Page 118 of The Retreat

Before I can suck in another breath, he’s rolled us and is fucking into me. Deep and hard thrusts that steal the air from my lungs. Taking exactly what he wants with no hesitation because he knows I can take it and I want it.

“Fuck!” I cling to him, whimpering and moaning. His hand in the back of my hair jerks my head back so he can bite and suck on my neck. My stomach is slick with pre-cum, and before I realize what is happening, I come. Hard. Shooting cum onto my stomach and chest as I groan out my pleasure.

Owen lifts onto one hand and looks down at me. “It’s so fucking hot when you do that.”

I’m so fucking cum drunk I feel like giggling. “It feels pretty fucking awesome too.”

A wicked, self-satisfied grin lifts his lips. “Noted.”

His hips quickly pick up again, smacking into my ass so hard, there’s no way I won’t feel him for the next several hours. I fucking love it.

“Come for me, husband.” I hold his head in my hands. “Fill me up so you leak from me all day.”

He shudders and moans, muscles twitching and bunching.

“Own me. Claim me. Mark me as yours.”

His cock twitches, and warmth floods my insides with his cum. Fuck, I love that. Some primal part of me likes the security of being claimed by him.

Owen is careful not to collapse on top of me since I’m covered in cum, but kisses me softly before getting up.

“I’m going to smell like sex at warm-ups.” He flicks his gaze at me, still lying in bed, well fucked and debauched.

“I would say I’m sorry but–”

“You’re not.”

“I’m not.”

“You’ve got a possessive streak.” He comes back toward the bed once he has the sweats on that I laid out for him and leans over me. Dipping his fingers into the cum cooling on my skin, he paints my lips with it, then ravages my mouth.

When I’m breathless and once again hard, he strokes me and smiles right above my mouth. “Now I’ll taste you and you can think of me all day.”

Fuck, I love this man.

He starts to leave but stops, turns, and opens the closet where I’ve hung up my clothes so they won’t be a wrinkled mess this weekend.

He pulls out an outfit I’ve got put together and holds it up. “Is this what you’re wearing today?”

“Yes. Why? Is something wrong with it?” It’s his shirt for crying out loud, it can’t be bad.

“No. I have something for you.”

No? What the hell does he mean no?

He pulls a package out of his backpack and hands it to me.

“Wear this.”

Confused, I open the package to find a black crop top with the words: crossing swords is my cardio, and what looks like two sabres crossed in an X.

“Did you have a shirt made for me?” My poor heart pitter-patters in my chest. I could cry with how much this means to me. “Are you sure you want me to wear this in public? I don’t want you to get backla?—”

Owen cuts off my argument with a kiss. “Yes, I want you to wear it in public and not under that shirt.” He points to the closet. “I want you to be you, not the version of yourself you think I want in public.” Owen takes my mouth again, deeper, hotter, and more insistent. “Wear it for me, princess, and I’ll reward you after I win.”

I groan against his lips, already hardening again.

“You’re a tease.”

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