Chapter 3

　　"Three weeks," he whispered against the sweat at my neck. "Every night. Every position. Every drop is mine now."

　　I turned my head, kissed him slow and filthy, tasting both of us on his tongue.

　　"Take it," I breathed. "Take everything he thinks is his."

　　And he did.

　　He rolled me onto my back again, still half-hard inside me, and started moving slow: lazy, deep strokes that had me arching and gasping all over again. The candles guttered lower. Rain hammered the roof. Somewhere in the house a clock chimed midnight, but time didn't matter anymore.

　　There was only Derek: his weight pinning me down, his mouth on my throat marking me, his cock dragging over every sensitive spot inside me until I was coming again, softer this time, a rolling wave that left me boneless and trembling.

　　He followed right after, spilling a second time, quieter but deeper, like he was branding himself into me.

　　When he finally pulled out, the emptiness made me whimper. He kissed it away: soft presses of his lips to my temple, my cheek, the corner of my mouth.

　　"Sleep," he murmured, pulling the wrecked comforter over us both. "Storm's not done. Neither are we."

　　I curled into his chest, sticky and sore and utterly ruined, and smiled into the dark.

　　Let the lights stay out forever.

　　I'd found the only fire I needed.

　　My Husband Best Friend pt3

　　I woke up sore in all the right places.

　　The storm had passed sometime before dawn; pale gray light leaked through the half-open blinds and painted stripes across the tangled sheets. Derek's side of the bed was cold. The sheets still smelled like sex and his cologne, but he was gone.

　　For one stupid second my stomach dropped, like he'd taken what he wanted and disappeared. Then I heard the low hum of the generator outside, the coffee maker gurgling in the kitchen, and the soft clink of a mug on marble. Power was back. He hadn't left. He was just letting me sleep.

　　I rolled out of bed on shaky legs, thighs sticky, skin marked everywhere his mouth and hands had been. My reflection in the bathroom mirror looked like a crime scene: hickeys blooming across my breasts, fingerprints bruised into my hips, lips swollen and red. I looked thoroughly, gloriously fucked.

　　I brushed my teeth, splashed cold water on my face, and pulled on one of Derek's white dress shirts from the laundry basket. It hung to mid-thigh and smelled like him, cedar and smoke and man. No panties. I wanted him to see exactly what was waiting.

　　The kitchen was flooded with morning light. Derek stood at the island in low-slung gray sweatpants, hair still damp from a shower, pouring coffee like he belonged here. Like this was our house, not mine and Mark's.

　　He looked up when my bare feet hit the tile. His eyes went dark instantly, raking over the open shirt, the way it barely covered me, the bruises he'd left peeking out.

　　"Morning, princess," he said, voice gravel-rough. "Coffee?"

　　I nodded, sliding onto a barstool. My thighs stuck to the leather. He set a steaming mug in front of me, then leaned across the island and kissed me slow, tasting like black coffee and sin.

　　That's when my phone started buzzing on the counter. Mark's name flashed across the screen.

　　Derek's eyes flicked to it. A slow, filthy smile curved his mouth.

　　"Answer it," he murmured.

　　I swallowed. "He'll hear—"

　　"Answer it."

　　I swiped accept and put it on speaker, trying to keep my voice steady. "Hey, babe."

　　"Morning, gorgeous." Mark sounded tired but cheerful. "Power finally back on? I've been worried sick."

　　Derek moved silently around the island. I felt him behind me before I saw him, big hands sliding up the backs of my bare thighs, pushing the shirt higher.

　　"Yeah," I managed, gripping the edge of the counter. "Generator kicked in. Lights just came on."

　　His palms spread me open. Cool air hit wet skin and I realized how soaked I already was. One thick finger traced my slit, slow and teasing.

　　"Good," Mark said. "I hate thinking about you out there alone in that storm."

　　Derek's mouth brushed the nape of my neck. Teeth scraped. Then he dropped to his knees behind the stool.

　　"I—I wasn't scared," I stammered.

　　Two fingers pushed inside me without warning, curling hard. I bit back a gasp, hips jerking.

　　"You okay?" Mark asked. "You sound weird."

　　Derek's tongue licked a hot stripe up my pussy, slow and deliberate. I clenched around his fingers involuntarily.

　　"Signal's bad," I lied, voice shaking. "Keep breaking up."

　　His mouth closed over my clit and sucked. My vision blurred.

　　Mark kept talking, something about flights, delays, missing me, but I barely heard it. Derek was eating me like breakfast, tongue flicking, fingers pumping, beard scraping the sensitive skin of my inner thighs. My knuckles went white on the counter.

　　"Baby?" He said. "You there?"

　　Derek added a third finger, stretched me wide, and crooked them hard against that spot that made my legs shake.

　　"I—fuck—I think the call's dropping—" I gasped out.

　　Another hard suck on my clit and I came silently, violently, thighs clamping around Derek's head, pussy pulsing around his fingers. He didn't stop, just kept licking me through it, drawing it out until I was trembling so hard the stool creaked.

　　"Love you," he said. "Call me later, okay?"

　　"Love you—bye—" I stabbed the end button and the phone clattered to the counter.

　　Derek stood up behind me, fingers still buried deep, mouth wet with me. He leaned over my shoulder and licked a stripe up my neck.

　　"Good girl," he growled in my ear. "You came with your husband on the phone. That deserve a reward?"

　　I spun the stool to face him, grabbed his sweatpants, and yanked them down. His cock sprang free, already rock-hard and leaking at the tip.

　　"Fuck me," I demanded. "Right now."

　　He didn't make me ask twice.

　　He lifted me off the stool like I weighed nothing, spun me around, and bent me over the island. Cold marble hit my nipples through the open shirt. I heard the soft thud of his sweatpants hitting the floor, then the thick, blunt head of him nudging my entrance.

　　One brutal thrust and he bottomed out, balls-deep, stretching me so wide I cried out. He didn't give me time to adjust, just gripped my hips and started fucking me hard and fast, skin slapping skin, the island rocking with every stroke.

　　"Look at you," he snarled, yanking my hair so I had to watch us in the reflection of the dark window. "Bent over your marital kitchen counter, taking my cock like a desperate little slut."

　　I moaned, pushing back to meet him. Every thrust shoved me against the edge, nipples dragging across marble, pleasure-pain shooting straight to my clit.

　　He pulled out suddenly, spun me again, and dropped me to my knees on the tile. I opened my mouth eagerly and he fed himself in, groaning as I sucked him clean of both of us. He fucked my throat in short, filthy thrusts until spit dripped down my chin and onto my breasts.

　　"Up," he ordered.

　　I stood on shaky legs. He lifted me onto the counter, spread me wide, and slammed back in. This angle was deeper, brutal. I wrapped my legs around his waist, nails raking down his back, and let him wreck me.

　　The kitchen echoed with wet sounds, my moans, his grunts, the slap of his hips against mine. He reached between us and rubbed my clit in tight, ruthless circles.

　　"Come on my cock again," he commanded. "Let the whole fucking lake hear who you belong to now."

　　I shattered, screaming his name, pussy clamping down so hard he cursed and pounded harder, chasing his own release. He pulled out at the last second, spun me around again, and came in thick ropes across my ass and lower back, marking me like territory.

　　We stayed like that for a minute, panting, his forehead pressed between my shoulder blades.

　　Then he grabbed a dish towel, cleaned me gently, almost tenderly, before turning me to face him.

　　"Shower," he said, voice hoarse. "Then the couch. Then the dining table. Then I'm tying you to the bed and eating you until you cry."

　　I laughed breathlessly and kissed him, tasting myself again.

　　"Promise?"

　　He scooped me up bridal-style and carried me toward the master bath.

　　"Three weeks, baby girl," he murmured against my temple. "And I'm just getting started."