26. Rico #2
Distance. I need distance. My gaze flickers around the room, searching for something—anything—to ground me. Instead, my eyes catch on her hair, dark as ink, spilling around her like spilled oil on polished wood.
Black like the sky before a thunderstorm. Black like the ink on our marriage license, binding me to this woman for life—and God help me, I don’t hate it.
“Jesus, Rico, fuck me already.”
Her voice—husky, breathless—yanks me back. She glances over her shoulder, a mischievous smile tugging at lips already swollen from my kisses. My kisses. "You said you were going to fuck me. So do it."
At this rate, cardiac arrest seems likely.
My heart skips—traitorous bastard—and worst of all, it moves. I’m utterly fucked, and somehow I’m the one supposed to be doing the fucking. Right? It’s all fuzzy now.
I grip her hips, hard enough to bruise, and thrust to the hilt. Her eyes flutter shut, and she pushes back into me like she’s trying to crawl inside my skin. I freeze.
Think about code. Think about dogs in ridiculous sweaters. Think about how kale is a government conspiracy or a Kardashian-fueled trend. Either way, it should be illegal.
She moans, rolling her hips for more friction, and I nearly lose it—ready to beg her to not fucking move, so I don’t embarrass myself.
Two-pump chump? Never happened. Not until now, apparently.
Then again, before her, I didn’t talk, touch, or know the person outside of where to Venmo and show up for my appointment. No attraction or incurable hunger.
I focus on the wall—gray, blank, impersonal. A reminder that this is supposed to be mechanical. The body under me is a vessel, not a person I need to know. Not someone I should crave.
“Fine,” I grind out, jaw tight, lungs burning. One deep breath and I’ll lose it. “You asked for it.”
My fingers dig into her hips and I pull out before slamming back in. The table groans—so do I. Again. Again. Harder, faster, deeper. Long, punishing strokes designed to break us both.
She doesn’t falter—just moans louder, palms braced against the table, pushing back to meet every thrust. I want to see her tits bounce—that sinful, hypnotic sway—but I’m not pulling out. Not now. Preferably never.
“You take my cock so well, baby.” The words slip out before I can stop them. Apparently, while I was busy mentally disassociating, my mouth went rogue.
Her moan is my only answer, and it’s more satisfying than any algorithm ever written.
“Rico, I’m going to come.”
Her voice—breathless, raw—skitters up my spine, tightens my stomach, and probably inflates my ego to dangerous levels.
Well, that makes two of us. Thank God for small mercies.
Reaching around, I circle her clit, relentless and precise, each thrust harder, faster, like I’m trying to carve my name into her from the inside out.
My molars are probably ground to dust from how hard I’m clenching my jaw, but it’s the only thing keeping me from coming too soon.
Then she comes—body arching, walls clamping down on my cock like a vice, and I lose it.
One last thrust and I’m gone, yanking her upright, one hand around her throat, the other bruising her hip as I bury myself deeper.
My cock swells, and the spasms of her orgasm milk every drop from me, wringing me out until there’s nothing left but the sharp bite of satisfaction and the dull hum of overstimulation.
My hips jerk against her ass as I sink my teeth into her neck, hard enough to brand.
If I don’t leave a mark, what the hell’s the point?
Not thinking. Because who the fuck thinks straight after the best orgasm of their life? Certainly not me. That ship sailed the moment I slid inside her.
I tilt her head, claiming her mouth, swallowing every whimper, every gasp, rocking my hips like I’m trying to crawl inside her and never leave. Well aware that not even a few minutes ago, I just told the woman no kissing and no touching and that sure as shit went away fast.
“You want to know my secret?” I mutter against her lips, her limp body practically melting into mine. “You’re my first kiss.”
Like I said—not thinking.
Her lips part, eyes widening, undoubtedly ready to demand an explanation, and because I have zero interest in that conversation, I do the only thing I know will keep her from trying to dissect it, let alone talk about it.
I take her mouth in mine, harshly, and nipping before I pull out of her.
My release drips down her thighs, obscene and possessive—mine in the most primal sense.
But more importantly, I’m still hard. Not the usual semi that fades post-climax, but an aching reminder that my body has officially betrayed me.
This is biological, right? Some caveman instinct to impregnate my wife. It’s definitely not because she turns me on so much I can’t think straight. Couldn’t be that.
I spin her to face me, cutting off whatever brilliant observation she’s about to make by crushing my mouth to hers. Funny how shoving my tongue down her throat keeps her quiet. I’ll have to remember that.
Without breaking the kiss, I lift her onto the table, grip her hips, and slide into her again—slick, tight, perfect.
This time, there’s no holding back. I fuck her like she’s the solution to a problem I’ve spent my life trying to solve—hard, fast, and brutal.
My fingers dig into her flesh, hard enough to bruise, and I hope they do.
Proof she was here. Proof I lost my mind over her.
Her tits bounce with every thrust, hypnotic and maddening, and her mouth falls open in a silent moan, eyes fluttering like she can’t decide whether to keep watching me or let the pleasure consume her.
“Mine,” I growl, snapping my hips forward, my cock sliding in and out of her like I’m trying to ruin us both.
It feels better than the first time—slicker, hotter, like her body’s learned how to accommodate me and doesn’t want to let go and I'm quite literally so pussy whipped I will beg it to not release me.
Her eyes fly open, and just as she’s about to speak, I yank her up and kiss her again. Strategy. Always strategy.
“Feel how hard you make me?” I murmur against her mouth, not giving her the chance to answer before kissing her deeper.
She nods, breath hitching.
“Then you understand my problem.” I bite her lower lip, pulling it between my teeth until she gasps. “Because now all I’m going to do tonight is fuck you until you can’t walk, and you’re going to take every inch like the good little wife you are.”
Her mouth falls open, eyes wide—scandalized, turned on, probably both—and I don’t give her the luxury of a response. I swallow her protest, her moan, her everything, pounding into her like I can erase the last remnants of self-control I ever possessed.
When we both break—her body clamping down, mine emptying inside her deep and my body shudders at the sensation—she clings to me like she’s drowning, arms tight, breath ragged.
My mouth is still glued to hers as the kiss slows, softens, and that’s when the fog lifts and the cold, rational part of my brain clicks back on.
I didn’t just fuck up. I obliterated the line I swore I’d never cross. Not only did I waste possibly my sperm on a chance they’ll never meet an egg—another thing she’s stolen from me—but it’s too much. Too close. Too real.
There’s a reason I don’t touch women. Why they don’t touch me. Why I pay escorts to get off and send them on their way.
Because this? This is a textbook example of why I don’t lose control.
And worse… because I want more.