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Her nails dig into my back.
“More?” I ask.
She clutches me tighter.
“Shit. There’s not enough room on this couch; we need a bigger one for this room.”
I lift her and put her on her back on the rug, but immediately change my mind about the position and turn her to her belly.
“Knees, Chloe. Lift that sweet ass in the air for your husband.”
She does it and her breathing has quickened. On my knees now, I grab her hip with one hand and guide my way inside with the other. She’s even wetter now. For me. As soon as I hit the end of her, I grab her tits and raise her to the same position as me, kissing the side of her neck.
She whimpers as my right hand slides down and cups between her legs. I work her bundle of nerves, fucking into her from behind, now tonguing the ridge of her ear as her head rolls back onto my shoulder.
I catch sight of her wedding rings on her finger and feel fierce affection in my chest. Love. Love for her.
I have marked her with those. Those rings on her finger, my name attached to hers? She’s mine. This is what I want. Making her come. Making her want me. Making her want to look after me, though I’m going to look after her first.
“I love you, Chloe,” I tell her, kissing her neck, then wrapping my hand around it while continuing to slam into her over and over. “And I want you. I want to do this to you every single day until I can’t.”
She falls forward, crying out while trembling through her climax.
I knee-walk us forward enough to prop her torso on the couch cushion while I increase my pace and intensity, chasing my own climax, fucking her until sensation trills from my spine to my nuts, my vision blurring as I spill my load inside her, tightening my grip on her throat just a little.
She’s whimpering non-stop for a good ninety seconds when she finally goes slack.
Not long until she’s on the sugar pills instead of birth control. I run my hand up her flat stomach.
I put my mouth to her ear. “I can barely wait to breed my sexy, smart, irresistible wife. Want you round, and tied to me forever.” I kiss her neck. “How many babies you want me to put inside you?”
She’s panting. Breathless. Sated. Boneless. Quiet.
“Maybe one of these days, my wife will answer the question. I look forward to it.”
I pull out and turn her into my arms, lifting her up and putting her on the couch. Her eyes are closed. She’s hiding from me again.
I pull the soft blanket from the basket on the floor beside it and drape it over her, lean down, kiss her, haul my underwear and jeans back into place, then go down the hall to use the john.
When I’m back, she’s still curled up on the couch, eyes open now and pointed at the fireplace. I grab the fireplace remote and start it up, so she’s got something to stare at. She now wears a face full of regret.
And I feel an unpleasant twinge in my chest.
“I’ll get you there,” I say. “I promise.”
And I mean that. I’ll get her to a place where eye contact will mean I get her smiles, her promises, sweet words.
I turn the microwave on and when it beeps, pull out the warm taco shells. I heat up the meat, and carry the whole platter to the coffee table in front of the couch she’s on. She’s filled the compartments with salsa, cheese, sour cream, and one with shredded lettuce and diced tomato. I fetch a bottle of beer and join her at the couch, setting my plate on the table. She bends her legs to make room for me.
“There’s taco sauce in the fridge. And squeezable guac,” she says.
“Mm, good. Want anything?” I ask.
She shakes her head.
I go get them and ask, “Mind if I catch the news?”
She shakes her head again.
