Page 40 of Six Month Wife
A quiet inhale stutters in my throat. She’s not playing, she’s claiming.
I lift her, naked, flushed, breathtaking, and flip her backaround, shoving her against the wet tile wall. Her skin’s hot and slick beneath my hands. Her thighs wrap tightly around my waist as her heels dig into my back like she can’t get close enough.
Her nails bite into my shoulders. “Goddamn, I need this today,” she breathes. Her voice is ragged and desperate. “I need you.”
“You have me,” I growl, dragging the thick head of my dick through her wet folds, teasing the slick heat until she’s panting against my mouth, trying to grind down.
I reach blindly for my shorts on the floor at my feet and grab the foil packet from the pocket. She watches, breathless, her eyes heavy-lidded and hungry.
The condom slides on fast, practiced. My hands are shaking with the need to be inside her.
Then I thrust hard into her, reaching deep, pinning her against the wall with the force. She gasps as her head snaps back. Her lips part on a moan so raw it damn near breaks me.
“Fuck me, Parker, harder.”
I obey, thrusting into her, driving in and out.
The sound of skin slapping echoes through the small steam room, drowned only by her cries and the ragged scrape of my breath against her throat. Her pussy clenches around me, tight and greedy, milking every drive like she’s trying to own it.
She bites my neck. I fuck her harder.
Her body arches, and she clenches tightly as she trembles. Then she grinds down hard, pulsing around me. A strangled moan rips from her throat as she shudders, hips jerking like I’ve cracked something open inside her.
“Oh shit, I’m—” she starts, but it’s too late.
She falls apart, and I go right with her, driving deep and staying there as I spill inside her, groaning against herjaw. She’s the only goddamn thing keeping me tethered to this earth.
I don’t move. I can’t. My body shudders as the last of my seed spills out.
She’s still clinging to me, her breath hot and fast against my throat. Her fingers are still tangled in my hair, like letting go might undo whatever this was.
It wasn’t casual. And it sure as hell wasn’t fake.
I hold her, my heart thundering, my body still buried inside hers. The steam-filled air is thick with sweat and sex. I breathe her in because right now, nothing feels more real than this.
She shifts in my arms, her skin wet and still flushed. For an exaggerated minute, neither of us says anything.
Then she exhales against my chest and mutters, “Well, if this six-month marriage tanks, at least we’ve got a solid fallback career in performance art.”
I laugh, startled by the rush of affection that hits me. She’s grounded in all the best ways, even when she’s sending me into a freefall. I catch her wrist, tug her in for one last kiss. It's deep and familiar.
And dangerous.
“You’re right about that. I think we’re selling the hell out of this brand. Thanks for the marketing tip.”
She smirks, but there’s a flicker. It's quick, even almost unreadable, before she turns away and starts pulling her clothes back on like she didn’t wreck me six ways from Sunday.
We laugh like this is still pretend, like the stakes haven’t shifted. But I know everything is different. It's deep in my chest, in my gut. I know because I already want more.
She moves like it meant nothing. And maybe that’s part of the performance. But it wasn't acting. Not for me.
I open my mouth, maybe to joke, maybe to admitsomething I shouldn’t, but she flashes that smug little smile over her shoulder, the one that says she’s in control. The one that makes me want to lose it all over again.
She grabs her water bottle and straightens. Her eyes meet mine. “You good?”
I nod, swallowing it all down. “Exceptional.”
She disappears through the door, leaving steam and chaos in her wake.
