Page 30 of Mismatched

I grab a pillow and slide it gently under her head, then slip out of my boxer briefs and grab the oil off the nightstand. I lick my lips. “Just like that.”

There are no instructions on the bottle, so I just shake it a couple times and break the seal. Lydia looks up at me, watching, her body pink and flushed in anticipation. And suddenly, I’m flooded with gratitude—that I get to do this with her, that we’ve been able to work through some major hurt in our marriage to have this moment together, despite our flaws.

“I love you,” I murmur, then position myself over her with the bottle and watch oil drip and slide over her skin, running down between her breasts.

Lydia watches me do this with wide eyes, almost like she’s surprised, pressing her breasts together to catch the oil as it runs over her body. I was already hard, but just the sight of this has me biting my lip, my cock turning to fucking steel.

I take her hand, and she glances up at my face as I drip oil across her palm and place it on my shaft. “Stroke me.”

And she does.

Oh. My. God.

Her hand slides up and down, slick and wet, and for a minute it’s all I can do to concentrate, stay under control. Not let loose and end our night before it’s really begun.

Once I feel I can safely move, I go to work on her while she continues to work me. Pouring oil absolutely everywhere. Probably using up most of the bottle, but I don’t care, because my wife looks like something out of a porn video, a fantasy, or at least a wet fucking dream. Every inch of her skin glistens. Slick and warm and so. Fucking. Hot.

Some part of my non-primal brain must still be working, because I remember this was supposed to be an actual “massage” and not just Anton’s X-Rated Fantasy Oil Play, so I run my hands all over her, kneading her muscles, rubbing her skin, and pretending I have any idea what I’m doing while having the fucking time of my life.

Three or four months ago? No way anything like this would have ever happened. But here, tonight, Lydia is down with it. One hundred percent present and accounted for, closing her eyes and tipping her face toward the ceiling. Her hand has fallen away from my cock, but I’m so focused on her I don’t even care, watching as gradually, her body seems to sink into the bed, visibly relaxed.

At some point my hand slips between her legs, and when it does her eyes flutter open, gazing at me through a haze of contentment as I slide one oil-slicked finger very intentionally up and down her folds, finding her clit.

She gasps in response, then narrows her eyes. “Is that a legit massage technique?”

“Mmm-hmm,” I murmur. “If your masseuse is a sex-crazed lothario without a license.”

She turns her head away and laughs. Until I slide farther down, dipping one finger inside her, and her laughter turns into a moan. Sensing I’ve landed at the elusive right time and place, I follow with a second finger and lean down to find her clit with my tongue.

I didn’t buy a flavored massage oil, but it doesn’t taste bad—and it is everywhere, so I lose myself a little, lapping up the taste of oil combined with Lydia, and getting lost in her velvety folds. My fingers keep a steady rhythm hooked inside her, and when her hips begin to thrust, I reach up her body until I locate her left nipple, standing out, waiting to be found. A few firm tugs there, several more thrusts of my tongue, and she comes apart, singing like a songbird, her pleasure echoing through our house.

When she comes back to earth, a big shy smile on her face, she looks over and grabs for me, starting to pump my shaft again, a little too fast and hard.

“Whoa, easy.” I laugh, flinching away.

She looks up, shamefaced. “Sorry . . .”

I shake my head to reassure her, kissing her hand and shifting until I’m between her legs, staring down at her glistening pussy. Then I rub my cock up and down her slit, sliding easily through the mix of oil and her natural juices.

“Fuck. You’re so slick.” If I don’t push inside her soon, this won’t end according to our new plan, so I meet her gaze with intention and ask again. “You ready? Should we do this?”

She looks down at my cock poised outside her entrance, regarding it for a second like it’s some kind of loaded weapon. And truly, I feel a bit like a cannon ready to go off inside her, so maybe we’re on the same page.

She bites her lip, then looks back up at me, takes a deep breath, and nods. “Yes.”

About a second later, I am buried deep in my wife, all the way to the fucking hilt. And God, I know we used some extra lube, but I can’t remember her ever being so slick and warm and inviting. She has barely adjusted to my intrusion before I start thrusting, nearly losing all control. It’s jarring. Obviously, I have been inside Lydia before, and lately sex has been so much better. But this time, with this new goal in mind—to create something, put a baby inside her—a strange, almost primal feeling takes over.

I watch my cock sliding in and out of her, watch her oil-slick tits bouncing with every thrust, and my thoughts are consumed by what will happen when I fill her with my seed. I am overtaken by abstract, carnal need, and with all of that churning through my mind, it doesn’t take long for me to reach my peak—with a few great thrusts, I release inside her, and it is the most fucking fulfilling sensation I have ever had. I continue to rock into her, slowing, until I am completely spent. And then I gather her in my arms and pull her to me, overcome with joy, with gratitude, with emotions I can’t describe.

“Thank you.”

She strokes my hair, not saying a word, lying against my chest as we listen to each other breathe. I’m vaguely aware when she slides out of bed to go to the bathroom, but she soon returns, nuzzling back into my arms under the sheets.

“I love you, Mr. Richie,” she whispers into my neck, and my heart is so full in this moment, with these words.

“I love you, Lydia. So much.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

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