26. Rico
Rico
I’ve never wanted a woman more, and that’s the fucking problem.
Not her—me. I can’t control the way my body betrays me every time she breathes in my direction. Her scent, her presence, her mere existence scrapes against my self-control like sandpaper on raw skin.
Cutting my food into perfect, symmetrical pieces is the only thing keeping me from either clenching my fists or tearing her clothes off. Apparently, precision didn’t work. Because now, I’m doing exactly what I swore I wouldn’t—stripping my wife like she stole something.
Which, to be fair, she did—my sanity.
The only silver lining? I'm suddenly grateful she bought this overpriced table. When I push her against it, it doesn’t so much as creak. Sturdy. Well-made. Worth every damn penny, considering I’m about to christen the thing.
I pin her between the wood and my body, my hands already working her jeans down her legs.
Yeah, I told her to keep them covered—I just didn’t realize "covered" meant denim painted on like a second skin, showing every curve that’s been haunting my thoughts. My punishment, I suppose, for assuming I’m immune.
The second the jeans slide past her hips, I bite back a groan. Black lace. My fingers hook the delicate string, snapping it against her skin. She yelps, and I almost smile. Almost.
"Did you wear this for me?" The question tastes bitter—part accusation, part possession. Because if she didn’t, who the fuck was it for? I’ll table the fact I even care for later.
"No." A whisper, soft as sin. It pisses me off more than it should.
I rip the thong off without thinking, some primal, irrational instinct driving the action. If it’s not for me, it doesn’t deserve to exist. I’m pretty sure they call that jealousy—an emotion I don’t entertain. Or didn’t until now.
Tugging her jeans off each leg, I rise slowly, hands trailing up smooth thighs, over round hips, until they find her ass—full, perfect, and mine. I knead the flesh, watching her brace herself against the table, spine arching like an offering.
"No?" The word coated in incredulity and something darker.
I spin her to face me, hands still roaming, cataloging every inch like I’m committing her to memory—because I am.
Why the fuck is her skin so soft? Like silk warmed by sunlight.
I’ve barely touched women before—impersonal encounters with the women I paid require as little as possible—but this? This feels dangerous. Addictive.
When my hands slip under her bra, cupping her breasts, my cock throbs against my zipper, reminding me it’s here and deserves the attention.
Honestly, I’m inclined to agree—but I’m not rushing this.
Not when I don’t know if I’ll ever let myself have her like this again.
Except… I know. And the awareness makes my teeth clench.
Bending down, I bite her nipple through the thin fabric of her shirt. She moans, back arching further, pressing into me like she's gift-wrapping herself and slapping on a bow. My heart slams against my ribs.
This is bad.
Touching her, feeling every curve—it’s all one massive red flag. I’m supposed to fuck my wife when she’s ovulating, clinical and detached, like a transaction. If I need release, it should be a quick, efficient quickie—not a slow-burn seduction where I memorize every inch of her body.
But I can't stop. Worse… I don’t want to.
I’m not about to admit her tits are the first—and only—pair I've ever had in my hands. And fuck me if I don’t want more.
Self-control? Never met the guy.
I yank her shirt over her head, flicking the bra clasp like I’ve done it a thousand times instead of Googling how once—for research. The bra hits the floor, and I step back, eyes dragging over her bare skin.
Mine.
She’ll hate me later. Scratch that—she’ll definitely hate me later. Maybe tomorrow, maybe next week. It’s inevitable. But right now, she’s mine. And like the thief she is, she’s stolen my composure, my logic, and every ounce of my better judgment.
Without thinking—because thinking would mean stopping—I haul her into me. One hand fists in her hair, the other grips her ass, pulling her flush against my still fully clothed body. The contrast—her naked, me armored in fabric—feels wrong. Like I’m protecting her from myself. Like it’ll matter.
I don’t kiss. But I kiss her.
If you can call it that. It’s not tender.
I nip at her lips, swallowing every moan, every gasp, grinding into her like friction might exorcise the demons she’s waking up in me.
Zipper burn? Worth it. I fuck her mouth with my tongue, and she kisses me back with equal parts anger and lust—the perfect cocktail.
At least now I know she’ll still let me fuck her, even if she’s pissed.
Again… why am I planning for a next time?
Her nails dig into my shoulders, sharp little reminders that she’s not fragile. Good. I hope she leaves marks. At least they'd be scars I wouldn’t mind explaining.
But when her hands reach for the hem of my shirt, I break the kiss, grabbing her wrists with a slow shake of my head. "Shirt stays on."
"What? Why?"
Yeah, why, Rico? Why the hell do I keep the armor when I’m already losing the war?
I don’t answer that question.
“I have rules you need to know.”
“Oh? Why weren’t those mentioned when we signed our contract? You remember that little paper?”
Her sass is not helping what-so-ever, because for some odd as hell reason, I find it arousing and she’s more than aware of the bulge pressing into her as evidence of that.
“First, I don’t take my shirt off.” Her mouth opens but I press my index finger over her lips, and when her tongue peeks out to lick my finger, sucking it into her mouth, hot and wet it gives me an all too real image of what it would look like if that sinful mouth wrapped around my cock.
I’m going to pass out, but I have to tell her.
The rules are necessary. I didn’t put them all in the contract, but that was poor planning. My brothers, Jaxon, no one knows my rules or how I have sex, and the idea of it on paper didn’t seem right.
“Second, it’s from behind.”
She stops sucking, releasing my finger with a wet pop.
I’ve died.
Or close enough at the mere sound of her wet warm mouth releasing my finger. If I don’t finish this, my cock might very well fall off at the misery it’s sporting. Fuck, that was hot. Nope, focus.
“Why behind? You mean only from behind?” Her cheeks flush. Something tells me she’s never even had sex from behind. Good. Hopefully she likes it since that’s the only way I do this.
I nod.
“So, you stay fully clothed, minimal touching, from behind…Am I a dog in heat? You just romp on top of me when it works for you and then see you next time?” She smirks, and my ego deflates a bit. “You had said no kissing when we drafted the contract. Where’s that rule now?”
I ignore that. Momentary lapse in judgment.
“Do you understand?”
“Yes, but I want to know why.”
Instead of answering, I decide I’ll just show her, make it good enough that she never argues with me about it — because it’s non-negotiable. I spin her around, bending her over the table. Her ass curves up, perfect and ready, and I groan out loud. No control. None.
"I’m having my dessert now."
Jesus Christ, did I just say that? Out loud? Apparently, my internal monologue has gone rogue. But it’s true—she looks like dessert, and I’m about to savor every bite.
I trail kisses down her spine, releasing her wrists so my fingers can follow the path my mouth blazes. When I reach the curve of her ass, I bite—gentle, but firm enough to make her choke. Worth it.
Then I find her center, teasing her entrance with one finger, then two, until desire twists into something primal. I don’t just want to touch her. I want to ruin her for anyone else.
So I do the only logical thing: I drop to my knees and taste her like she’s the antidote to my poisoned soul.
I flatten my tongue, licking, sucking her clit into my mouth like it’s a damn lollipop. When she moans my name, breathless and broken, I practically turn feral.
Escorts fake enjoyment. This woman doesn’t. She’s gripping the table like it’s the only thing keeping her tethered to earth and moaning in pure pleasure. And hell, if that realization doesn’t make my cock ache so hard, I wonder if spontaneous combustion is an actual medical concern.
My tongue and fingers work in tandem, teasing, circling, stretching—and when her body clamps around my fingers, silky and tight, I growl. My cock’s officially jealous. Ridiculous.
"So tight," I mutter, words slipping out without permission. Since when am I chatty during sex? I’ll unpack that later… probably never.
She rides my fingers, ass pressing back, chasing her own pleasure until she bursts, muscles rippling, thighs trembling. The sensation alone almost makes me blow in my pants.
I don’t do foreplay. It’s inefficient, unnecessary. And yet here I am suddenly an expert in female anatomy, muscle memory I didn’t know I had kicked in.
I stand quickly, freeing my cock and lining myself up.
She’s limp against the table, skin flushed, breath shallow, and I press into her wet heat without hesitation.
Three women. That’s my number. Always with a condom.
Always transactional. When you pay for it, you triple-wrap—common sense, really.
But this? This is bare, raw, and bordering on reckless.
Only you can’t wrap it up if you want to knock it up.
Her walls clench around me, hot and smooth, and I growl—gripping her hips like they’re the only thing anchoring me to sanity. She’s tight. Sinfully soft. And I’d be perfectly content staying here, buried to the hilt, until the world ends. Impractical, sure. But a man can dream.
I’m not even halfway inside her, and my spine already tingles, balls pulling tight. Fuck. I grit my teeth and start reciting lines of algorithms, sequences, anything to avoid detonating inside her before she has another orgasm.