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Then I hear it.
There’s no way…I arch my neck, trying to hear better.
“Ah. Yes. God.”
It’s quiet, but there’s no doubting the silky moan floating through the wall. I almost think I’m dreaming until the sweet sound of my name follows. “Tate.”
My already angry erection grows hotter and thicker.
My wife, is next door, getting herself off, with my name on her lips.
A small whimper has my molars grinding to dust. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
“Oh. Yes. Right there.”
Does she know I can hear her? Is this another method of torture she’s pulled from her armory?
Our little escapade earlier barely took the edge off, not nearly enough to feed the starved, animalistic urges inside of me. It was cruel that she wouldn’t let me taste her bee-stung lips. Now, I’m imagining them stretched around my length, tears glistening in her eyes, her silky tresses woven around my fist as I fuck her wet mouth.
It’s pure agony.
I grunt with every twist of my wrist, precum pooling at the mushroom tip. I gather it in my palm, pretending the wetness is from her dripping pussy. If she hears me, she doesn’t let up. Her short gasps and whimpers continue like the sweetest, filthiest solo symphony.
Images of her hands down her panties, fingers slick with arousal, as she circles that little bud of nerves. Does she have two fingers in? Three? Is she palming her breasts? Pinching and rolling her nipples?
The possibilities are endless, and I allow each and every one of them to drive me toward my release.
If it were me filling her, she wouldn’t be whimpering softly. She’d be screaming into the pillow, biting down on my shoulder, clawing at my back.
“Oh. Oh. Tate.” She chants my name.
“Yeah, baby. My name and only my name. Come with me.” My whisper is hoarse.
As if she can hear my command, her whimpers cut off before she releases a big, raspy exhale.
My release comes barreling toward me, coating my stomach and hand.
“Shit.” I collapse onto the pillows, staring at the ceiling as my body comes down from the high.
It’s silent next door.
I clean myself up and slump back onto the bed.
It’ll be a challenge not to act like a smug motherfucker in the morning, knowing she came with my name spilling from her mouth. But I’m a professional, the king of subtlety, with an impeccable poker face.
TWENTY-SEVEN
TALIA
Tate wears a shit-eating grin during breakfast, like he knows something the rest of the world doesn’t.
I narrow my eyes when his smile widens around his mouthful of cereal.
“You’re acting weird.” I wave my spoon at him. “I don’t like it.”
“Weird?” He points at his chest. “Moi?”
“Yes. You.” I deadpan.
