Page 128 of Hot Shot

But it’s the way he looks at me that fills me up like only he can, his amber eyes heavy with reverence and worship and devotion. He would fight his way through heaven and earth to touch my face like this, to kiss my palm this way. And if I couldnot fight, I’d wait a thousand years for the chance to love him again.

We are reduced to this, to skimming hands tracing necks and cheeks, laying soft kisses like prayers of thanks on delicate skin. Until what’s soft becomes insistent, what’s gentle now fervent.

Between my thighs, he rocks, the sensation of his heat through the thin layer of satin sending a rush of blood to my core. I meet his rhythm, my nipples aching when he pulls my shirt up, the chill in the room vanquished in a heartbeat by the heat of his mouth.

Whimpering and impatient from the loss of his body against mine, I roll us over, straddling his hips. He takes the chance to pull my top off, his hands moving for my heavy breasts, palming and squeezing them both until my flesh spills from between his fingers. My hips buck at the sight of my body in his hands, at his mercy. When he notices, he holds my gaze, freeing one hand to rest at the juncture of my hip and thigh, his thumb stroking my aching clit.

Lips together, I moan at the contact, back arching into his hand on my breast. But he loosens his grip, and with the lightest touch, his fingertips circle my nipple slowly, barely grazing the peak that needs him so. I can’t stand the anticipation and descend, pressing my soft chest to his solid one, catching his lips the second I reach them. His mouth is hot and warm—I want it everywhere. The pressure of his cock spurs my hips to roll and grind, flooded with heat too hard and fast. With a greedy hand, I reach between us for his cock, stroking him through his underwear, but it’s not enough. Delving beneath the waistband, I find the slit in his crown weeping and slick it with my circling thumb.

It’s his turn to hiss and buck at the tease. My pussy clenches, ever impatient, and I let him go, planting my hands on either side of his head, stroking my clit with the tip of his crown,pinned to his stomach by the waistband of his boxer briefs. It feels so good, a surprised gasp escapes me when his mouth meets my nipple, drawing it in with his tongue. His cock slips into my shorts, the shaft nestled in my slit, his crown kneading my clit with every grind, the tip constrained by the satin. My breasts sway above him, and he strokes and licks and squeezes and moans until the vibration skitters across my skin. Every nerve, every spark of electricity in my body races toward my clit—when he lathes my nipple, pinching the other, I groan.

“I’m gonna come.”

He lets me go with a pop. “Not like this you’re not.”

Before I can register what happens, I’m on my back and he’s kneeling between my legs, spreading my thighs with his. In a flash of pink fabric, my shorts are gone, but I barely notice, my eyes locked on his cock laid flat against his stomach, half out of the waistband of his boxer briefs. I think I’m going to come just watching him reveal his shaft, his length bobbing once it’s free, his sac drawn tight beneath it. The vision of him fisting himself is too much—I lean forward to reach for him, but he catches my hands, forcing me back. He pins them over my head and clamps one huge hand. His nose is almost touching mine, our breath mingling as we pant, taking each other in for a long moment.

“You were made for me,” he says, flexing his hips until his cock nudges my pussy. “Thiswas made for me. It never mattered how we found each other again—it was inevitable. Because I’m yours. And you’remine.”

“I’m yours,” I whisper, shifting in search of his cock.

He tips his head back and groans. “Say it again, Cass.”

“I’m yours,husband.”

His gaze snaps to mine, his hips jerking—I shift so his crown slips into my heat.

The muscles at his jaw tic, his neck taut, but there’s no holding back once he has a taste. With a hard thrust, I am full,stretched tight around him, his weight crushing. I can’t breathe, but I’m too busy taking the length of him to care, too intent on his fingertips brushing my hair from my face so he can look into my eyes when he fucks me. It is slow and deliberate, the way his hips roll, the way he keeps them pressed to mine, stroking my clit from above and below, drawing my orgasm to his expectant cock.

My lids flutter closed, the pressure in my neck and chest and pussy tight and heavy and crushing me with every calculated pump of his hips.

“Look at me,” he commands, and I do, stroking his face, his hair, the mounds and curves of his shoulders and chest. His lids are heavy, his lips flattening with restraint, his cock swelling inside me.

I moan, my eyes closing again and head lolling, but he grabs my jaw, turning it back to him. He’s going to come, I feel the pulse of his orgasm building inside me.

His hand slips to my neck and squeezes, his thumb keeping my chin up. The clamp of his fist on my throat tightens, the pressure surging.

My orgasm charges, my legs clamping his waist. I grip his wrist with both hands, hanging on as he fucks me, my mouth hanging open.

“Fuck,” he hisses, groans, his neck strained and veins raised. Electricity races over me, sparking bursts in my vision. “Comenow, wife.”

My body is not my own, my awareness contained to the fluttering grip of my cunt, milking and squeezing and pulling him deeper, deeper. My back snaps off the bed, gasping and writhing, and he’s coming on the heels of my orgasm, driving into me, neck extended and mouth open, his body tight and growling and hard. The hot spill of come removes all friction, the sensation and image in my mind triggering a new wave ofpleasure. It lasts minutes or hours or seconds, I don’t know. But there comes a time when we are reduced again to hands and lips and delicate skin. And then his arms slide beneath me, the full weight of him perfectly oppressive. His heart thumps behind his sternum like the knock of a door, and mine answers, the two matching pace after a few heavy breaths.

His head is cradled in my arms and beneath my chin, my fingers toying with his hair, stroking his shoulders and arms. I wonder for the second time this morning if he’s fallen asleep, though I have no desire to move or speak to check.

“I love you,” he whispers after a while. “I won’t go another day without telling you.”

“Forever?”

He rises, smoothing a hand across my cheek. “Forever.”

When I press a reverent kiss into his palm, I hope we get our wish.

CHAPTER 47

ANOTHER LIFE

CASS

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