“Ohhh…” I moan. I can taste myself on my lips, a weird thing I’ve learned to like and even crave. He rides me slowly, pinning my hands up against our headboard and bringing his free hand down, dipping two fingers inside me, so that I’m deliciously stretched and begging for my release. He rides me with quiet intensity, taking his time, even though he knows that Vaughn will be here any minute. He likes to see me squirm and worry. Watch the anxiousness in my eyes. Even after all these years, it still turns him on, but the truth is, it turns me on, too.
“Hurry up,” I groan.
“Sweetheart, don’t forget who bosses whom around here.” He goes even slower, and I’m panting, and wriggling, fighting him for more friction. I want to come. I need to come.
“Vaughn will be here any minute.”
“He knows his parents have sex. Unless he still thinks we found him under a gooseberry bush.”
I snort out a nervous laugh, and he takes my hands, which he pinned to the board, and plants them on his butt and back. “Shut up and let me fuck you, Emilia.”
“Make me come, then,” I order, my voice quivering. And it’s a mistake, I know it before I’m even done uttering the words, because he pulls out halfway, his tip and some of his shaft still inside me, and begins to move in delicious circles, prolonging my orgasm even more. His fingers that were shoved inside my pussy a moment ago are now in my mouth. He is stuffing me with them so I won’t be able to moan loudly.
“See? Problem solved. Now I can fuck you well into next week and our kid wouldn’t even notice, because you won’t make a sound.”
Vicious has always been good and proper. He possesses the manners of the old-moneyed, but at the same time, he loves to watch me widen my eyes in horror with some of the things he says. Sometimes I do it just to get his rocks off. Then I remind him with a biting tongue that I’m not some damsel in distress.
The sound of the entry door opening and closing makes my eyes broaden. I stare at my husband with the horror of a woman who knows her son well enough to predict he will stop by our room to tell us goodnight so that we know he is here, because he knows we stay awake until he gets back home.
The smirk on Vicious’ lips alone makes my core clench around him involuntarily, and he withdraws his fingers from between my lips, cups my mouth with his hand, and begins to ride me so hard and so fast, I’m worried he will tear me apart.
“Oh, Lord, oh, Lord, oh, Lord,” I chant, my voice muffled by his palm. The spasm is violent, ripping at my insides like a tempest. It feels like an electric shock as he rides me into a place it will take me hours to recover from. The heat swirls in my stomach and the wetness pulling underneath us in bed. I tear my eyes away from Vicious’, knowing that I could scream even through his hand if I see what’s inside them, the tortured boy I fantasized about every night in my bed as a teenager. I come in his arms, wave after wave of pleasure slamming into me from within.
“Mom? Dad?” I hear Vaughn coming up the stairs, eating something crunchy. The click of a spoon against fine china. Cocoa Pops is my bet. The room reeks of sex and we are both sweating. The heady, sweet scent of my lust, combined with the saltiness of Vicious’ cum dripping between us, is a dead giveaway to what we’ve been doing. And I shouldn’t be embarrassed, but I am. Vicious rolls off of me and chuckles, covering his face with his forearm so that all I can see are his pearly-whites.
“Yes, honey,” I yell back to Vaughn, clearing my throat when I realize how guilty and embarrassed I sound. “I’m just getting dressed for bed. Everything okay?”
“Can you stop by my room before you go to sleep?”
Vicious and I exchange looks. This is unlike Vaughn, but at least he passed by our door without knocking on it or pushing it open. Vicious gives me half a shrug, his eyebrows crinkling with amusement.
“I think we still have kiddie books in the attic if he needs a goodnight story.”
I elbow his ribs lightly and roll my eyes. “I hate you.”
“Your pussy didn’t seem to get the memo.” He moves over to his side of the bed and pushes his nightstand drawer open to produce a joint. I motion him with my hand to go outside to the patio, and he nods solemnly. I don’t need Vaughn to see it and get any ideas. The women of the HotHole crew have successfully managed to shelter the kids from the fact that their fathers are perpetual stoners thus far. As far as my knowledge goes, none of them are smokers, thank God.