Page 12 of The Humiliated Wife
Dean’s hand slid along her thigh, coaxing her closer. He knew this terrain—the ways she responded, the way her breath caught when he bit softly at her shoulder, the way she melted when he whispered what he wanted into her skin. Intimacy had always been easy with her.
She turned to face him, and he kissed her fully then, mouth open and hungry. He moved until she was beneath him, her legs parting to make space for him. And still he was kissing her.
He pressed his hips forward, the head of his cock nudging against her, and then?—
Then he pressed inside.
Warmth. Heat. Home.
The tension that had been lodged between his shoulder blades all night broke apart like steam in a cold room. He groaned softly against her neck as her legs wrapped around him.
This. This was the one place he didn’t have to perform.
Being inside her was like nothing else. No noise. No questions. No expectations he couldn’t meet. Just skin and heat and the way she looked at him, even now, like she didn’t even see the parts of him he tried to ignore.
Her fingers slid into his hair. She moaned quietly when he moved, her eyes fluttering shut.
Dean held her face in both hands like it was something breakable, something precious. He slowed his pace, savoring every inch of her, every breath, every soft sound she gave him.
“I love you,” he whispered. It rose up in him like breath, like instinct.
Her eyes opened then, and for a long moment, she just looked at him.
There was no artifice here. No posturing. No right words.
Just her, seeing all of him. And choosing him anyway.
“Good,” she whispered, touching his cheek. “I love you too.”
He closed his eyes. Let it flood him.
He stayed like that, moving inside her slowly, gently, until he could tell she was building up to her release. Until she pulled him down into the crook of her neck and held him there, one hand on the back of his head like she couldn’t bear to let go.
Thenhe moved faster. Deep and sure and hard.
Fiona trembled, fingers clutching his shoulders. Her heels pressed into the backs of his thighs, urging him on. Urging him deeper.
Dean groaned, forehead pressed to hers, every thrust pulling something loose from his chest.
Her voice broke on his name, and he surged into her again, again, chasing the sound.
The rhythm built between them, bodies straining, sweat-slicked and breathless, until?—
She arched beneath him with a sharp cry, clutching at him like she might come apart if she let go.
Dean buried himself in her, stifling his shout against her throat as he came hard, stars behind his eyes, everything else falling away.
No backhanded compliments, no industry award nominations, no pretension.
Only her.
Only this.
Only home.
CHAPTER 7
Fiona
