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This. This. This.

Her pleasure was mine, her last name was mine, even if nothing else was.

I adjusted the angle of her hips and watched as her teeth sank into her lower lip to quell the spill of involuntary noises working up her throat.

“Let me hear you,” I demanded, my voice wrecked with lust. “Show me how much you love being filled with me.”

“So fucking big,” she groaned, chin tipped to the ceiling as she bowed into my punishing thrust. “I love being stretched open like this.”

I wanted to lay her out in her flame-red bed and spend hours stretching her open with my fingers, tongue, and dick. I wanted to slide something in her ass while I ate out her pussy and then trade the plastic toy for my flesh, watch her little asshole, untouched, cling desperately to my shaft as I tunneled inside her heat. I wanted to own every part of her body, turn her mouth a swollen red from a face fucking, fill up her cunt with so much cum it spilled out of her with every breath she took, work open that pink asshole until it gaped like a hungry mouth.

I wanted it all.

But all I had was this.

So I bent over her folded body and snagged her mouth, fucking my tongue against her in tandem with my dick in her wet clutch.

“Want you to feel me for days,” I grunted, slamming into her brutally, the snap of our bare flesh echoing in the glass room.

“I will,” she gasped, grinding up into me, begging for more. “Even when I haven’t had you, I feel this phantom ache to be filled.”

“My little slut,” I taunted, but she loved it, the flush on her cheeks deepening to crimson and spilling down her chest. I dipped my head to taste the heated flesh, and it was sweet like wine. “Come all over my cock. Let me feel how much you love to be fucked.”

Helpless to resist, my wife clutched her arms around my wide torso and dug her nails into my back hard enough to tear skin even through the fabric. I watched, fucking enamored, as she pushed the back of her head into my hand as it protected her from the floor, a mad pulse beating wildly in her neck.

“Cazzo, Dario,” she hissed before coming, every muscle spasming around me but none so exquisitely as her pussy, rippling and milking my shaft until I let go with a fierce growl and filled her with my cum.

For one wild, impossible moment, I imagined she wasn’t taking birth control pills and my seed would find purchase inside her, marking her as mine from the inside out. One last, almost painful shot of cum ripped from me, my shoulders shuddering as I tried to stay aloft over Fiammetta’s supine form. A moment later, her hands gentled on my back, pushing me softly until my elbows gave out and I sank down heavily on top of her.

“I like to feel your weight,” she whispered, cum drunk and loopy.

I let myself bury my face in her hair, the sweet, sugared scent of her filling my lungs and head until I felt infected by it.

By her.

And she was—an infection.

One that had slithered under my skin and penetrated my DNA until I could not, no matter how much distance I put between us, how many times I cast her aside or neglected her, ignore it.

She was meant to be a stranger forever. Some woman who lived under my roof but had no personal bearing on my soul.

But after six years of marriage, six years of torture, I had to admit if only to myself that this delightful, complicated creature meant more to me than was safe.

Because I knew what happened to the women I loved—the Cyrillic tattoo on my back itched and burned as if it was fresh ink—they died.

And I would rather have Fiammetta alive and haunting me like a ghost in my house than dead in a grave like the one who came before her.

I would not be to blame for the death of another innocent woman.

It was, I had discovered over a long life of sin, my one line in the sand.

When Fiammetta stirred beneath me, I rolled off and up to my feet, already tucking my cum-wet, flagging cock inside my trousers again. She lay on the floor without shame, pants and underwear still rucked up between her calves over her boots, the inside of her thighs pink and damp with our spend, her lips raw from my kisses.

She looked satisfied, a cat who had finally eaten the canary.

But slowly, as she watched me from under low lashes, her eyes two wedges of luminous green, I saw as the satisfaction curdled and sourness twisted her mouth.

It was over, she knew, this moment of passion, cooling quickly into the icy wall I’d erected between us.