Next comes the sound of tearing fabric—him ripping my white lace panties down the middle.
I feel rather than see his cock dip down to line up with my entrance.
Then he grips my ass cheeks with his rough, callused hands and…
I moan when he slowly pushes in, stretching my walls with an invading sting. But that sting fades fast after he’s all the way inside of me.
His lips fall away, and he lets out an angry growl like an animal as he presses the top of his head into the door beside my face and begins thrusting himself inside me.
I used the stuff he taught me. I did.
I didn't hit or push Jonathan away after we fell back into our relationship. I laid there obediently while he did his business on top of me. And sometimes, if I closed my eyes and thought of someone else—one particular someone else—sex with him would approach feeling good.
But it was never like this.
Waylon pulls back, then thrust into me again, and this time there’s not even a sting of protest from between my legs. I'm so wet and hungry for his cock, he slides smoothly, in and out, and I press my white satin heels into his back, urging him along.
The way he fills me up—it's like nothing I've ever felt before. It makes me realize that the sex we shared in my apartment was only the tip of the iceberg. He'd been in recovery when he took my virginity. But he's strong now. So strong—and determined to reclaim me.
His ridiculously masculine smell of engine, wind, and leather fills my nose as he fucks me hard with both hands gripping my ass. Somewhere in the distance, I hear footsteps approaching.
Trudy’s voice calls out, “Jonathan, Jonathan, darling is everything all right? Are you and Amira ready to come back to the church?"
On the floor, Jonathan groans. He’s waking back up and probably in a world of pain.
But I’ve gone so feral. I can’t bring myself to care.
I cry out when Waylon thrust into me so hard it slides my back up the door and sends shockwaves of pleasure through my body.
“Oh…ah…it seems that they’re making up,” Trudy says outside of the door. “We should return to the sanctuary. I'm sure they’ll come back out when they’re done—I mean, when they’re finished talking through this small misunderstanding."
The footsteps recede. I should be mortified.
But my arousal has reached a tipping point. The cliff is so close. I can't reel myself back. I can only cling to Waylon as he fucks me into the door, uncaring of the people on the other side of the wood or the man groaning on the floor.
“Would you have done it if you didn’t see me standing up on the balcony?” he demands. “Would you have married that fuck when you and I both know you belong to me?”
I don’t…I don’t belong to him.
But he kisses me before I can answer, his lips bruising and hard. Then he says, “I don’t remember what rule we left off on—but the next one is, you’re not allowed to deny me. You do that, this is what you get.”
Somewhere in the far-gone recesses of my mind, I realize that while I’m burning alive, for him, the sex is a cruel and deliberate punishment. I cry out and claw at the tough leather of his jacket.
Not because he's hurting me. Not because I’m disgusted by his unreasonable claim. I cry out because his punishment feels so insanely good. And he pistons into me so hard the door begins to shake.
It's so noisy—there’s a good possibility everyone back in the church can hear us now. But I don't care. I can't care. My whole world has been reduced to the feelings pulsing between my legs.
“Your cunt is squeezing my cock so hard….” He growls in my ear, that cruel, teasing note I remember sneaking back into his voice. “Come on this cock, angel. That's the only apology I'll accept. You need to show your teacher you learned your lesson.”
His words…his filthy words—they do something to me. I shudder, then shake as my release washes over me.
At the same time, he grabs my hips and thrusts me down on his steel erection, impaling me as he shouts out. His cock jets inside of me, filling me up with his cum.
We both make ugly, guttural sounds as we find our release. Yet, we hold each other as the sensations wash over us, vibrating at the same frequency. A beautiful note only the two of us can hear.
“Mimi! How could you?” a voice croaks somewhere behind the man who just fucked me in my wedding gown.
It's Jonathan.
Over Waylon's shoulder, I can see that he’s sitting up on one arm, staring at us through the eye that’s not swollen shut.
Oh my God, oh my God.