Chapter 27 #2
I fist a handful of his hair. Squeeze the strands with all my might while I rock my hips, grinding my core over the prominent bulge in his pants. Right under my pussy. Irrefutable evidence that he lied. The first lie he ever told me—denying that he’s thought about our prior kiss.
I know it. Feel it in my heart. My bones.
I bite his lower lip, punishing him for that lie, even though he doesn’t know it.
My teeth sink in hard enough to almost draw his blood.
Instead of anger, instead of pulling away, his dick swells in response against my needy core.
His palm shifts from the back of my neck to the front, and for a single breath, his fingers around my throat tighten.
He bites back, while cutting off my air supply, and then he releases me.
His large hands glide up my thighs, setting every inch of my skin on fire as he pushes the silky material of my dress up my legs.
Heat flows from his palms toward my core while he reaches for my soaked white lace panties.
A low, almost animalistic groan leaves his lips as he slips his thumbs under the fabric, pressing them to my throbbing pussy.
A shudder shimmies through my entire body from that simple touch. I gasp when he starts to tease my sensitive flesh.
My mind blanks as he delivers his slow, sensual strokes around my clit, applying just enough pressure to drive me to the brink but not over it.
His scorching, hungry lips continue to feast on me as he ratchets that need in me higher and higher.
There isn’t a trace of his familiar, frigid indifference.
No ice. Only liquid fire. And I want to burn in his flame.
Just one more caress, and I’ll explode because of his masterful touch. I’m ready, so ready, but the pressure of his fingers on my pussy is suddenly gone.
“No,” I protest, biting his lower lip, pressing myself to him harder. “I need mo—”
He tears the panties off my body with one forceful tug. Breath leaves my lungs in fast bursts as his palms glide over my bare skin. Slowly. Palming my ass. Kneading my cheeks. I’m reduced to a panting mess while his fingers slide along the crack toward my quivering pussy.
“Madness,” he whispers, his voice so deep and husky that it doesn’t even sound like his own. “Pure, sweet madness.”
A loud moan explodes from my throat when he slides his finger inside, filling my core with his wraparound reach.
I grab the lapels of his suit jacket, rocking my hips, riding his finger. Holding on for dear life while fever-like tremors threaten to break me apart.
Adriano’s other hand slides over my breasts, below my navel, and down toward my slit. His firm, languid strokes through my folds send my mind careening into a different reality. One where only his touch exists. And then, without warning, he pinches my clit, sending me straight to heaven.
His mouth claims mine, swallowing my scream of release while he relentlessly plays with my clit and pumps his finger in and out of my trembling pussy. Pushing me further beyond the incredible bliss as I struggle to breathe.
I moan into his mouth, breathless and boneless, trailing my shaky fingers down his front, over the soft panels of his suit jacket, the smooth material of his shirt.
He’s always so impeccably dressed. Bespoke suits.
Top-label shirts. Always so perfect and collected and in control.
My silent guest. My husband. The only man who ever made me come with nothing but his hands.
But it’s not enough. It will never be enough.
I want his layers gone. Physical and metaphorical.
Want the man beneath them. Taking his bottom lip between my teeth, I reach for the buckle of his belt.
His large hand seizes my chin, tilting my head upward. Despite the blindfold over my eyes, I can sense that glacial gaze on my face. Several heartbeats pass between us in absolute silence. His focus on me seems to have physical weight, keeping me locked in place.
I feel the tension emanating from his body.
His chest rising and falling in rapid bursts.
As if he’s gasping. Barely holding on to the last shred of his willpower.
Trying to contain himself. Like a predator, locked onto his kill but forcing himself to stay motionless until the opportune moment.
I don’t feel threatened by him. I want him unleashed.
Leaning forward, I cup that rock-hard bulge inside his pants. “I want you inside me, my silent guest.”
His reaction is instantaneous.
I can almost hear the metaphorical snap.
A low growl-like sound leaves his lips. Strong hands slide under my butt, lifting me. I gasp and suck in a breath just before my bare back hits the soft sofa cushion and his sinewy body covers mine.
“I’m sorry, little flower,” I whisper, too low for her to actually hear, as I unzip my pants. “My self-restraint is no more.”
My fingers are trembling like those of a drug addict while I push the skirt of her dress up to her waist. They’ve never trembled before. Not when I’ve killed. Not while I’ve destroyed.
They shake now, relentlessly, because even with my higher reasoning rendered practically useless, a speck of awareness remains, insisting that this is the point of no return. If I succumb to the temptation of her tonight, everything that I am will be shattered. There will be no going back.
A needy moan leaves my wife’s lips as soon as my dick touches her entrance. And I lose it completely.
Banished. Disintegrated.
Absolutely obliterated.
My discipline. My willpower. My self-control.
Utterly gone.
What took decades to build has been reduced to rubble.
By her.
And I never could have imagined that this defeat would feel so sweet.
Goddamned nirvana.
My throbbing dick is ready to burst with merely the tip inside my wife’s welcoming heat.
I’m too fucking big for her.
Even as a primal urge grips me, I find the strength to go slow.
I can’t hurt her.
I won’t.
A fraction of an inch at a time, I push deeper, gliding my palm over her quivering ribcage. She’s so delicate. So fragile. So much smaller than me.
She’s clinging to me, soft mewls falling from her parted lips. Lips I can’t get enough of. I wish I could see her. All of her. Those warm amber eyes. See her smile up at me as I fill her.
I brace most of my weight on my other arm, trying not to crush her.
Protecting my Little Iris. So fucking tiny.
My opposite, almost in every way. Beautiful, inside and out.
Pure of soul. Caring, even when it comes to me.
To the brute of a man who does dreadful things.
Who feels no remorse, no shame, no sorrow.
Who has manipulated this enchanting creature to suit his selfish plans. To marry me.
A match that was never meant to be.
One I could never let go of.
I slide in deeper, watching her hauntingly exquisite face. Her sultry, pink lips. The elegant column of her throat.
“More,” she pleads, opening her legs wider.
Drawing me in with her intoxicating whimpers, her wandering hands trying to find purchase.
God, I wish our fucking clothes were gone.
Wish I could feel her silky smooth and naked beneath me.
But my caveman need has overridden all logical thought. Demands I make her mine this instant.
My palm glides higher, over her silk-covered breasts, to her delicate neck. I feel her rapid pulse, hear her shallow breaths. Revel in all of it. In her desire. Her ardent need. Her sweet, floral scent. The incredible sounds falling from her lips.
Hanging on to the remnants of my restraint by a thread, I slide my fingers into the tangled locks of her shimmering hair.
After all this time with her, I still can’t decide what to call this color.
Sandy blonde. Warm honey. Caramel. The natural gold highlights in her tresses are driving me wild.
I finally thrust inside her to the hilt, and her walls clench around my cock as her warmth surrounds me.
Iris arches her back, and a scream, filled with pleasure, rips from her lips. “Oh God,” she cries, over and over.
Being inside my wife is unlike anything I have ever experienced. Her wet heat is a drug. And I’m already an addict. The euphoria courses through my veins, and I never want it purged. She is the most potent narcotic that ever existed. My Little Iris.
“Harder,” she pants. “Please.”
I drop my forehead to hers as I withdraw, only to gently push back in. The effort to maintain a slow rhythm is Herculean. But I can’t risk hurting her. Not even as she insists on more. Wants more…
Of him.
Not Adriano Ruffo, her husband. Iris would never let me touch her if she knew it was me moving in and out of her body.
She believes she’s making love with another man. Even now, while she trembles in my arms. While her pussy throbs around my dick. While she renders me completely defenseless.
I’m done for. Each thrust is bringing me closer to the edge, but I hold the rushing orgasm at bay.
I don’t want this to end. I haven’t yet memorized her every breathy moan.
The exact tilt of her head as she reaches for me.
The force of her fingers as she tugs on my hair.
I want it all locked in my memories forever.
So I keep fucking her as I’ve imagined countless times. Savoring her every pant, every tremor. The squeeze and heat of her perfect wet pussy. Almost roaring as I feel her come. Feel spasm after spasm of her pleasure. Watch her fall apart from my touch.
“Yes, God! Yes!” she screams, her back bowing off the sofa. Her nails digging into my scalp.
That look of pure delight, of pure satisfaction on her face…is the final nail in the coffin. Whatever control I clung to is gone. My balls tighten, and I spill inside her, filling her up with my cum as both bliss and rage hit me simultaneously. Elation and agony. Delight and despair.
Because she is finally mine.
But she believes I’m someone else.