But that was while we were married. Now that we’re not anymore—legally, anyway—he’s going to make sure everything counts. He can be traditional like that. He’s not putting his climax anywhere but between my legs.
“Oh!” My lips slip off his shaft and are buried in his thigh the next time he smacks me with the crop. It burns, a little. “Please,” I finally mutter. “You’re killing me. Make love to me.”
“I’m killing you? What a world this is.” Ian pushes me down onto the bed, and I thank my lucky star that he’s finally pulling my damned pants off. Fuck, I really am wet. It was easy to ignore when I had clothes on, but now I feel how cold it is between my legs, even though the air is fairly warm. It’s not getting better. “All right. If you want it that badly, we’ll consummate our annulment.”
“That is the most unromantic thing you have ever said.”
“Au contraire. I think you mean it’s the most romantic.”
I think he’s going to pull my hips down and take me like this, with his muscular body looming over mine and his eyes boring a thousand holes into my soul.
And he does.
“Fucking finally!” I moan, the head of his cock burrowing deep within me to the great satisfaction of us both. Ian stops long enough to rip his shirt off and toss it on the floor. I have no idea what happened to his pants. I don’t give a fuck. My naked, handsome husband is finally taking up the cosmos’ offer of a marital right. Best part of all? It’s so extramarital.
Even so, I probably feel as comfortable as a married woman with her husband. I know exactly how Ian will feel inside me. I know exactly how he’ll move, how he’ll groan and grunt, and finally how he’ll unleash himself within me. I anticipate it all. I want it all.
His mouth is on my throat. His hands all over my breasts and grabbing my arms, then my hips. He owns me. He completely, utterly owns me, and the way he fills me up inside is something only the man who calls himself my husband can accomplish.
Ian curses a lot during sex, and tonight is no different. I welcome the familiar words, admonishments, and praises laced in vulgarity. He doesn’t call me anything naughty tonight. He’s too busy fucking me senseless. My only regret is that my hands are still behind my back and I can’t touch him.
“Come on,” I whine, my body anticipating the next climax it so sorely wants. “Come in me and make me yours.”
I know he wants to, but for some reason my words inspire Ian to pull out and leave me hanging with two spread legs and nothing to show for it. With an erection that has got to be painful by now, he gets off the bed and goes back to my suitcase one last time. There are about five different things he can pull out of there. To my great trepidation—and joy—he takes out the one spreader bar I packed.
Oh, so I’m not spread enough for him? Bring it on.
I’m flipped onto my knees again, this time with a spreader bar attaching to my ankles and keeping my legs wide open. I feel so exposed. So available. The burning feminist inside of me finds the implication fucked the hell up, but the horny, devil-may-care bride taking over me is prepared to be sexually prepped for her husband at any hour. And this is our hour.
“Tell me you want it.” Ian’s on top of me, pulling my ass against his stomach so his cock can rub against my slit. Arms wrap beneath my torso and bring my head up, his breath so hot against my face that I almost turn away from it. “Beg for it.”
He pulls my blouse off and unsnaps my bra as I gather my bearings. I’m spread, my ass is sore from a crop, and I’ve already been fucked by both his fingers and cock. On top of this, we’ve had a very emotional week, and I’ve spent the past half hour thinking of him as my husband. To have the man I sometimes also call my Dom tell me to beg for it... I both want to tell him to piss off and do exactly as he says.
“Please.” My voice is muffled by the pillow. He pulls on my hair, and my face is up, eyes staring at the ceiling. “Please, fuck me!”
He spanks my ass. My knees would buckle if they could. I know that my core is begging for him to touch it again.
“Who am I to you?” He’s growling in my ear. His cock is right at my entrance, and it’s begging for him to penetrate me over and over again.
Somehow, I formulate words. “You’re my husband.”
“Who are you?”
It’s going down my leg now—that’s how ready I am. “I’m your wife.”
“Damn straight you are.”
My husband doesn’t just fuck me. He impales me against the bed, holding my shoulders down one second so he can thrust into me with amazing power—and then he’s sitting back, pulling my hair so I sit up and let him grab my breasts. No matter what happens, I can’t close my legs around him. They’re permanently spread. He’s made me so vulnerable that I have no choice but to take whatever he gives me. And he’s giving me one hard thrust after another, piercing me so deep that the sounds coming out of my mouth are almost inhuman.