I reached behind my back, tugging at the string that kept my crisscross dress fastened, and let it loose. The fabric fell at the front, exposing my heavy breasts.
Cillian’s breath hitched. He looked away again at the wall, pulling out, then driving into me once.
Thrust.
Thrust.
Thrust.
His movements were measured, controlled, designed to hold back. He wasn’t here. Not really.
“Nice kitchen,” I commented, making idle conversation. I refused to allow him to forget I was in the room as he sank into me. As my muscles involuntarily squeezed around his heavy hardness, begging him for more. Tremors danced along my skin. “Did you get it remodeled recently?”
He grunted, squeezing his eyes shut and driving into me again with more force. I let out a moan. I didn’t mean to take pleasure in this, just as I was pretty sure Cillian didn’t mean to hit my G-spot. Regardless, both those things happened, and I felt my thighs quivering around his narrow waist. The hot, pressed-silk of his cock drove me mad, and my mouth watered.
Thrust.
Another whimper escaped me.
“We fit so good,” I purred.
He covered my mouth with his palm, looking pained and disgusted with both of us.
Thrust.
I threw my head back, pressing my eyes shut as I felt my breasts bouncing to the pace of his jerks. I hated that I enjoyed it. Hated that I was going to come apart completely unprompted. But I couldn’t blame myself. Cillian was a fantasy, and having him inside me was enough to ignite my world and detonate it into a different galaxy all by itself.
Thrust.
“Kill.” I licked his palm on my mouth, inserting my tongue between his fingers.
Another exasperated groan from him. He picked up the pace, and I knew he was losing it. Losing the precious control he valued so much. The thing that kept him from taking his own wife to bed. I grabbed one of his hands, putting it on my breast, and clutched the wrist of the hand he still used to shut me up, licking his fingers one by one like the lollipop I had in my mouth earlier today, sucking each of them individually.
Thrust.
Thrust.
Thrust.
The orgasm uncurled in the pit of my stomach, warm and sweet. It slithered down to my legs, up to my chest and arms. Desire licked every inch of my flesh. My muscles tightened. Then he let out a harsh growl, grabbed the back of my thighs, and began plowing into me so hard and fast, I thought he was going to tear me apart.
“Cillian,” I cried out, clawing at the marble. He flattened me against the surface, threw my legs over his shoulders, and pounded into me harder, penetrating me deeper, the hand that lay dormant on my breast trekking up to my neck, grabbing it in a vicious hold.
Finally. Out of control.
He invaded me like a Roman army with a ruthlessness that robbed me of my breath, his hold bruising my neck, his hatred toward both of us at that moment scorching my soul.
I felt his hot cum shooting inside me, the violent ripples rolling through his muscled body between my legs.
His head flopped down, his face nestled by his shoulder, turned away from me like a wilted rose on a stem. I let my head drop back to the granite, laughing drunkenly.
I did it.
I made him feel.
Pleasure at the very least, but also anger and frustration and disgust.
A cold whoosh of air stroked the damp spot between my legs. I popped my eyes open, realizing my husband was no longer in the kitchen.
He left.
Straightening up and sitting down, I blinked.
“Cillian?” I looked around.
Mortified, I tied the back of my dress, put on my jacket and panties, and stumbled out of the kitchen, hunting for my husband.
His house was massive, boasting curved hallways, dozens of doors, and a stairway leading to a second floor. It was only my second time inside. Naturally, I’d never gotten an official tour.
I spotted Petar by the entrance, talking to a guy in khaki pants and a blue hoodie with a maintenance company name on it. They were heading toward the kitchen. Feeling like a thief, I tiptoed up the curved stairway before Petar spotted me. The second floor was wide and tall like a cathedral. Cillian’s house, much like his parents’, was more old-world luxury than the modern, kitschy pads you saw on Selling Sunset.
I worked my way through the rooms, pushing each door open halfway until I reached a pair of double doors that were presumably his room. I pressed my palm over the oak, not wanting to intrude, but hating to leave without a sense of closure, either. This was huge. We just had sex.
“Kill?”
No answer.
“Are you okay?”
It occurred to me that maybe he wasn’t. Maybe I pushed him too far, too fast.
Maybe you shouldn’t have laughed like a nut.