Page 53 of The Wrong Husband (The Davenports #6)

Phoenix

One second, I’m empty; the next, he’s inside me. Big, long, thick and so full. He pushes down on the walls of my pussy, his fat cock ensconced in my cunt. He slaps his hand on the table next to me and holds most of his weight off me, except for the fact he has me pinned down with his shaft.

He stays there, looking deeply into my eyes, giving me the chance to adjust to his girth. His jaw muscles flex, the nerves on his temple standing out in relief.

With his bunched shoulders and his biceps taking the strain of holding him up, it’s clear he’s holding back.

"I don’t want to hurt you," he says through gritted teeth.

In response, I squeeze my inner muscles around him. A groan spirals up his chest. Something like pain clings to the skin around his eyes. In that moment, the realization of just how much power I have over him sinks into my blood.

This man wants me. He’s made it clear he’s attracted to me. He may have married me so he could access his trust fund, but he cares for me.

The way he planned the elopement, including the actual wedding and honeymoon, as well as buying clothes for me, so I'd have the appropriate clothing, proves that. His attention to detail when it comes to me blows my mind.

I’ve never had any man so devoted to my needs. And the way he waits for me to adjust to his size before he finally pulls out, only to thrust back into me, takes my breath away.

He continues to hold my gaze throughout, and it’s so intimate, it makes me feel connected to him in a way I haven’t been to anyone else. Ever. He hooks his arms beneath my knees and lifts, sliding my ankles over his shoulders.

With him standing, I’m almost folded in half—completely exposed, held wide open for him.

A bead of sweat slides down his temple and plops on my forehead.

It breaks this strange unspoken dialogue I’m trapped in with him.

It must affect him, too, for he begins to move.

He pulls back, then thrusts into me with so much force, the entire table moves.

Some of the cutlery jumps off and falls to the floor with a clatter.

It sounds like it’s coming from a long distance away, though; that’s how wrapped up in him I am.

It doesn’t seem to bother him, either, for without losing momentum, he plunges back inside me.

This time, he angles himself, so the ridge of his pelvic bone rubs up against my clit.

Lightning-laced pleasure climbs my spine, stealing my breath.

The next time he thrusts into me, he seems to tunnel even deeper, brushing up against my cervix.

More sensations lick up my backbone like wildfire on dry earth. He stays there, pressing down, as if completing that circuit sparking my pleasure. I begin to shiver, like I’m running a temperature, but I know it’s the first signs of my orgasm.

“Involuntary pelvic contractions…beginning now,” I whisper.

His lip curls. My words seem to please him enormously, for his eyes glint. He picks up his pace and begins to fuck into me. Over and over again. With enough force that his balls slap against my butt.

Tension radiates off him, the heat from his body bathing me like I’m facing an impending sandstorm. Or maybe, that’s my climax?

I lose all sense of time and place as he plunges deep into me again, burying himself to the hilt.

Once again, he presses against the anterior vaginal wall, applying just the right pressure to the periurethral zone—right where the Skene’s glands are nestled. The friction sends a neural cascade through the pelvic plexus, short-circuiting my ability to think.

Flashes of heat arc up my spine, stealing my breath. My spine arches under the weight of a rising, electric hunger, rushing toward me like a sandstorm about to sweep me away. That’s when he thrusts his face into mine, his nose bumping mine, his eyelashes twining with mine.

He grabs one of my arms and forces it above my head, then quickly does the same with the other. He wraps his fingers tightly around both my wrists, pinning them to the table.

His other hand comes down to squeeze my butt cheek before he slides his thumb into my forbidden hole.

The shock of that very taboo touch makes my toes curl and my scalp tingle. It’s strange how the very fact that it’s out of my comfort zone ramps up my need, pushing it past a boundary I hadn’t been aware of drawing.

And when he growls, "Come." I shatter.

I open my mouth to scream but he’s there, absorbing every single sound I make. His cock claims every inch of space inside me. He leans more of his body weight on me, so I’m pinned in place. And that gives me permission to let go completely, knowing he’s there to catch me.

I can’t breathe. Can’t think. Just tremble—my sympathetic nervous system hijacked, heart rate hammering, skin prickling, pupils, no doubt, blown wide. It’s the kind of full-body cascade I’m trained to associate with acute stress. Or raw, unfiltered arousal.

My limbs go slack; my core liquefies. Every nerve fires at once, overloading my brain, drowning out thought, leaving only sensation.

Heat.

Pressure.

A blooming pleasure that’s thick and golden—and already laced with a craving for more.

I give over to the waves of pleasure rolling over me, cocooning me, folding me in a heated embrace promising more. More. More.

He continues to fuck into me, slamming into me, joining me, melding with me as he slides deep inside. And then, I’m dimly aware of him shouting his release.

I float for what seems like hours but must be seconds. Adrift on a silence which is pleasing and filled with a sensation I identify as satisfaction. I drift to earth, and when I open my eyes, it’s to find him watching me.

"You, okay?"

I nod.

"You definitely, okay?"

I nod again. He searches my features, nods, then lowers his head and kisses me soundly. Instantly, I feel him thicken inside me.

He smiles against my mouth. "I’d better get you inside first."

He pulls out of me, reaches down and ties off the condom, before disposing off it. Then he straightens his clothes.

I begin to rise, but he scoops me up in his arms.

"The table—" I glance at the remnants of our meal.

"I’ll clear it later." He takes me inside the yacht and down to the master suite. He bypasses the bed and heads inside the en suite.

Setting me down on the counter next to the sink, he runs the taps to fill the massive bathtub, drops in bath bombs, and dims the lights so the sunlight pouring in from the massive windows overlooking the bay caresses everything in a golden light.

When the tub is half full, he turns off the taps, then scoops me up in his arms and sets me down next to the tub. He kisses my forehead tenderly and pushes the remnants of my dress off my shoulders. Kicking it aside, he urges me to get into the tub.

I sigh as I sink into the bubbles. He folds a towel and places it under my neck.

"Comfy?"

I nod. "You’re spoiling me."

"You’re worth it." He takes my hand and kisses my fingertips. "Rest up. I’ll be right back."

He rises to his feet and is gone, leaving me to close my eyes and savor the warmth of the water.

My muscles, already relaxed from that orgasm, unwind further.

Any tension I carried begins to slip away.

I sigh, spread my legs and allow the warm water to soothe the ache between my thighs.

It reminds me of how it felt to have him inside of me.

How he took me, how he zeroed in on that deep pelvic zone—where nerves, pressure, and arousal converge—like he mapped the exact coordinates of my release.

I close my eyes and when I open them again, I find him placing a bottle of champagne at the head of the tub. "Scoot forward."

I do.

He hands me a flute of champagne. Placing his own down next to the bottle, he strips off his clothes, then slides into the bath behind me.

He stretches his legs out on either side of me, then coaxes me to lay back against him. The feel of the hard planes of his chest at my back and the warm water lapping around me draws me into a cocoon of comfort. "Thank you.”

"You’re welcome." There’s a soft touch on my hair, and I know he must have kissed me. I sense him taking a sip of his champagne, feel the vibrations in his chest as he swallows, then the clink as he places his flute down.

"Take another sip." He brings my flute to my mouth, and I oblige. Then he takes the glass from me and sets it aside. He cups my breasts in the water and runs his thumbs over my nipples. I shudder.

Goosebumps pop on my skin. And when he slides his hand down to toy with my navel, I whimper.

I turn my head in his direction, and he lowers his, so our lips meet.

It’s a sweet, long kiss, filled with tenderness, but when he nips at my lower lip, a fountain of heat bursts to life in my lower belly.

I wrap my arm about his neck, hold on, and when his fingers find my melting pussy, I arch up my aching breasts.

He squeezes one, then the other, all the while thrusting three of his fingers inside me.

"It’s not too soon, is it?" he whispers.

I shake my head. "I want you, I?—"

He closes his mouth over mine, swallowing my other words. Then, he saws his fingers in and out of me, increasing the speed, so the heat in my belly becomes a wall of flames spreading to my feet and ebbing up my spine.

I moan into his mouth and begin to hump his fingers in earnest. At my back, I feel his cock thicken and lengthen, signaling how turned on he is, too.

I begin to rub up against his shaft, upping his level of desire.

He makes a guttural sound at the back of his throat.

So quintessentially male. So erotic. Hinting how close he is to losing control.

It excites me that he’s feeling the intensity, the need for me as much as I am for him.

All the while, he continues to thrust his fingers in and out of me with practiced precision. He repeatedly strokes that sensitive zone just behind my pubic bone, where dense vascular tissue and nerve endings converge. It’s as if he’s learned the contours of my pelvic floor by touch alone.

My thighs tremble. My pelvic muscles clench instinctively around his fingers, as if my body’s trying to pull him deeper, hold him there.

Pressure builds—sharp and urgent—behind my pubic bone, radiating outward in ripples I can’t contain.

Every glide of his fingers sends another burst of sensation ricocheting through my visceral nerve network, overriding cognition.

I’m reduced to reflex and instinct, trapped somewhere between the clinical understanding of what’s happening… and the primal need to surrender to it.

Then, just when I think I can’t stand it, he tears his mouth from mine. He flips me around so I’m straddling his thighs. His big hands on my waist make me feel impossibly tiny.

I love that he’s able to maneuver my body like I weigh nothing. That even with my plus-size figure, I feel petite next to his big body. He makes me feel cared for, and protected, and worshipped. And also, dominated.

How is it possible that all of these emotions can be woven into the same moment?

How is he able to elicit so many different feelings from me at the same time?

I glance down to where his cock stands erect, the crown purple and engorged.

I wrap my fingers around his girth and am not surprised when my fingers barely meet.

"When I felt you inside me, I knew you were large, but now—” I stare at his cock pointedly. “Now, I wonder how you fit inside."

"The trick was to make sure you were both aroused and relaxed." He smirks.

Oh, that ego. It’s sexy as hell, but it makes me want to chip away at it, just to watch the cracks form.

And I know exactly how.

I slide back, settling myself on his knees, then reach for the lever on the side of the tub. One flick, and the water starts to drain.

He arches a brow, silently questioning.

I hold his gaze. And wait.

The waterline drops, inch by inch, until it’s where I want it. Then I hit the lever again, stopping the flow.

He dips his chin, understanding.

I glance down—his cock, now exposed, proud and gleaming. I lower my head and take him down my throat.