Page 111 of Mangled Memory
I tug her into my body, wrapping my arms around her, holding her close. I kiss her head and speak quietly to her. “I’m sorry, Princess. I’m sorry you were scared. I’m sorry I didn’t recognize your fear or find a way to allay it. I’m sorry you spent months on edge waiting for the other shoe to drop. I’m sorry we fought when you told me the truth. You’ve always been stronger than me at this relationship stuff. You’re vulnerable and brave, and it puts me to shame. I wasn’t lying when I said you’re the best part of every day. Even when me being hot-headed and short-tempered and you being fiery and obstinate collide like they did tonight.”
And like we always have after we fight, I take her hand while I keep one hand loose around her back and we sway back and forth as I sing Ray LaMontagne’sYou are the Best Thingand we dance.
“I’m sorry too,” she mumbles into my chest.
“For what?”
Her stunning face glares up at me.
“Stop baiting me. You know what for. Accept the apology.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I kiss her forehead. “I’d really like to get back to the practice part of our conversation.”
Those eyes turn up to me, feigning anger, but actually filled with laughter. “Is it always about sex with you?”
“Trying to keep my wife satisfied. And, Princess, you should know, our sex life is about me trying to keep up with you. You get a bit… insatiable.”
The blush that stains her cheeks is so similar to the one before she comes that I begin to harden behind my zipper.
Ayla
He dances, he apologizes, and he makes our sex life about keeping up withme.
Christian Barone is too good to be true.
“I’ve always loved this song.”
His steps falter before he’s back in the rhythm of our dance, humming the melody into my hair. His arms around me are warm and firm. A month ago, I would’ve felt smothered. Today, I’d call it cocooned.
He dips me, right here in the kitchen and kisses the hollow of my throat. When he lifts me, it’s sensuous and slow and erotic as hell.
“I need to taste you.” His words are guttural and quiet and rumble through me like sexual tendrils.
“Well—” I slip from his arms, turning my back to him but looking over my shoulder in a shameless taunt. “If you insist…” And I run for the bedroom.
I swear the man allows me to get ahead, but by the time I get to the bed, he’s wrapped me up and folded me over the mattress, yanking my leggings to my ankles and pinning me wide from behind. He sinks to his knees behind me and devoursevery bit of exposed flesh, even those I’ve never experienced before.
Fuck me. That’s— “Oh my God.” The moan that tears from me might as well come from my toes. I fist my fingers in the comforter and dig in to hold on for dear life.
The heat that burns in my core engorges my clit.
The building spiral twists and loops deep in my belly.
The moment of tension begs for release from the pressure while desperate to be stoked even higher.
My knees shake. My belly quivers. And my pussy explodes. I pulse and pulse and pulse, straining to squeeze my thighs together for relief. Instead, his mouth returns and he hums that same song as he sucks even harder.
I nearly black out with pleasure.
My husband kisses my lower back before palming both ass cheeks and thrusting into me in one long stroke. I never even heard the zipper or felt the nudge at my entrance. Maybe I did black out.
I greet him stroke for stroke until my arms give out and my legs collapse beneath me. It’s tighter without that control and I can only take.
“Christian,” I call.
“Yes, Princess,” he grits as he thrusts.
“Take what you need.” They’re the last words I get out, since pleasure overwhelms me to the point I can’t speak. I can only feel.
