As soon as I enter the house, it hits me like a tidal wave – a combination of sweet musk and delicious pleasure tinged with anticipation.
I close my eyes and let it wash over me as she softly cries, “Mmm, Edward, yesss!”
There’s a muffled, masculine groan and then another swell drags me under. They deserve privacy, but I need her release.
I barely register my hand rubbing roughly over denim before it slips under my waistband.
Her whimpers soon reach a quiet crescendo and when the final wave – pleasure fulfilled – crashes into me, we both gasp, then sigh gratefully.
My nostrils flared; mouth watered. I jumped (too quick for anyone’s eye), hit Mike (complete accident), and she fainted over the blood (total luck!).
My fingers tangle in her hair as she shudders above me. I give one good pull and she's against the wall.
It is a constant struggle for control with us.
It is never sweet, as it should be with lovers, but bitter. It oozes jealousy, weaves together lust and anger, wraps me in a perception of power – hers and mine.
She moans querido even as her mouth on my neck adds to my scars. I spin her, bend her, and add to hers.