Page 61 of Between Dusk and Dawn

"Lay down." He dropped me onto the oversized couch. It was one of those pieces of furniture you see at the store that is so oversized that your body kind of just melts into it.

"I hate you so much, Walsh," I cried, a tear threatening to spill. His eyes stayed on me with that unabridged hunger, but there was a softness to them.

"Take me, Muse." I nodded, unable to form words. "Stretch your cunt around my length."

"Please…more," I cried.

"Focus on me." My eyes focused on his body as he stood over me, pulling off his clothes. "Eyes up here," he demanded.

"Good girl," he praised, and I scooted up so I was in a sitting position. His hands grasped the hem of his shirt, then he lifted it off his head. The swirls of ink came to life on his ripped chest.

"Watch me," he commanded. Then he stripped down to nothing, baring himself in front of me. He was trying to distract me. Pull me away from the thoughts of hatred and self-loathing I was about to spiral into.

He was literally distracting me with sex.

"It’s our first time," I whispered as he got on his hands and knees on the couch and crawled over me.

"It is."

His hand tilted my chin so our eyes connected. It was a silent way of asking permission, and I knew when our gazes locked, everything was going to change.

In an instant, he lifted me by my hips so my legs were spread as wide as they could between his thick thighs.

My right hand braced his chest for support as I used the other to trace the intricate swirls of his tattoos. His cock twitched against my stomach.

"Get on top." His eyes were hooded and hungry as I hovered over his throbbing dick.

As I followed his command, he caressed my cheek. "My wife."

I threw my hair over my shoulders, looking at the ceiling as I braced myself for the way he would stretch me. His tip beading with precum allowed me to glide onto his cock. As I thrust my hips, I cried out at the fullness. He was stretching me in every single way, and at the same time, giving me the power, letting me control how much I took of him.

"I’ve never allowed a woman to ride me," he said through carnal groans as I took him deeper. "But you, Muse? I could watch the way your hips grind into me all day."

I closed my eyes, enveloped in his presence and the surge of emotions surrounding me. Overwhelmed by his touch, the perfection of him within me, and the realization that I was dismantling emotional barriers between us, everything became too much for me to handle. Yet I needed more of him. My body demanded more of him, so I finished my descension, allowing him to fill me all the way up.

"I’ve dreamed of this for years," I screamed, then bounced atop him, and he rolled my nipples between his fingers.

In this position, I had all the power and could understand why he enjoyed being in control. Being here, like this, made me feel like I could climb the tallest mountain. Watching him gain pleasure because I was giving it to him was indescribable.

I gyrated on him, switching between bouncing and pulsing, using my thighs and knees to help stabilize my movements. I loved the sound our skin made as my pussy slapped his balls.

His fingers held onto my hips, helping me when my movements became more languid. Exhaustion set in as stars appeared in my vision. Everything and nothing seemed to overwhelm me simultaneously. That alone was enough to send me over the edge.

I exploded into my orgasm, and his shaft tightened and pulsed inside of me. A symphony of murmurs echoed throughout the room before I went slack in his arms.

Rolling off him, I dropped onto the fluffy blanket that reminded me of a cloud.

A profound silence lingered between us, and my chest felt like it might burst out of my body. The intensity of the orgasm was unlike anything I had experienced before. However, amidst the euphoria, a sense of depletion washed over me. I felt exposed, raw, and vulnerable—emotions I detested.

Overwhelmed, I fought back tears. I remembered reading about this in my sexual psychology course last year. Over ninety-two percent of people had some sort of emotional release after they orgasmed, including intense feelings of sadness. It happened in times of great connection when people felt so exposed that it was almost terrifying. I could officially say I understood what that meant and was part of that statistic.

Walsh remained silent, and I dared not meet his gaze. The connection between us felt both healing and terrifying. Despite my urge to despise him, an inexplicable bond tied us together. When we fucked, it was like the sky shattered and we were the ones trying to piece it back together.

He coughed, snapping me out of my stupor, and got up. "I, er, I-I’m going to get us a towel." He must have felt it, too.

His voice quieted. "Let me take care of you."

Then I lost it. Whatever was happening was terrifying to me. I needed to be far away from him, from here. I needed to process this emotional turmoil with myself before I had another panic attack.

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