Page 24 of Her Ex's Father
His cock nudges at my entrance. He doesn’t just slip in, and I widen my stance, anticipating pain when he rams into me.
But he doesn’t.
Hand still on my lower back, Ben pumps shallowly, his cock slowly and insistently stretching my entrance as I moan, head falling forward.
It’s a teasing, distracting sensation, waves of buzzing pleasure rolling over my body.
His fingers tighten on my ass as he thrusts a little deeper. Just enough to make me gasp out:
“Please.”
“I’m right aren’t I?” he murmurs, thrusting slowly and shallow, the sound of my pussy trying to take his cock obscene. “You need a goodfuck,don’t you, Maddie?”
“Mmm,” I moan in agreement. “Please, Ben, I?—”
“Tell me you want me to fuck you.”
He bends over me, cock sliding in slowly until he’s seated to the hips. The satisfying stretch, a slow burn that makes my pussy pulse with need, makes my vision blur.
“I want you to fuck me,” I gasp, trying to grind my ass against him as he chuckles in the dark.
“Good girl.”
And just like that, he pulls back and slams into me again.
It’s rough. Fast. Almost painful, but tipped in pleasure. His hands find purchase at my hips, my waist, at one point cupping my breasts and pulling me straight up against me as he pumps into me ferociously.
His other hand locks at my jaw, tipping my head back.
He bites the junction of my neck and shoulder, then tweaks my nipple, reaches down and plays my clit with the perfect amount of pressure and rhythm.
“Come for me, good girl.”
It’s a shock of heat and pleasure so sharp it steals the sound from my throat. My fingers dig into his forearm, holding on as my whole body clenches around him.
And somewhere in the haze, the thought cuts through—clear and terrifying.
I’m in trouble.
Because it’s only been hours since I married this man, and I’ve already crossed a line there’s no coming back from.
Chapter 8
Benedict
Sunlight sharpens the edges of everything this morning. The mountains look closer, the snow brighter, the air outside my window too clean for the way my head feels.
I’ve been awake for hours. Not working. Not sleeping. Just sitting with the weight of what happened last night.
I told myself not to touch her. That it would only make this mess worse. That she was my son’s intended, and this was temporary.
Then she stood there in silk and lace and fire, looking at me like she wanted to bite and be bitten.
Now I can still taste her.
I rake a hand through my hair and force myself into motion—shirt, slacks, the armor of a day that has nothing to do with what I want. Downstairs, I tell a member of the staff to set up breakfast for her. The kind that takes up the whole table: fresh berries, smoked salmon, pastries, eggs from some local farm the chef is proud of. A distraction.
I don’t plan on joining her.
