Breaking the Bully

I meant what I said.

She was never without me.

I tried. I tried to give her space, so she could recover from her father’s abuse. So she could come to terms with having feelings for me, the boy who bullied her for two torturous years. But in reality, I only made it one day before I found her again. I called my aunt, sick out of my mind, begging to know where Allie decided to attend college. I sold my trailer and followed. Lived in a motel for five months, watching her come and go from classes, the bookstore. Watched her plant flowers in the ground. Keeping my distance was the most painful brand of torture, but I deserved it for those two years of bullying. I’d earned the pain for what I did to the girl I love. So I endured it. I waited.

There’s no more waiting now, though, as my wife crashes into my arms, both of us stumbling a little under the relief of being back together.

“Moore,” she whispers into my neck, her fingers already yanking at my belt buckle, whipping leather through the loops. “Moore.”

“I know, baby.” I hiss a breath when she slides her touch into my jeans, stroking my erection through my briefs. “I know. I know.”

My impatient hands yank up her skirt to her waist, tugging her tight, little thong to one side, drawing her left knee up my hip and pumping home. We stagger, groaning, melting into each other, the act of joining like a balm to our frenzied minds. Taking her mouth in a wet kiss, I bend my knees slightly so she can climb me, wrapping her gorgeous legs right where they belong, around my waist.

And I walk us toward the house I built for her.

Nudging the front door open with my foot, I climb the stairs slowly and she knows, she knows I’m taking her to her favorite room. The room at the very top of the three-story, cabin-style home. The anticipation is there in her sigh, the way she smiles into my kiss and starts to roll her hips.

I have to stop to pump into her perfect heat a few times, no choice, no choice, but finally we make it upstairs to the room and step inside. I lay her down on the bed, the only piece of furniture in the room. Just a king-sized mattress with a fitted white sheet positioned below the double-paned glass ceiling. From her back, she can see directly up to the sky. She can experience the storms while I’m storming inside of her. There has been cloud cover moving in all day. She has anticipated this—and as the lightning show starts overhead, I don’t let her down, my wife’s screams filling the house, the woods that surround us.

“I love you,” I grit into her ear, my sweat dripping onto her skin.

Her eyes go blind, breath catching. “I love you, too. I love you, I love you…”

THE END