“Liam?” I whispered.
“Yeah?”
“We have to go or we’ll be late.”
Laughing, he let go of me, but before I pulled away from him, I ran my hands through his hair a few times. I wasn’t expecting him to moan, and lean into my hands, but he did. It was like petting a lion.
“Don’t ever comb your hair. I love it as it is,” I whispered to him, pulling slightly and causing him to lick the corner of his lips as he stared at me; his eyes were glazing over with fire and lust. “I love you as is.”
His chest expanded quickly before relaxing. It was like he was releasing a deep breath he never knew he was holding. Cupping my cheek, he brushed his thumb over my lips, which most likely smeared my lipstick but I didn’t care. I could see the amount of control he was exerting. I could also see his cock throbbing against his black slacks, fighting against his zipper, wanting nothing more than to be freed of its fabric prison and embedded deep within me. His thumb graced my lips before going to my cheek.
“We should go,” he repeated in a whisper. “We’re going to be late.” He pushed himself off of my dresser and stared at his fingers on my skin. He seemed memorized by the trail he was making from my face to the valley of my breasts.
“That only depends on how fast we are,” I whispered back, grabbing hold of his hand and kissing his palm before turning around.
“Jesus fucking Christ, Mel.” He moaned, lifting my hair with one hand and cupping my breast with the other. Kissing down my neck, he squeezed my breasts, palming them almost reverently.
“Hmmmm…” was the only sound I could form once his hand left my chest, moved to my thighs, and slowly lifted up my dress.
“God, I love you,” he whispered, biting my ear.
Reaching behind me, I pulled at his pants. “Liam, I need you right now.”
“With pleasure.” He gasped, pushing my hands away and quickly undoing his pants.
Bracing myself on the edge of my vanity, he wasted no time grabbing my hips, and rubbing himself against my ass before he buried himself within me with one swift thrust.
“Ahh!” I moaned, my mouth dropping open. The mirror in front of us added to my excitement, making me gush as I watched him dominate me. He also watched, with a wicked grin on his lips as he thrust deeper and deeper, one hand on my hip and the other in my hair. I could feel him throbbing inside me, filling me. It was fucking beautiful and I wanted more. Leaning down, he kissed my back, sucking hard on my skin.
“Fuck,” he moaned, releasing my hair and hips, as he grabbed onto the dresser as well. He fucked me so hard that everything, even that damn bear, fell onto the ground.
“Liam…” I moaned, “I’m Ahh…fuck”
“Come with me, love,” he whispered. “Ride it with me.” He picked up speed. I couldn’t even see straight, let alone speak coherently.
“Fuck, Liam!” Through squinted eyes, I watched as he came, his eyes rolled back into his head, his lips parted slightly to release a pleasurable sigh before his muscles relaxed.
“Great sex while pregnant, check.” I gasped, totally fucked and happy.
“If this is just the pre-opera sex, I can’t wait for the post.” He grinned, as he slowly pulled out of me.
LIAM
God, she knew how to make a man crazy. My plan was simple: get her to the opera house, accept my award for husband of the year, spend the night in each other’s arms and try to ignore the shit that had gone down at her baby shower. But the moment she said ‘I love you’, I couldn’t control myself. I wanted her, and by God I was going to have her any way I could. Our sex life had been placed on the back burner for the last few weeks, but in one moment, one thrust, it came back with a vengeance and I wondered why we’d slowed down to begin with.
It took her an hour to hide the fact that we had just fucked like wild dogs before we could finally leave for the opera. Those who were lucky enough to get tickets would have to wait until we got there. After all, I was funding this production. The entire car ride over, her hands were squarely tucked into mine, but she wouldn’t meet my gaze and I knew it was because she was processing. She was always processing, sometimes overthinking. She was used to being emotionless, cold as ice and yet, her walls were breaking. I could see it. And if I could tell, so could she. She was trying to find a balance between who she had been forced to be, and who she really was. She was forced to be, by all attributes, a ruthless sadist.
But the woman who sat beside me, leaning against the rail like a young girl in a candy store and watching the opera singers below belt out their souls was my real wife. Under her ice, under the screwing, fighting, and bullets, was a woman who held so many different passions. She looked completely amazed by the singers on stage; she smiled effortlessly. Even in the darkness of the booth, I could tell she was completely carefree.