Page 80 of Insta Bride

By the time we got back home we were us, just as nature and our marriage certificate intended.

“Kye, no,” Elena moaned as I had her pinned against the front door. We’d made out in the elevator, recreating a scene from Pretty Woman that Pops once told me was better than Viagra.

Her skirt, buckled around her hips, couldn’t distract my cock from trying to burst through my work pants and find her wetness.

“Red? Tell me they’re red.”

“Ohhh, what?” I’d been tongue-fucking her mouth since we pushed the elevator button. Her lips were bruised and all trace of our dinner had been licked and kissed away. She only tasted of me.

“Your panties. Tell me they match your shoes.”

“No.”

“Fuck, Lena.”

“If you don’t like them, take them off.”

I wriggled the key in the door again, not breaking away from another kiss. My beautiful wife deserved to be punished for ruining my fantasy—fucking her in her red heels, red lacy bra and thong.

The door gave way in a jolt, and instead of bracing or righting us as we almost over-balanced, I used the momentum to back Elena past the living room and kitchen, down the hall and into our bedroom. My old blacks and browns had given way to whites, greys and charcoal. The potted plants Elena kept alive gave the room a warmth of home.

She’d turned my shiny, sterile bachelor pad into our home.

“Oh, Lena,” I moaned, lifting her ass onto our bed and loving the way the soft covers pillowed around her. She raised her hips to help me push up the rest of her skirt, before I found her soaked nude panties.

“Really?” I smirked, tugging at them.

“I can’t wear red under white. It was either nude or not matching.”

“Matching, always matching.”

I had a thing about Elena wearing matching underwear. My favorite part of the week was sorting and putting away our washing—all so I could match her bras and panties and have them ready for the week.

Wrapping my fingers around each of her ankles, I raised them to the bed, loving the way she spread for me. Loving the way she tasted. From laying kisses up her legs to the fragrance of her pussy. Inviting me to drink from her juices.

And I did.

No woman had tasted sweeter. I could bury my head in my wife’s pussy and never come up for air.

After removing the offending white g-string, I leisurely lapped at her juices until her cries for more drove my tongue to her folds.

I loved my wife.

I loved the way she grabbed and pulled at my hair, keeping my head in place. I loved the way she walked into any room and owned it, and me. I loved her poise and patience with the fans and horny bitches that interrupted our dates.

I wanted to tell her, needed to tell her. But the timing had to be perfect.

Until then, I let my body do the talking. Plunging my tongue inside her while my thumbs massaged around her entrance.

“Kye, please, oh, please,” she cried.

I looked up, loving how her mouth fell open and how her eyes were wide with surprise as I pleasured her. “Since you asked so nicely,” I smirked, taking a last look before diving down again.

Usually, I brought her to the edge, before releasing my cock to do his thing.

Tonight, I wanted to feel her contract and spasm around my tongue. I wanted to give my wife a gift—selfless pleasure.

So, I did.

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