Eager Housewife: a smutty free-use romance (Filthy Scottish Kingpins Book 2)

5. Duncan

“Take it,” I order her as she’s too tight to push through.

A wounded noise escapes her.

I drive harder, not saying what we both know: this is what she signed up for. Free use. Any time.

She said she wanted to get pregnant, and she knew the conditions. I wanted her at the first opportunity, and that’s on this cold black onyx floor.

I force my way in, watching her face for any sign of reluctance as surprise fills her eyes. Shock at how big I am and how uncompromising.

“So tight,” I grunt as I press in, inch by inch. She’s biting her lip until it’s white, holding in the squeak of pain. But she doesn’t say nae. She doesn’t try to stop me.

“Breathe,” I tell her, my gaze never leaving her face. Then I shove deeper, right to the hilt. She gasps and we’re totally joined, as close as two people can be.

Apart from the fact we’re both fully clothed.

I pause, some residual part of me not completely overcome. Blythe sucks in air and stares up at me as though transfixed. We remain like that until she gives a jolting nod. Only a quarter of an inch of movement.

It’s permission, and I fucking take it.

I draw back and plunge into her, harder and faster than I should. Our bodies slam together, shoving her onto the unyielding marble. I’m harder than stone inside her, throbbing and angry. I do it again, and again, the pleasure sharp and heady. She’s tight and wet and velvet. Soft, so soft, and yet gripping me like no woman ever has. She’s a cocktail of drugs that make me crazier with every addictive stroke of my body into hers. I take her quicker, tense desire screwing into my spine each time I thrust.

I’m feral.

Now she’s my wife, and she promised free use. I have precisely what I want. And what I want is everything.

My breath is harsh in the echoey foyer. There’s the brutal slap of my skin on hers as I pound her into the stone floor.

I reach for her clit, cramming my hand into the non-existent space between us. Part of me longs to apologise. An even larger part wishes I could shout that I love her, and I’m sorry, and that I’m so obsessed I can’t help myself. But sex is the only communication of my adoration I permit.

As I ram uncompromisingly into her soft wetness, I find that little nub and I stroke. The effect is instant. She tightens yet more, as though attempting to strangle my orgasm out before I can give her what she needs.

Then she breaks, pulsing around my shaft, and crying out her pleasure as she tugs at the sides of my suit jacket. I’m still watching her fathomless blue eyes as my climax barrels out, seeming to originate at the sensitive tip of my cock, my balls, my pelvis, and my heart, simultaneously.

I pump my seed into her in pulses of orgasm so intense they shake the broken shards of my soul right out of my body and into hers. I might have extracted a vow of free use from Blythe, but as my vision blurs and all I can see is the blue of her eyes, I know it’s me who is her slave. I belong to my wife entirely.

On the fourth or fifth or billionth wracking spurt, I bury my face in the crook of her neck, breathing in the bergamot scent of her shampoo, to muffle my groans and prevent myself from revealing how much more than convenient this marriage is to me.

And when that’s not enough, and the pleasure threatens to stop my heartbeat, I bite. I sink my teeth into her neck, and she cries out again. I suck at her tender flesh as though I could steal back the essence of myself I’m giving her.

But I can’t. She has it all.

I’m still shaking when the thought that it’s over occurs to me. I’ve had my wife for the first time. She’s warm and still beneath me.

I gather up my wits, and draw back. There are so many things I want to say. Words of love and gratitude and apology. I love you. I needed that so much, thank you. I’ll make it better for you next time, but I have to have you again, and soon. You have my heart and my soul, and I’ll love you until the sun caves in on itself and becomes a black hole.

Instead, I pull out and quickly tuck my still achingly-hard cock away.

She lets out a little startled sound and wriggles beneath me. “It feels…”

I clamp my hand between her spread legs, my copious ejaculate seeping out. Presumably that wetness is what she’s surprised by. She’ll have never had sex without a condom.

“Get used to being a creampie.” It’s a joke, and not a joke.

She huffs with gentle laughter, and I wonder if that’s just because of her promise to laugh at my jokes.

I kiss her neck softly as I push my sperm back into her puffy little soaking entrance, fingering her as I do. Cupping her with one hand, with the other I lace our fingers and bring them, joined, to her slit.

“Hold it in.” I look right into her eyes.

“Knickers would really help with this,” she mutters. “It’s all sliding out.”

“No knickers.” I’m firm about that one. I want her bare between the thighs any time I need her. “I said hold it in, wife.”

“I’m trying!” She chokes with laughter, and I grin in response.

“My come will drip down your thighs constantly,” I tell her. “I won’t stop until you’re bred.”

“You really want to get me pregnant?”

“Nope. I want to breed you, my wee bonnie housewife.” She’s so gorgeous, I want miniature versions of her to give to the world. My gift to humanity. I cannae wait for wee bairns who look just like her. Who are as kind and sweet and funny.

“Oh.” She blinks up at me, eyes big.

“Regrets?” I cast my gaze down, unwilling to see the answer in her expression.

And that’s when I notice the blood.

It’s only a small smear of pink in the white of our combined cream over my fingers.

“Blythe,” I rasp.

The evidence is damning, pouring mercury into my stomach, a heavy poisonous metal.

“You were a virgin.” And I am the worst husband ever.

“Yes?” There’s uncertainty in her tone.

Duelling emotions rage in my chest. Fury that she didn’t tell me, that she kept this from me. Anger at myself that I didn’t guess, and I wasn’t gentler with her. I didn’t make her first time as sweet as it should have been, and I can never change that. I would have been as patient as she deserves, and instead I was a crazed animal let off the leash.

I took my untouched wife on the floor, without being careful or slow or considerate. I’m choked with regret. I should have known. She was so tight, I should have realised. I could break my own bones for revenge at how I’ve hurt her. My little wifey, who I only want to protect and love and worship in this fucked-up way we agreed to.

My hands ball into fists and her eyes go wary as she notices.

Forcing my fingers open, I nod, as I allow myself to acknowledge the other feeling: a spark of happiness. I am such an arsehole that I’m pleased this beautiful little creature belongs entirely to me. I plucked the loveliest flower.

She’s mine.

Not just my wife, but I’m the only man to ever plunder her perfect body. I was the first, and if I have anything to do with it, I’ll be the last and only. I own her pussy.

Free use.

She promised it in her vows, and I’ll make it good for her from now on, and try to rectify my blunder. I’ll have her screaming with pleasure over and over as I grind myself into her pussy and spray my come right up against her womb.

“You’re not angry, are you?” Her happy post-orgasm smile has faded to uncertainty.

“Nae. But that wasn’t the first time you deserved. You should have told me.”

She nods slowly, and catches her lip between her teeth in a sly little smile. “It wasn’t so bad.”

The smugness of the way she says it both relieves me and causes a wave of recollection. The floor. I was so desperate I took her virginity on marble. And I didn’t ask about her experience because I didn’t want to hear about her having been with other men.

“Blythe,” I say severely.

“It’s true,” she insists, the sparkle back in her eyes.

“No more secrets between us, ye ken?” It’s bad enough that we’re going to lie to Ainsley for a year. We can’t be deceiving each other.

“Yeah. Understood.” She smirks and mimics my accent, “I ken.”

I nod, adding an asterisk in my mind for that one little point I’ll never let on: that I love her. That this is the furthest thing from just a deal for me.

I scoop her from the floor with an arm beneath her knees and the other holding her shoulders to my chest. She snuggles into me, even as she obediently holds her pussy to keep all that seed inside.

The conflict in my heart continues to rage as I take her upstairs to my—nae, our—ensuite bathroom. I sit her on the edge of the roll top bathtub and test the temperature of the water as it begins to flow.

Blythe watches me, one hand clamped between her legs, her dress cascading both sides.

As the tub fills, I wordlessly gesture for her to stand and turn. The silence isn’t exactly comfortable, but it isn’t uncomfortable either.

I release her from the dress, I’m breathless as her back is revealed, smooth and soft. She’s so fucking perfect.

As though we’ve slipped right into being a married couple, she moves to enable me without my asking. I slip the heavy fabric from her, and seamlessly she swaps hands to keep my sperm in. Such a good girl.

I take my time in examining my new bride. Kneeling to remove her shoes, I take in her slim ankles, the way her thighs are soft, and the peachy curve of her arse.

Her stockings get rolled down and I stand behind her, admiring her in disbelief. I don’t allow myself to think of the consequences for either of our relationship with my daughter. This is my wedding day, and as sordid as my arrangement with Blythe is, I’m going to enjoy it.

And when the tub is full, I lower her into the water, and turn to go. A little tug on my sleeve stops me.

“Aren’t you getting in too?”

I look over my shoulder at Blythe, and yet again, I’m drowning in her blue eyes.

How can I resist her?