Page 33 of Merging Wright

The idea that he knows my favorite pie surprises me. Maybe it wasn’t just luck the other day in the diner when he picked up the last piece for me.

“How do you know that?” I whisper-strain.

“I pay attention to details.” His eyes lock on mine for an intense second before he clears his throat.

“I’m kind of a pie man myself,” he adds. While one hand works my hair to rinse it, the other coasts down my middle, along the valley between my breasts that he’d confessed he liked. Straight between my thighs he slides to emphasize his preference for pie.

“Mach,” I moan. “Again?”

His fingers stroke lightly over my folds, tickling me, winding me up.

“It seems my body is saying yes.” My wrist is encircled, and Mach draws my arm forward until my fingers brush against the firmness of him. I wrap my hand around his hard shaft. “I normally need more time to recover.”

We aren’t young, and I’ve heard it can take a man a little longer to perform a second time as he ages. Thus, the invention of little blue pills. But as I take my time to stroke Mach’s heavy dick, he grows within my palm until he’s long, hard, and ready once more.

His fingers intensify in the pressure, giving me the pleasuring friction I need.

“If I only get one night, I’ll need you more than once.” Mach kisses my shoulder and then my neck.

I purr in agreement as we lazily stroke one another until my breath starts to hitch. Mach removes his fingers, and I squeeze him extra hard, wanting his touch back.

“Turn around, baby,” he commands.

I release him, spinning toward the wall.

Mach reaches around me, quickly returning his fingers to my clit while bending me forward. “Tell me you want me inside you again.”

“I want you inside—”

He surges into me, taking my breath. I pitch forward, but he tugs me back to him. With my hands braced on the tile, I leverage myself to match the rhythm he sets of rushing into me on repeat. He’s suddenly wild, and the rapid slap of us connecting meshes with the pattering of the shower. His fingers work my clit as fast as he slips in and out of me.

“Mach,” I choke as the tension builds quickly, and I recognize him reaching the end.

“Gotta come, baby,” he groans behind me.

I rock back, dragging him to the hilt inside me. “Yes.”

“Not without you.”

The comment startles me, and I concentrate harder to get where I need to go. He pinches my clit, and I scream as that does the trick to send another bubbling release. As I pulse around Mach’s heaviness inside me, he pumps inward—once, twice, a third time—and then stills. The strain in his grunt echoes off the tile around us. One hand holds my hip, keeping me in place. The other cups me, where he enters me, fingers spread to accommodate his entrance. The position feels intimate and different, as if he’s holding himself within me.

His forehead comes to the back of my head. “Fuck, you’re better than champagne.”

Feeling drunk on my husband, I laugh.

+ + +

When we climb into bed, Mach pulls the covers over our naked bodies and tugs me into his chest. His body molds to mine as my back absorbs the heat of him from the shower.

“We didn’t dance,” Mach sleepily mutters against my nape. For a man who doesn’t believe in romance, he’s certainly a stickler for wedding rituals.

Then again, he’s done this before. I’m not the first Mrs. Wright. I’m the good-enough-for-right-now wife. With such heavy thoughts, I close my eyes, pushing away the negativity.

Tomorrow, I will accept the truth. Tonight, I’m going to bask in the man at my back. My hand rests on his forearm braced against my breast and I absorb the heat of his skin while noticing the unevenness of it. Small bumps and jagged ridges blend within the ink on his arms. In the darkness of the room, I’m not able to inspect the colorful design or the subtle dips of puckered ridges over his arm.

Did something happen to him? Are these scars?

My thoughts drift. Tomorrow, I’ll ask.