43. Rico
Rico
I want to fuck my wife, but for some inexplicable reason, her questioning how I see her is the thing bothering me.
Not the fact that I haven’t touched her in five days, or that my balls are one unfulfilled orgasm away from filing for emancipation.
Not even the fact that I can’t get through a single work meeting without images of her thighs—bare, spread, open—haunting me like a damn specter. No, it’s the way she asked.
As if my opinion mattered.
It shouldn’t.
It doesn’t.
Except I’m here, between the legs that have become my personal brand of psychological warfare, proving her wrong in the only way I know how.
My tongue flattens as I drag it through her slick center, and her protests?
Gone. Now, she’s gasping, her fingers twisting into my hair, hips trying to grind against my mouth as she chases more.
I chuckle, catching myself and hoping she didn't hear it. Of all the times for a laugh to snake out, it's when it can vibrate against her thighs?
I take her clit into my mouth and suck, savoring the way she cries out my name.
I could make a religion out of this—worshipping her, consuming her, letting her break apart under my mouth, my hands, my body.
But that would imply a level of devotion I’m not willing to admit to, so instead, I pin her hips to the island, slip a finger into her tight, dripping heat, and watch her fall apart.
She’s so fucking perfect.
Silky, hot, and wet—soaking before I even touched her. A fact that soothes the primal, possessive part of me I refuse to acknowledge exists. I add a second finger, then a third, and she moans, her walls clamping down so tight around my fingers that my cock throbs painfully in my pants.
I need a release.
Badly.
It’s made my entire fucking week intolerable, but instead of getting myself off, I’m here, torturing myself, listening to her gasp and plead because—for whatever reason—I need her to know that she’s wrong without telling her.
That I see her. That I think about her more than I should. That this isn’t just about my body demanding hers, but something else.
Something dangerous.
“Rico… please…oh God.”
I press a slow, deliberate kiss to her thigh before biting down hard enough to make her yelp—half pleasure, half pain. “No God here baby, but I am.”
Her fingers in my hair tighten, nails digging into my scalp, and fuck, if that isn’t the best kind of pain.
I crave it. The sting. The way she marks me.
Because when I step out of the shower and see those crescent-shaped bruises on my skin, I enjoy knowing she was there.
That she needed me enough to leave an imprint.
She moans louder, her pleas growing desperate, and that does it. That breaks me.
I curl my fingers, hitting the exact spot I know will send her over the edge, and when she comes, I don’t stop. I don’t pull away until I’ve wrung every tremor from her body, licking and tasting until I’m completely, unapologetically, drunk on her.
Then I stand, wipe my mouth, and let my eyes meet hers.
Wide.
Blown.
Vulnerable.
That’s what undoes me—not her body or her moans, but that look.
I grip her wrist, tugging her until she’s flush against me, my cock so fucking hard it’s a miracle I’m still standing. I could have her right now, take her on this counter, bend her over, claim what’s already mine.
But I don’t.
Instead, I kiss her.
And fuck if it doesn’t feel like a victory.
She steals another piece of me every time I touch her, and instead of stopping, I let her.
I should walk away, regain control, remind her who’s really in charge here.
But then her hands skim the waistband of my sweats and tug them down.
“You want me to fuck you?” My voice is hoarse, strained.
I need her to say yes, but I refuse to beg. Okay, maybe I'm willing to beg.
Because if she doesn’t, it’s going to be me and my palm in the shower—again—cursing her name as I come apart picturing this.
She shakes her head, sliding off the counter, and any trace of that sweet, doe-eyed innocence evaporates.
In its place? A woman with dark, wicked eyes.
Her tongue flicks out, slow and deliberate, wetting those swollen lips, and when she drops to her knees, my head grows dizzy, considering all my blood has migrated to my cock and refuses to circulate anywhere else.
When her fingers wrap around my length, stroking me with just enough pressure to make my spine lock up, I consider that maybe this is how I go.
Not in a blaze of gunfire, not from some long-overdue retribution, but from the ruthless way my wife licks the bead of pre-cum from my tip before dragging her tongue down the underside of my shaft.
Fuck.
This woman is about to ruin me. And I think I might want her to.
She moves with a patience that borders on torture, licking, teasing, until my jaw clenches so tight it might snap. And when she drags her tongue up again, swirling it around the head before taking me into her mouth?
Yeah. I might actually fucking die this time.
I’ve never had my cock sucked before. Never gave a shit about it. Now, I’m questioning every decision I’ve ever made, because this? This is a revelation.
My fingers tangle in her hair, gripping, and when her mouth slides lower, taking me in deeper, I don’t just feel it—I fucking ascend. My hips jerk instinctively as the head of my cock brushes the back of her throat, and she gags. A delicious, sinful sound that has me white-knuckling my control.
One. More. Inch.
Just one more and I might explode right here.
“Fuck…” The growl rumbles from deep in my chest, my head rolling back along with my ability to function as a rational human being. My entire body is coiled, tight, and when she sucks harder, her teeth barely scraping my length, I hiss.
I glance down, and the smirk she’s wearing around my cock is obscene.
My thief strikes again, this time stealing my breath, my restraint, my fucking soul.
She moans, low and eager, the vibrations shooting up my spine, and I lose the last frayed thread of control. My hips move, slowly at first, pushing deeper, my grip in her hair tightening as I ease myself into the hot, wet silk of her mouth.
“Do you want me to fuck that pretty little mouth of yours?” I rasp, glad that I didn't say please let me, since it was on the tip of my tongue.
She blinks up at me, her lashes thick, with tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. My thumb grazes over one, plucking it up as I suck the salty goodness from it.
And then she nods.
I groan, dragging my lower lip between my teeth as I hold her in place, thrusting in deeper, testing her limits, and fuck, she takes it. No hesitation, no pulling away—just pure, unapologetic submission. Her nails biting into my thighs as she urges me on.
My cock throbs. My balls tighten. I’m about two seconds away from coming right there. The sensation is too much; the vision is an overload.
“I’m gonna come in your mouth,” I warn, my voice a raw, wrecked growl. “And you’re going to take every drop.”
Her moan of approval is enough to end me.
Heat rushes down my spine, my thrusts growing erratic, desperate, wild, and when she gags again, eyes watering, my control shatters. I grip the back of her neck, holding her in place as I bury myself deep, my cock throbbing as I empty down her throat.
And to my complete and utter fucking delight, she swallows.
I brace against the counter, trying to regain some semblance of reality, because I swear, my soul just left my body. Floated the fuck away into the ether. No one will miss it. Hell, I was sure it wasn't there, anyway.
I expect her to pull back, to wipe her mouth, maybe even throw a self-satisfied smile my way. Instead, she licks, cleaning up the last of me before pulling away, her tongue darting out to catch the moisture at the corner of her lips.
Holy. Fucking. Shit.
I grip her wrist, hard, yanking her to her feet, my hands framing her face as I crash my mouth against hers. I don’t care that I can taste myself on her tongue, don’t care that her lips are still swollen from taking me so fucking deep.
I just need her.
I suck and nip at her mouth, branding her, making sure that when she walks into that restaurant today, there’s no doubt who she belongs to.
Who she fucking wrecks.
I pull back, dragging my teeth over her lower lip before dropping my gaze to her body. Her nipples are straining against that silk camisole, her messy hair framing her still-flushed face.
I should let her go. Should put space between us, remind her what this marriage really is.
But I don’t.
Instead, I lean in, my mouth at her ear, and murmur, “Want to know a secret?”
She nods, still breathless.
“I’ve never had my cock sucked before.”
I savor the way her eyes widen, the subtle hitch in her breath. Then, without another word, I turn and walk away hating that, yet-a-fucking-gain, I tossed out something no one knows to this woman.