Mail-Order Groom: A Valentine Romantic Comedy

Putain.

One moment, she was like a shy, uncertain kitten in his arms, and then all of a sudden she had turned into something else and something more, with her arms tightening around his neck as she started kissing him back. Her tongue began to mate with his, and at the first feel of her tongue thrusting inside of his mouth—-

Ah, fuck, fuck, fuck.

A groan escaped him as he felt his control start to break. He had never been the type to lose his mind over a kiss. Sex might be his favorite pastime, but he had never let it rule his life. He had always remained in command of himself even when fucking, and this had not changed no matter who he was fucking. Or at least it never did...until now. Until this. Until her.

And when he felt her start to move until he realized she was climbing into his lap—-

Putain de bordel de merde!

The bed dipped as she straddled him, and he could no longer think. He cupped her nape while his other hand went under her hospital gown—-

"Putain!"

He yanked back, and Charlee-Mae moaned in protest at the abrupt end of their kiss.

"You do not have any underwear," Philippe growled. "Pourquoi?"

"Uh..." Charlee-Mae had a hard time making her brain work. "Do you hate it?"

"Hate it?" A hoarse laugh escaped him. "It's more like..."

He said something in French, and although Charlee-Mae's proficiency in his language had improved over the years, she was just so turned on, lust had killed all of her brain cells, and all she could do was look at him helplessly. "What?"

"I said," Philippe gritted out, "it's killing me." And before she could answer, her husband chose to further demonstrate his answer, with his hand starting to move again under her gown.

Oh God!

Philippe's hand covered her mound, and her nails dug hard into his shoulders. "Philippe!"

Her imploring tone was matched by the plea in her amber eyes, and the combination had the last of his control disintegrating. All hell broke loose, and the consequences of what he was about to do simply ceased to matter.

This woman was his wife.

It was suddenly easy to think of her in such a manner, suddenly important to know that this woman was his alone.

Charlee-Mae was his wife, and so if his wife was silently begging him to make her cum—-

Mon Dieu!

His gaze took hers captive as he started kneading her pussy with just the heel of his palm, and not for a second did he allow his wife to look away. He wanted her to remember who it was giving her pleasure, wanted Charlee-Mae to be capable only of picturing his face every time her pussy started to tingle and quiver.

And tingle and quiver it did, and in every instance, his own hunger grew as he watched her face reveal her every thought and feeling. He had never met someone who was this unguarded with her feelings, and to see her own desires burn hotter and hotter, and know that it was all because of him—-

Putain.

He finally gave them what they both wanted, and her moan filled the room as his fingers finally acquainted themselves with the silky, swollen thickness of her folds.

"Oh God."

His hand moved down, and she moaned anew as his fingers started tracing the moist, throbbing lines of her flesh.

"Philippe!"

Her cry was of aching need and pleasure, and it nearly had him groaning as well.

So...goddamn...hot!

This woman was so fucking hot, and to think that she was his wife—-

Aaaaaaah!

Charlee-Mae couldn't stop herself from writhing, moaning, and rubbing herself against her husband's fingers, which proved to be just as divine as his mouth. If he could make her feel this wild and crazy just by stroking her folds, then what more, oh God...what more—-oh my, oh God, oh Lord!

His thumb had found its way to her little nub of flesh, and the way Philippe was using his thumb to stimulate her clit had her unable to last for more than a second. Pleasure consumed her out of nowhere, and all she could do was dig her nails into his shoulders and cry his name out as she started to cum...and...cum...and...cum.

"Philippe!"

Her orgasm seemed to last for an eternity, and by the time the shudders that rocked her body gradually faded, she felt so tired and sleepy she couldn't even utter a protest as Philippe laid her down on the bed.

He left her side briefly, and when he returned he had a wet washcloth in his hand, and butterflies in her stomach came to life as she felt him wipe her clean. She wondered if he had always been like this, and from there, she remembered yet again the question she had asked, and he had failed to answer.

"Philippe?" She waited until his jade-green eyes sought hers, and it was then she asked, "I got it right earlier, didn't I? We had a fight on our wedding day, and that's why I'm still a virgin?"