Page 60 of Mangled Memory
He does, only to bring his hands under my lats and grab onto my shoulders. I wrap my legs around his back, one high and one low, and reach a hand to his cheek.
“Move please. Take what you need.”
Taking control and being ceded control are two different things. I just gave him all I could—me, open and vulnerable.
His eyes blaze with something I can’t pinpoint. But that offer must’ve set off something primal in him, because he pistons with such force, my small breasts shake violently.
His hand comes to my clit, and he coaxes another orgasm out of me. Somehow the man must be made of steel because he rides right through that. His neck muscles bunch and roll from the strain of exertion, and he keeps going.
“Watching your face in the throes.”
Thrust.
“Feeling your pussy squeeze me.”
Thrust.
“Seeing you take me in that sweet, pink heaven.”
Thrust.
“The sounds you make when you come.”
Thrust.
“Your tits bouncing in time.”
Thrust.
“My cock buried inside my wife.”
Thrust.
His hand on my clit pinches until I scream. The pain and pleasure are too much the former until the latter pulls me under. This orgasm is mild and lazy. I’m wrung out and have come so much I’m boneless. Hot cum singes my insides, and my husband collapses atop me, inside me, surrounding me.
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okayist
Ayla
Delicious soreness greets me when I wake. So much so I moan when I stretch because my insides feel like they were moved and shifted during the best sex of my life.
The bed is empty, and light peeks in from the windows. The blinds which are normally closed are open but it’s not so late that the sun’s rays have had a chance to stream in. A mug of coffee sits atop my nightstand with steam still rising from its surface.
That must be what woke me—espresso delivery.
I push up to sit and grab the perfectly brewed coffee. Not for the first time I wonder how this came to be my life. I mean, I know the story—Halley in the dark hallway and our first meeting. Bagels and coffee the next morning. But how did I come to be wed to a sex god with a honed body, who’s a business mogul and a real estate… well,magnateis the only appropriate word.
Christian Barone is gorgeous. He’s smart and commands a room. He oozes sex appeal, and he’s loaded. Every woman within one hundred miles must’ve been—and must still be—clamoring for him.
Why did he choose me? I’m not down on myself. I know what I offer. This isn’t self-deprecating talk. But how did we get from interest to dating tothis? The house, the cars, the Denver power couple label.
I need to know. It niggles at my brain and annoys me.
Ifinish the coffee while scrolling my personal Picstagram, watching the progression of our relationship. It was fast. And it’s entirely hidden from me.
Christian Barone: Need more coffee?
