Wilder doesn’t look for a standing ovation when we’re in bed. It’s not an act when his eyes fall closed and he pinches his eyebrows together as heat reddens his cheeks. His lips part sincerely, and he inhales a soundless breath before dropping his head forward or throwing it back. He always tries to open his eyes. He wants to watch me watching him, but coming with someone you love is a full body and soul experience.
Especially when she’s begging for you to do it on her tits.
I slip off the mattress and remnants of him pool between my legs. A bead of cum drips down the inside of my thigh, smearing on the other side after I stand. Bone-deep exhaustion settles over me like a weighted blanket, and I stretch, easing my sore muscles and tight joints. Every step I take is in the wrong direction as the bed calls me back. But the tugging around my heart is louder.
I’m naked, without a stitch of clothes of my own in the entire house. Searching for something to wear is a chore, but I dig through his dresser until I find a pair of boxer shorts and a plain T-shirt to cover myself.
We skipped the tour of the house when we arrived, so I take the stairs down to the first floor and find the kitchen. The floor-to-ceiling windows are a beautiful feature on any property, but there should be a black-out option for the mornings when there’s not a cloud in the sky and the sun is relentless like today.
Coffee is on, and instead of searching the cabinets for a mug, I take the entire pot and continue my exploration of the house. Beyond the kitchen to die for are two living rooms, a dining room, a grand dining room, a few bathrooms, the garage, and the home gym.
“I knew it,” I whisper to myself, sipping coffee straight from the glass pot.
I loiter outside the gym, leaning against the doorframe as caffeine hits my bloodstream, accelerating my heartbeat. Wilder’s shirtless, in a pair of blue workout shorts and black trainers. He can’t hear anything outside his noise-canceling headphones, so I go unseen, free to stay and watch the veins in his arms and neck expand with repetition. With a tight grip around a set of hundred-pound dumbbells, he grunts with every lift. Sweat glistens across the expanse of his impressive back, flexing and pinching andholy shit.
He is a beast, and I like it.
I’ve consumed half the pot of coffee, my heart a hummingbird inside of my chest, when Wilder turns to the weight stand to find me checking out the goods. I lift the pot in greeting, hoping he’ll spend the rest of this workout pumping me like he pumped those weights. It’s true that I weigh more than one hundred pounds, but I can be very, very still. And he’s got it. He’s got me.
Wishful thinking.
Looking at me from under his thick eyebrows, I can tell right away that he’s not the smooth talker who swept me off my feet last night. He’s Serious Wilder. Mad at the World Wilder. Mad at Me Wilder. He returns the weights to the stand and pulls off his headphones, quiet and barely contained. The breather from our worries was nice, but the cuts on his hands are inflamed, and the bruise under his eye has darkened from blue to purple.
“Are you ready to tell me what happened at the meeting with the Coppolas?”
He sits at the end of a bench press in front of a full-body mirror, resting his elbows on his knees. Wilder wipes sweat from the back of his neck with a white cotton towel, still quiet, still on the verge of eruption. He’s a piece of art, a statue, a sculpture of long limbs and trim muscle, but the detail is in the carving of his face. Sharp angles, deep ridges, and gray eyes that only soften when they look at me now.
“Did you hurt him?” I step into the gym, setting the coffee pot down on a random piece of equipment with a seat. My bare feet sink into the rubber flooring, and the air is warmer in here than in the rest of the house, pricking my skin. “Worse than he hurt you?”
The sculpture comes to life, sitting tall, watching me sink in closer. He throws his towel to the corner of the room, breathing hard after a punishing workout. He sits with his knees parted, and sweat drips down his chest, between his pecs and over his rippling abs. Wilder Ridge is ferocious. It’s in the way he tastes and smells, and it moves over his skin like an electric current, masculinity calling to me in more ways than the ropes around our hearts.
It’s a digging need.
Wives are commanded to submit to their husbands under the shadow of the Almighty, and this tingling, frantic feeling bursting inside of me must be the reason why. I fall to my knees in front of Wilder, and it’s all I can do not to pray at his feet. Pray that he takes me. Pray that he ties me up and fucks me. Claims me on the altar. Puts his baby in me.
I submit.
I submit.
Bowing my head, I press my palms together, preparing to recite this prayer and worship. Wilder nudges my chin up with his knuckle, tilting my face toward his. He looks down at me, not like an angry god, but like an angry lover. My lips curl into a smile.
I submit to you, too.
Let’s be fruitful and multiply.
“You’re mad at me.” I sit back on my calves, lifting my eyes to his.
“I’m not mad at you,” he resigns.
A bead of sweat runs down his stomach, and I stretch to catch it on the tip of my finger. I stick it into my mouth, wondering if it’s normal to want to drink it from his skin. Not caring if it is or isn’t.
Wilder chuckles, but I see his cock move under his blue shorts.
“Do you want to talk about this, or are you going to keep fucking with me?”
Popping my finger out of my mouth, I say, “Fucking with you.”
If I’m being honest with myself, I don’t see how I’ll ever function as a normal human ever again. My body has been shared with many men, but it’s never like this. Not when it was supposed to mean something, not on accident with any of my clients, and not even when I touch myself. How do we stop? Why would we want to?
