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“Romantic,” she quipped but gripped me tight when I took her in my mouth and sucked hard.
Breast milk trickled onto my tongue, sweet like cantaloupe juice.
“God,” she gasped, squirming at my ministrations and then gasping as I pressed my thick erection to her bare pussy. “I love it when you do that.”
I did, too, but I was too busy feasting to reply.
It was satisfaction enough to feel how she started to leak against my grinding dick, opening her legs even wider so I slid right through her hot, silken folds.
“Please, fuck me,” she begged shamelessly. “I want your cum inside me.”
“Such a sweet cum slut,” I praised as I moved farther down her body to close my mouth over her wet cunt, needing the taste of her on my tongue. As usual, I wanted everything she had to give. Her sweat, her spit, her breast milk, her cum. Even, sometimes, when we were in a certain mood, her blood or mine, brought forth from a bite to the shoulder or a nick with my keris blade.
No part of her was forbidden to me anymore.
Every inch was mine.
Her nails were sharp against my scalp as she keened out an animalistic cry when I sucked hard on her clit, thrashing it with my tongue to bring her to a quick, sharp orgasm.
Before she could recover, I was surging up over her quaking body and thrusting to the hilt in her greedy pussy.
“Yes,” she hissed, back arched, throbbing around me as she sucked me deep. “Fuck me hard, Luca. I need you.”
She always said that.
I need you.
Not it.
Never something generic, always geared to me and me alone.
“Luca, Luca, Luca,” she groaned as I took her, burying my head in the curve of her neck, where she smelled the sweetest, licking up a trail of sweat over her rapid pulse.
Always my name.
Always me she wanted and no one else.
There was no religion or organized belief system where I deserved to go to heaven after I died. I’d taken too many lives, performed too many atrocities.
But I didn’t give a single fuck.
Because this was my heaven.
Sunk deep in my wife’s cunt, love shining from her gorgeous face, all of her limbs clutched around me as if she would never willingly let me go.
“I love you,” I said straight into her panting mouth before sealing it and the words behind my lips, pressing them down her throat with my tongue.
“No one but you,” she broke away from my mouth to promise. “Forsaking all others for as long as we both shall live.”
We’d gotten married, illegally but meaningfully, in the backyard a week after Dario passed away, and that vow was the one Fiammetta had most emphasized. It was the one inscribed on the new wedding rings we wore to symbolize this new chapter of our union.
Forsaking all others.
It was an oath more solemn than the omertà.
That no one would ever come before our love or between us.
Not ever again.
