Page 130 of My Husband Problem

I move my hips and sink a little deeper, gratified to feel her take me with no tension and no hitch in her breathing.

She feels fucking incredible, and it kills me that there is a point where this could hurt her.

I feel myself tense with that thought and force myself to relax.

“That’s it,” I tell her. “You’re doing so well. Keep going. I want you to feel so fucking good.”

I stroke in and out a few times and then try going deeper again.

And sure enough, there’s a point where I feel her tense.

She sucks in a quick breath, and I stop.

“Dammit,” she says, her voice broken.

I lift my head and look into her eyes.

She looks like she’s about to cry, and that I cannot handle.

I cup the back of her head.

“We have to stop,” I tell her.

She shakes her head. “Maybe it’ll get better.”

I frown. “I am not fucking you with pain just in case it gets better.”

Her eyes fill with tears, and I feel like someone is yanking my heart out of my chest.

I pull out and immediately sink to my knees. I kiss up her inner thigh, then lick over her clit. “Is this okay?” I ask.

She doesn’t reply. I look up. “Can I make you come like this?”

Her hands tangle in my hair. “You don’t have to.”

“I am going to make you come. If I can’t do it with my cock, I will do it this way.”

I lean in and start eating at her, licking and sucking until she’s gasping my name. I don’t add fingers. I just work at her sweet clit until she’s coming, gripping my hair and calling out my name.

Then I rise and pull her against my chest.

She starts to cry, and I feel my own eyes sting as I hold her.

It’s several minutes before she sniffs and pulls back. She wipes her eyes and then nudges me back.

I let her slide off the desk, pick up her underwear and pants, and disappear into her en suite bathroom.

I do a little clean up as well and straighten my clothes, shrugging back into my jacket.

Both of our phones are buzzing with texts, and I see that we’ve both missed phone calls.

I don’t give a fuck.

I want to sweep my wife up, take her home, and tuck her into her cozy space on the back patio with her big multicolored cushions, her twinkle lights, a milkshake, and her cat and ducks.

She emerges as I am scrolling through texts that are telling me reporters are waiting downstairs to interview us, the team is wondering where I am, and Iris has questions for me.

Astrid is completely put back together. She fixed her makeup, and she again looks like the kick-ass lady boss of the Rebel Revelers and Bayou Otters.