Page 160 of Pucking Daddy

The scruff on his jaw scratches against my inner thighs, and the slight pain mixes with the pleasure until I can't tell where one ends and the other begins.

I'm close—so close—my thighs trembling on either side of his head.

“You’re doing so good, baby,” he murmurs, his hot breath vibrating against me. “So wet. So perfect.”

I shatter.

The orgasm rips through me in pulsing waves, and I'm saying his name, over and over, like it's the only word I know.

He works me through it, gentling his touch as I come down, pressing soft kisses to my hips, my stomach, the curve of my breast still trapped in my bra.

When I open my eyes, he's watching me.

His lips are swollen and glistening, his eyes nearly black with desire. He reaches behind me to unclasp my bra, tossing it aside, and then he just... looks.

"You're beautiful." The words are rough, reverent. "Every fucking inch of you."

I reach for his belt, needing him bare, needing to feel all of him against all of me. He helps me, shoving his pants and boxers down in one fluid motion.

His cock springs free, thick and hard. I wrap my hand around him, stroking once, twice, and his head falls back with a low, guttural groan.

“Zara.” My name is a warning and a plea. “I need—”

“I know.” I reach for the nightstand, my fingers trembling as I find a foil packet. He watches me, his breath hitching as I tear it open. I place the latex against his head and roll it down, my knuckles brushing against his heat. He’s pulsing beneath my touch, straining with a restraint that looks like physical pain.

“Me too,” I whisper, discarding the wrapper and guiding him to my entrance.

He pushes in slowly, inch by inch.

The stretch is exquisite—fullness and friction and the overwhelming rightness of having him inside me.

When he's fully seated, he stills, his forehead pressed to mine, our breath mingling in the small space between us.

“Can you take this?”

“You know I can.”

“Such a good girl,” he praises, and God, if that isn’t the hottest thing I’ve ever heard.

I open my eyes. His gaze holds mine as he pulls back, then slides home again.

The pace he sets is slow, deliberate—each thrust deep and measured, like he wants me to feel every inch of him, every moment of this connection.

"From now on," he rasps, his voice breaking. "It’s the two of us. You’re my fucking wife."

I wrap my arms around his shoulders, dragging him down. "I know. I am."

His rhythm increases slightly, his hips snapping against mine with more urgency.

I meet him thrust for thrust, my body rising to his, and the room fills with the sounds of the creak of the mattress beneath us.

"Harder," I whisper against his ear. "I won't break."

A sound tears from his chest—something between a growl and a moan—and he obeys.

His hands grip my hips hard enough to bruise as he pounds into me, the headboard knocking against the wall in a steady rhythm.

I'm building again, the pressure coiling tighter and tighter in my core.