Wicked Desires (Wicked Affairs, Book One) by Eliza Lloyd Page B

cock.
    At some point, there was nothing left to control. His body tensed, his hand pushed the dildo into her and he slipped his fingers into the hair at the back of her neck. There he held her while he surged and spilled. She lapped at him, her throat convulsing along with her own body.
    “Oh, shit! Yes. That’s it. Swallow all of me.” One final surge and he relaxed backward into the chair, his cock slipping from her mouth, the dildo extracted and dropped to the floor beside them.
    He felt momentary relief. His cock still ached as he pushed her away. She reclined on her haunches, where she swiped her tongue across her lower lip. A goddess. A sexual feast he could devour every day of his life.
    A shiver ripped through him. He wanted more.
    “On all fours. Now.” She turned away from him, her ass toward his face. He slid from the chair to his knees behind her.
    His cock, useless with his wife, sprang to life again. Leaning over her, he cupped her breasts, kneading and squeezing. His penis lay in the sweet crevice that hid all her secrets and commanded his desires.
    He placed his large hand between her shoulder blades and urged her downward, giving him better access and better viewing.
    His cock pointed the direction. He nudged into her, as she was already prepared and open. When the sensitive head of his cock plowed past the tight sphincter, he surged into her. The tightness was nearly unbearable. He groaned, breath convulsing from his lungs, leaving him lightheaded and weak.
    Little ripples of sexual current shot through his cock as her body started contracting around him. This time there was no warning as the intense orgasm swept over him, hot and hard and unforgiving. Still more cum shot into her, even as he believed he had been wrung dry already.
    He rolled to the floor gasping, spent, existing in some muted, soft place where only he and this whore and pleasure lived.
    When the whore stood and walked to the washbasin, he remembered the real world. The world where he was an adulterer. Where he might have impregnated an unfamiliar woman. Where he was a hypocrite to both his wife and son.
    * * * * *
     
    Clarissa knew her husband. One moment he basked in the after pleasure of sex. The next she saw a wave of guilt wash over his expression. He turned his face away from her.
    At the basin she washed, splashing water over her body and cleansing the inside of her thighs and between her legs. She carried the basin and a clean towel to him, knelt and washed his groin and cock. He didn’t look at her.
    His trousers hung low across his hips, a testament to the quick mating and wild intemperance of their temporary but obsessive liaison.
    When they’d been intimate at home, they’d always undressed the other. Slowly. Reverently. Her heart would be racing as his hands stroked every inch of her body and built those fires of passion with love and care and adoration.
    Her mistake was so clear now. She had bored him with her soft need and simpering cries. He needed passion, rough and hard. Exciting and different. How had he handled the boredom as long as he had?
    She was no different than a tired old pair of boots. Comfortable and cherished, but nothing one bragged about and only used when the weather was bad or there was work to do.
    “You can go now,” he said, before rolling away and standing to his feet. “Go,” he said in French, more harshly then he’d spoken to her in the three days they’d been playing their game.
    “The night is still young, monsieur .” Still on her knees from the washing, she unbound the strips of leather until she was naked except for the armbands and mask. He’d stared, mesmerized and irritated, but did nothing to stop her.
    Her fingertips grazed his and then slid up his lithe, muscular arm. Michael had grown more handsome over the years.
    “I think I could fuck you again. Madame will not mind. Nor, I think, will you.”
    He lifted her to her feet. Clarissa helped him discard his trousers and