Page 94 of Graciously His

“Fuck, that’s good,” he says, his hands framing my face. “Nice and steady, love. Take your time.”

He thrusts into my mouth, shallow but gentle. I take him. I’m fine. I can do this.

“Perfect,” he says again, his fingers threading through my hair. “This is how it’ll feel whenever you regress, Grace. You’ll be scared. You’ll be sad. Then you’ll be mine.”

With the final word, he thrusts hard, cupping the back of my head for leverage. I make a startled noise as my gag reflex engages. He holds me there, not letting me move. It’s hard to breathe, and I open my mouth wider, trying to get air past his cock.

“That’s it, breathe around me.” He slips from my lips, but it isn’t a reprieve. He leans to the side slightly, then comes back with a handful of toilet roll. Shame makes me whimper as he cleans me up. “Blow your nose, now. There’s my gracious girl. Ready for more?”

I’m not. I want to go lie down in our bed and cry myself to sleep. But I shake my head. I open my mouth. Nate guides himself along my tongue, sinking deeper than before. I breathe through my newly-cleared nose, panicking when my gag reflex trips even harder.

He pulls out. “Swallow for me, Grace.”

I do. It hurts.

“That’s it. Now try again.”

I take a shaking breath when he taps my jaw, then I take him in again. I try to control the depth, putting my palms on his thighs. He presses deeper anyway. The toilet seat is hard and uncomfortable as I shift, trying to accommodate the weight of him in my mouth. Tears smart as I force down the urge to vomit.

“That’s so good,” he growls, holding me steady as he thrusts. “Throat nice and relaxed, breathe through the gagging.”

I try to do as he says. It works, though my stomach is turning on itself. I manage to keep breathing. He picks up the pace, slipping fluidly through my mouth, to the back of my throat, then back.

“Oh yes,” he whispers, “look at my beautiful wife, sucking me so sweetly.”

I pant through my nose, my throat clicking with each dip of his cock. I gag again, but he doesn’t stop. My jaw aches and my nose runs as I look up at him, beseeching him through my tears.

“Almost there, Grace.” His hands tighten painfully in my hair. “Stay—fuck—stay just like that.”

His cock hits the very back of my throat—once, then again. I almost throw up. I dig my hands into fists, forcing myself to take him, my knuckles cracking, my vision going black. Come shoots into my throat. I swallow convulsively when Nate retreats, then gag again when he thrusts a final time. He holds me still, my mouth open impossibly wide, my nose pressed against his pubic bone.

When he finally lets me go, I’m gasping too hard to catch my breath. I slide sideways off the toilet, saliva and semen dripping from my lips in long, glistening ropes.

Chapter 38

Nate

Icatch Grace before she can fall off the toilet. She’s in my arms a second later, her skin cool to the touch, her eyes glazed, her face a mess of fluids. The surge of bliss that accompanied my first time taking her mouth evaporates immediately.

“Grace,” I say, carrying her to the bathroom counter.

I settle her in the familiar spot between the two sinks. She sits silently, her eyes unseeing. With dawning horror, I examine her. Her limbs are almost slack, her pupils tight and small. Worst of all, when I cup my hand to check between her legs, she’s dry. For the first time since marrying me, Grace is unaroused by something I’ve done to her.

Fuck.

I’ve pushed her too far. There was no way for her to safe-word when my cock was down her throat, my hands controlling her movements. And I was too goddamn lost in the perfection of the moment to check in with her properly. I should have stopped. I should have told her she could tap out—literally, just smack me on the leg—and I would have stopped. That should have been part of our negotiation, but I didn’t even think of it. I didn’t want to think of it. I was too eager to punish her.

What kind of a husband am I?

Shoving the question away, I retrieve a dry towel. She needs me right now, not my guilt and stupidity. I wrap my girl up and peer into her face. Her lips are parted and swollen, her nose is red. She needs a shower and a warm bed and a better man than me.

Shame pricks at me from within as I pull her close, burying my face in her hair. She still smells like the sun. Like the sea. Like hard work and good health and newborn lambs.

“I’m sorry, Grace,” I whisper, though I shouldn’t. The words are obscene.

She responds with a tiny sound, something like a sigh. “Is it—is it over?”

Fuck—fuck—FUCK.