Searches me.

I wonder if she can tell?

I worry that, sometimes. That she’ll look into my eyes in a moment like this, and just know.

The moment passes, and her eyes see nothing but me, her husband, giving her all the pleasure and release and relief she can handle, and then some.

Her lips part.

Her tongue slides over her lips.

Drawing it out.

Reunion; Observations

“Come fuck me, husband.” I whisper the words, too shattered by his attention to speak any louder.

He prowls up my body. Kisses my belly. My diaphragm. Between my breasts.

I need to touch him. Hold him. It needs to be his turn.

But I’m still at his mercy.

He settles himself above me. Over me. Between my thighs. Buries himself in me. Face in my neck, then between my breasts as he moves.

“Let me loose, Adrian,” I whisper, the words ragged and harsh.

He kisses my nipple and unlocks my left hand without looking. I lock my legs around his waist and free my other hand myself. Clutch him to me. I’m wrapped around him. Surging against him. Rolling with him.

How long was he between my thighs? I lost track of time, but it was not a short while. He’s sweaty. Something about the way his body feels under my hand, his muscles and flesh—something nudges at the back of my head. But I have no time for thoughts, no time for nonsense. I just need his pleasure.

I roll into him, and he lets me take him to his back. I manage it without losing him, without shedding our union. His hands cup at my backside, my shoulders, and I lean over him. Press my breasts to his face and clutch his head and despite my words a moment ago, I fuck him. Take no prisoners, unrelenting, all my pent-up need, all my stress and frustration of the week at work, the nights alone. I exorcise it all, on him. He knows my demons and he is the holy words and prayer which banishes them.

I feel him rising. It’s unmistakable. His groans go softer, quieter. He’s not a bellower, a roaring and shouting and punishing thrusts kind of man. He goes soft and sweet, quiet and intense. His fingers clutch hard into my curves and he hisses and whispers my name as I ride him, roll on him. Press my palms to his hips and sink down and push up and feel him throb and watch his face go through the beautiful, wild, fraught, shifting expressions of release, his eyes on mine, trying to keep his eyes open and failing, his teeth baring and clenching, brows drawn down, and then, god, oh god, oh god, and then I feel him give me his release.

“I love you, Nadia,” he gasps, as he comes. “I love you—so—so fucking much.”

“More,” I demand. “More, Adrian.”