the shaft, thumb stroking the underside, then took the head into his mouth and sucked, slow and deep, until I had to clutch the sheets to keep from losing it right then.

He looked up at me, eyes locked on mine, and took me in further. I felt it in my spine. I felt it everywhere. The way he moved was careful, controlled, but when I bucked my hips he just pressed his other hand to my thigh, holding me down with a weight that was impossible to argue with.

I made noises. I couldn’t stop them. Every time I tried to regain a scrap of composure, he did something to take it away. He played me like an instrument, adjusting the tempo, changing the pressure, never letting me get comfortable enough to anticipate the next move.

He worked me to the edge, then pulled off, hand still wrapped around the base, thumb smearing precum over the tip.

“Fuck,” I said, voice high and strained.

He said, “Not yet,” and then reached for the nightstand.

He pulled out a small bottle of lube and slicked his fingers. He lined up between my legs, then bent and kissed the inside of my knee, then my thigh, then the crease where my thigh met my hip.

He ran one finger down the length of my crack, tracing the line, then circled my hole, gentle, teasing, not pushing in yet.

He said, “Relax.”

I tried.

He pressed in, slow, patient.

I gasped. It hurt, but only a little, and only at first.

He worked his finger in and out, gentle, coaxing, until the discomfort was replaced by something else. He added a second finger, stretching me, making sure I could take it. He waited until I was panting, then withdrew.

He got a condom, tore it open with his teeth.

He looked at me. “Ready?”

I was beyond ready.

He lubed up, lined himself up, and pressed in, the head of his cock splitting me open. He didn’t rush. He gave me time, let me feel every millimeter.

When he was all the way in, he paused, letting me adjust. He said, “You’re perfect.”

I almost cried.

He started moving, slow at first, then faster, harder. Every thrust hit something inside me I had never known was there.

I reached for him, grabbed his shoulders, needed the anchor. He fucked me, and I let him, and I wanted it, more than anything.

He picked up the pace, pushing me closer and closer, his hand on my cock, jerking me in time with his thrusts. He said, “Come for me.”

I did. Harder than I ever had, the world whiting out for a second, then two, then longer.

He kept going, kept fucking me, until I felt him shudder, then freeze, then let out a long, broken moan. He collapsed onto me, our sweat mixing, our bodies shaking together.