Page 25 of Coerced Wife

“I know.” Her gaze is level. “I like it when it hurts.”

Jesus.

I’m done for it. Finished. My resistance rips in two, the man I used to be cracking right down the middle. I’ve only ever been myself with her. I’ve never dared to show my depravity to another soul. It binds me to her, and while it’s wrong, it feels so fucking right.

My body shakes as I grab the first thing my hand falls on—a bottle of oil for preventing stretch marks. I squirt agenerous amount on my palm and rub it over my cock. She watches in the mirror, licking her lips as if she wants my length down her throat and not in her ass.

“I’ll go slow,” I say, the promise more aimed at myself than at her.

I haven’t prepared her, haven’t stretched her, but when I tease her dark hole with my thumb, she reaches behind her, fists my cock, and pushes the head against her asshole.

“You don’t have to go slow,” she says. “I can take it.”

“Fuck, Anya.”

“Have you done this before?”

“Yes.”

“Then you know what to do.” Pushing back, she says, “Take me. Do it now.”

Another sliver of control peels away as I punch my hips forward, breaching the tight ring of muscles with the crest of my cock.

A gasp tears from her throat.

I rub a palm over her back in a soothing caress. “Do you want me to stop?”

“Move,” she says, dragging in small pants of air. “Do it now, Sav.”

I inch forward slowly, taking her inch by inch. By the time her ass has swallowed my cock up to the balls, her arms where she’s bracing her palms on the counter are shaking.

Holding on to one hip, I slip the other hand between her legs and rub her clit. She cries out, her muscles softening a little around me.

“Move,” she says again, grinding against me.

“Does it hurt?”

A bead of sweat runs down her temple and plops on the marble. “Fuck, yes. Make me come.”

I take mercy on her, fucking her with a few quickthrusts to find my release quickly. When I empty myself in her ass, she comes with me, her inner muscles clenching so hard around my cock its painful. I’ve never come faster or harder in my life. Release has never left me legless and incapable of forming sentences.

I don’t stay longer inside her than necessary. I pull out but keep my hand between her thighs, making her ride out the aftershocks until I have to wrap an arm around her waist to prevent her from falling.

I press my forehead between her shoulder blades, catching my breath and finding much-needed composure before I kiss the top of her spine.

My apology is honest. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m not,” she says, my brazen girl like a burning flame that’s already branded me and left its mark deep under my skin.

I step back and look down. My release runs down the crack of her ass and the back of her thighs.

Shower.

I’m only capable of following the clipped commands that my brain sends to my body. It’s purely instinct, routine the only thing that keeps me going.

I turn her around and lift her into my arms. In the shower, I wash her gently, worshipping every inch of her perfect body with kisses and soft petting.

When she’s clean and dry, I carry her back to bed, lie down, and pull her into my arms.

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