Page 62 of His Bride

“If I’m sick, what does that make you while you’re taking my cock like a brat?”

“A glutton for punishment.”

“You call it gluttony. I call it indulgence.” He slides a hand down my spine then roughly forces me back down, bracketing the back of my neck with his fingers as he pushes me harder onto the table, his other hand now on my hip, pulling me closer to him, each thrust deeper than the last.

I shudder, my pussy clamping on him, like the thing that’s been missing is back. He’s so hot. So big. So perfect.

So mine.

He grabs my hips, digging his fingers into my flesh, pounding me. It’s savage, rough, wild, and exactly how I need it.

I close my eyes and arch my back, trying to meet each thrust, trying to get more. He’s so deep, hitting something that’s a dull ache, an ache that resounds each time he hits it, and I welcome it, because the more he does it, the more brutal he is, the deeper he is, the better everything feels. His cock, his hands, the way his balls slam against my pussy lips. It’s all too much, yet not nearly enough.

“God, I’ve missed fucking you,” he says between pants. “I’ve missed everything about you. How your mind fights while your body submits.”

My entire body starts to glow, and the pleasure radiates, building with each powerful hammer of his cock, the slap of his balls against me.

He pulls almost all the way out only to slam back in as hard as he can, and the more he gives, the rougher he becomes, the more I want it. The rougher I crave it.

I start to roll my hips, pressing my pelvis against the table, needing that friction.

“See,” he says behind me, “sometimes indulgence is necessary. Now, be a good girl and come for your husband.”

It’s like my body has a direct line to his command, and it’s this live, electrifying thing that starts in my bones, vibrating to every corner, filling me to the brim.

My pussy clamps down around him, throbbing as the first sparks of orgasm start to flicker, taking control of every move, every breath, every moan I make. And when it explodes, I scream. I cry. I sob, because it’s too much. The heat, it’s everywhere, scorching and searing, his name spilling from my soul while I come around his cock so violently. So beautifully.

Caelian’s thrusts turn erratic, struggling to keep rhythm as his own climax builds. He moves hard and fast, the chase for his release only prolonging mine.

“Jesus. Fuck, Giana. I love this,” he rasps, out of breath. “I love us. I fucking love you. Fuck!”

His body shakes, and I feel him jerk inside me as he comes. I’ll never get tired of that feeling, the pulse of his cock against my pussy walls while he comes inside me.

His pace slows, each movement becoming more deliberate as the intensity of his orgasm overtakes him, and I’m so wet, so lubed up with his cum and mine, that each slide of his length is a slick glide, a final tender caress.

I expect him to pull out as he collapses onto me, but he stays there until his dick goes soft and slips out, and with that, reality slams back in as the ecstasy fades.

Tears prickle my eyes. This is the part I hate. The part after we lost ourselves in one another, lost every sense of real life and the shitstorm we’re trapped in.

It’s as if he feels it, too, the weight of everything slamming back in with a force that shatters and breaks, and lifts himself off me, stepping away.

Slowly, I ease up, his cum sliding down my thighs as I straighten.

Something like paper crinkles, and I suck in a breath when he’s behind me again, this time crouching, one hand delicately touching my leg while the other drags something hard and rough up my inner thigh, wiping up the cum that’s dripping from me.

As he straightens, I’m desperately holding on to a sob when he places, on the table before me, the crumpled-up, cum-stained papers.

Our divorce papers.

With searing lips, he places a tender kiss on the back of my neck, featherlight, then leans in close to my ear and says, “The only way you’re getting rid of me is by putting a bullet in my head.”

Chapter 16

CAELIAN

Idon’t walk out. She expects me to, but I don’t.

I straighten my clothes, go to the corner of the room where the discreet bar’s situated, and pour myself another bourbon. “Drink?”

---