Mr. Masters (Mr. 1)

He smiles against my lips. “That’s a first.” He smirks as he starts to slowly pump me.

“W-what do you… mean?” I pant.

“Nobody has ever said that to me before.”

I laugh as he pulls out and slams back into me, knocking the air from my lungs. He pumps me hard again. “And if I want to be mushy with my wife I have every fucking right to be.”

I laugh again as he lifts my legs over his shoulders once more and really lets me have it. His knees are wide to give him traction, and I can see every muscle in his stomach ripple as he moves. Strong, punishing hits as the bed smacks the wall with force.

Oh, he won’t be easy to forget.

My body starts to quiver again, and he smiles darkly, sensing my orgasm’s arrival. He knows his way around a woman’s body.

Damn.

Of course he does.

Our bodies are covered in a sheen of perspiration and I close my eyes to try and stop the orgasm. I want this to last. I need this to last.

“I… don’t want… to come,” he pants.

“Me neither,” I breathe as I pull him back to my lips. “Promise me we will do this again in a minute.”

He laughs against me. “We can do this all night, Bloss.” I smile as he lifts my behind with his hand to really hit the end of me, and I cry out as my body contracts around his large muscle.

“Fuck, yeah!” he calls as his head rolls forward and he comes in a rush.

We stay still, both gasping for air. Both wet with perspiration.

Jesus Christ…

What the hell was that?

His mouth meets mine and he kisses me softly as he cups my jaw. I smile against his lips and he kisses me tenderly again. “What an excellent wife you are.”

I laugh and he rolls us so that I am now on top of his large body. I rest my head against his chest as I try to catch my breath.

His hand drops between my legs and he spreads them so they hang over each side of his body. He starts to work me again; his three large fingers slide into my wet, swollen flesh. “That was the entrée and this is a ten-course meal.”

Four hours and four showers later, I lie in the semi-darkened room with my fake husband. The light is just peeking through the crack in the drapes. My head is on his chest and his large, muscular arms are around me. The night has been unbelievable to say the least. We have devoured each other, and if he wasn’t out of condoms we

probably still would be. I think we must have used a whole box.

“Where do you live?” he asks.

“New York,” I breathe. I cringe when I hear my husky voice—a symptomatic problem from lasts night’s Tequila and giving head activities, no doubt. “Where do you live?” I ask.

“Texas. Originally from Australia.”

I gently kiss his chest and smile in contentment. “I had a good wedding night.”

He kisses my forehead. “Me, too.” I feel his lips smile against my skin. “You probably won’t be walking for a while.”

I giggle into his chest. “Actually, can you organize a wheel chair to get me back to my room, please?”

“I would, but I think I will be using it myself.”

We lie in comfortable silence for a while longer. His hand runs back and forth over my behind, as if he’s memorizing every inch.