Page 70 of Fox
I am his. Have been since he came into the diner late in the night, and I served him cassoulet.
His hands travel up, finding my wrists, pinning them behind my back, and he uses them like a handle, pistoning deeper.
One of his hands finds my clit, and he begins to thrum it like he always does in the way he knows that drives me to the brink and then off the edge.
He lets out a shuddering moan that starts low. “I fucking love you, Lucy.”
Those words undo me.
Orgasms usually creep up on me, a gentle tidal wave, but this one rips through me like a detonation, the kind that promises to level a city block.
I come hard enough to see static.
My scream is a strangled wail, boneless.
He thrusts into me through the aftershocks, not slowing for my writhing, my messy tears, my release.
He lets go of my wrists, and I know he’s getting close because his movements have become frantic. “You’re perfect, Luce.”
He leans down and bites my shoulder—his signature—and comes with a snarl, holding me tight. He stays like that,shuddering inside me. I can feel his pulse hammering through both our bodies.
Then Fox slides out, catching me when my knees turn useless.
He spins me around, lips swollen and eyes wild, and kisses me, deep and greedy, as if he can’t get enough oxygen unless he takes it straight from my lungs.
When he finally pulls back, I can taste the metallic tang of my own blood where he’s split my lip.
I laugh, dazed and punch-drunk, and he laughs, too, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.
“You okay?” His thumb caresses the bruise blooming on my neck.
“More than okay.”
He kisses my forehead, nips my earlobe, and whispers. “Don’t ever forget what it’s like between us again.”
I nod, still trembling, the truth ringing in my bones. “Make me remember every day.”
25
LET’S GO TO BED
FOX
Ihave had the worst case of blue balls. But you can’t just ask to make love to your wife who went through a nasty accident and is still pretending she doesn’t remember you.
So, I have been doing whatever I can to seduce her without being too obvious about it, and finally, when she gave in, I lost my cool. I fucked her like a feral animal, and I should feel bad about it, I should’ve given her a bed and romance—but this wasn’t sex, this was me claiming her, and I can’t regret how it went down.
But now that my cock and my brain are not desperately trying to get inside her, I can give her a bed and make love to her the way I want to—explore her body, which I’ve missed so much. This isn’t about slamming into her like a beast—this is about savoring every inch of her, worshipping, making her feel cherished.
Her skin’s still slick from our kitchen escapade, her thighs trembling as I lay her down on the bed.
I can smell us—the tang of sweat, the musk of sex, the faint sweetness of her arousal clinging to the air.
I take off her dress, then her bra. Her panties are on the floor in the kitchen.
Her breasts rise and fall with every breath, those pale, perfect mounds still flushed from how rough I was with her moments ago.
Her nipples are hard little peaks, begging for my mouth, which I’m going to taste because I’m taking my time this round.
