by Cara McKenna
A moan rewarded her. A moan was a rare thing to coax from this man, whose ability to perform like a detached, trained animal was unmatched. A tug at her hair slid her mouth from his cock and she looked expectantly to his face, taking in those bedroom eyes, as she’d heard them described. His hooded lids were at half-mast, heavy with lust. “On the bed. Hands and knees.”
Emily obeyed. She’d told him a king mattress was too big for anyone, but how wrong she’d been. They didn’t waste a square of inch of this surface. She got on all fours facing her dresser, perfect positioning to watch him in the vanity mirror. As he climbed onto the bed behind her, she shut her eyes. She felt the brush of his hard thighs against the backs of her soft ones and felt his stiff, warm cock on her ass. Opening her eyes, she found his reflection watching hers, his expression hungry, exactly what she desired.
He palmed her ass and thigh with one hand then guided his cock between her legs with the other. Sometimes they played games, taking on roles—pretending this was her first time, pretending they were strangers, pretending she didn’t want this. Not tonight though. Tonight needed no fiction.
He pushed inside her, as deep as her pussy would allow at the moment. She was horny but she wasn’t as wet as she could be. Rasul liked that, that little suggestion of resistance. That hint of a fight. He pushed harder and farther and, as he slid out, his cock spread her wetness from deeper in her cunt, easing the friction.
“Good girl.”
His rhythm started slow, thrusts measured and precise. He fucked her like a machine so that when the shift came, the contrast would be starker. All the more thrilling.
He nudged her knees wider and she watched him in the mirror, those dark shadows of his muscles, dark chest hair, darker expression on his dangerous face. A heavy, possessive hand alighted on her lower back and she felt the warm metal of his wedding band. She bit back a smile.
“Are you thinking about him?” Rasul asked.
“I’m only thinking about you.” True, though now that he’d brought up the subject, Emily couldn’t help but imagine another body, here on this bed with them. Watching.
“Soon though,” he murmured.
“Yeah.”
The “him” Rasul spoke of was their faceless, unseen third. Emily’s darkest wish, hers to enjoy but Rasul’s to command. Rasul’s to boss around for her pleasure. He was harsh with her. God knew how he’d treat another man brought in to fuck her. And only God knew if they’d ever find one who could handle it.
“Now you’re thinking about him?”
“Yeah,” she said again. No face to picture yet, as the selection wasn’t official, just an anonymous, gorgeous body. Her husband’s voice, perhaps his hands, commanding the man to do things to her, commanding him to watch, to take orders and instructions, Emily relegated to a mix of worship-object and slave. Perfection. She stared at her husband’s body in the mirror, pretending it was another man behind her, Rasul watching with orders ready to bark. His hands on some other man’s neck, pushing his face against her pussy, perhaps those hands on the man’s hips or his ass, forcing him to fuck her faster.
Behind her, Rasul changed. His thrusts turned slow, making her feel each inch as it sank deep, the press of his damp, warm skin against her butt. He eased out, leaving her completely so she felt his penetration anew when he pushed back inside.
“I’ll make him watch first,” he said. “Make him wait while I fuck you like this. Make him understand you’re mine.”
She nodded. Though she’d been trying not to get her hopes up about an actual man, she did have one in mind. She let herself picture his face, just for a moment…that easy smile gone, replaced by a look of pained concentration. Desperation, as he worked to please her.
“You’re mine, right?” Rasul asked.
“I’m yours.”
“For me to do whatever I want with,” he murmured.
“Anything you want.” Meaning anything she wanted. Her husband…many a man’s terrifying nightmare, but her slave behind the domineering façade.
He slid out and slapped her hip, hard enough to sting. “On your back.”
Emily reclined against the cool bedspread and welcomed the weight of him as he pushed her thighs wide with his. He sank deep. Muscular arms bracketing her chest, body intimidating, looming above hers. He pumped her roughly, filling the room with the sounds of their breathing and the smell of their sin. She felt drunk, this man’s harsh energy as intoxicating as ten bottles of wine. She stroked his chest and dug her fingernails into his shoulders. Spurs, telling him to make it rougher.
He obeyed, spreading her wide enough to trigger a twinge in her hip. She paid him back with a rake of nails across his ribs. She stroked his fearsome arms, feeling the thin scratch she’d left there a few days ago. She smiled to herself, relishing such a mark. A territorial warning to other women to stay away, in case the ring wasn’t enough.
Faster and rougher still, he took her.
She murmured a lie. “It hurts.”
“Good.” He fucked her so hard the oak headboard rattled against the wall. “The more it hurts the better it feels to me.”
“Slower. Please.”
He said nothing but his body bellowed a resounding no.
She shoved at his chest with both hands, and the instinctual frustration she felt— knowing her mightiest effort couldn’t move him an inch—unleashed fresh, ugly sensations in her body. Helpless. Weak. Those sensations came with adrenaline, and they lit her like a fuse. Any other context and she hated those feelings, but with Rasul they were a release. She gave up trying to push him and cupped his ass instead, feeling how hard he was working for her. Her touch and the breathy noises that puffed from her mouth with each impact were giving her away. Rasul braced himself on one arm and went in for the kill.
Emily gave up the resistance game as his thumb stroked her clit. The mere control he commanded was nearly enough to do her in. She watched his stomach and hips, muscles utterly masterful. Worth the loss of his warmth between the sheets in the small hours of the morning, if this body was the result she got to enjoy. She watched his cock in the low light, its width and sheen, the dark, trimmed hair that framed it at the base. She watched as he owned her, her brain going fuzzy.
“You love my cock.”
Her breath hitched at that word. Cock. His accent made the syllable sound hard and pompous, a violent threat spat at her. “I do.”
For a dozen thrusts he took her slowly.
“Rasul.”
“Come on my cock.”
His thumb taunted her in tight circles, just the right amount of pressure. All these little nuances he knew so well…one day he might issue orders or threats to another man, punishing him for not knowing Emily’s body inside-out as he did.
“He’ll never fuck you this good,” Rasul said, reading her mind.
“No, never.”
“I’ll show him how it’s done.”
She imagined a stranger’s eyes on them, doing this. The blue eyes of a not-quite stranger, if her top choice might ever agree to the proposition. A violation of her and Rasul’s privacy, perhaps, but fuck if she didn’t want to show off. “He’ll never be as good as you.” He wasn’t supposed to be. He was merely a toy for Emily to enjoy and Rasul to operate.
She thought of all her husband’s commands…suck me. Ride me. Beg me. Hit me. She thought of them directed at a third party. Taste her. Fuck her. Faster. Rougher. She imagined greedy things, two large bodies pressed to her smaller one, two groaning voices, two cocks. The smells and sounds and heat of two men, a fantasy she’d never have guessed her husband would approve of. She’d only admitted it during a bit of role-playing, looking to incite some affected anger. That the idea seemed to excite him as much as it did her had been the shock of a lifetime.
“I want him to see what I get every night,” Rasul said. “I want him to see how perfect you are and realize he could never please you the way I can.”
She dragged her nails across his scalp
. “Show him how you make me come.”
His thumb sped up against her clit, hips hammering fast. Goddamn, that got her hot, feeling his strength. There were times in her life when she’d hated and feared the idea of a strong man, but he made the sensation different. With trust underscoring each aggressive motion, fear became excitement. It became empowering. Those old feelings she hated, she could turn them into pleasure.
A big fat fuck-you to the men who’d hurt her.
She pushed away thoughts of the bad men and of the new, kind one she’d yet to invite into her bed, and turned her focus a hundred percent to the one above her. His lips were parted with heavy breaths, a sure sign his own pleasure was becoming difficult to ignore. She watched his cock and the flex of his stomach, and the pleasure gathered into a tight ball in her lower belly, surging and flashing in time with his thrusts.
“Rasul.”
“Hit me.”
She slapped him, a good one with a sharp smack. A noise rumbled from deep in his chest, a gasp of awe and fury and need. She hit him again and his thrusts took on a new intensity.
She muttered, “Fuck,” as the fever rushed into her brain, dulling everything but the pleasure he gave her.
“Come. Come on my cock.”
She grabbed his biceps and squeezed as the climax arrived. They came in all different ways—quick, slow, harsh, subtle. This one was slow and intense, rising like a crescendo against his strumming thumb.
She heard her own voice. “Baby.” Then the pleasure swallowed her for a few blissful, oblivious seconds, until she found herself back inside her body, beneath his. He slowed then stopped, looking down at her, rapt. Suddenly tender, he pushed her hair back from her face. She could feel the tiny pulsations of his cock inside her, the only sign giving away his body’s impatience.
“Thanks,” she whispered.
He leaned down and kissed her forehead. She wanted to take hold of his head and press his face to her neck, keep him there and fall asleep. But first it was his turn.
“What do you want tonight?” she asked.
“Want you to watch.”
She nodded against the bedspread.
Rasul pulled away and let her relocate to her hands and knees, facing the corner of the bed. The best angle to watch him in their mirror. He knelt behind her and slid his cock between her thighs, taunting her sensitized clit with a dozen cruel sweeps before he drove inside.
“Watch,” he ordered.
She locked her gaze on their reflection and, spent or not, her body roused all over again. She’d never seen a man in her life—not in person or on a screen or in print—as attractive as the one she called her husband. She liked to imagine his body and his training were solely for her, this perfection honed specifically to please her. Their eyes met in the reflection, black and hazel, cold and awed. He took her faster, hands clamping around her hipbones, tugging her into each thrust.
Rasul spoke, the words staggered by his motions. “This is what he’ll see.”
“Yeah.” She watched them, imagining she was an outsider. Sweet little blonde Emily on her hands and knees, getting her living daylights fucked out by this gruff man, this mercenary. A rough sight for many, hopefully an exciting one for the man they might deem worthy of sharing this.
She imagined her frontrunner again, pretending he did indeed want this. Waiting his turn, body burning up with impatience. Two men taking turns. The thought filled her with dark emotions—guilt and shame and fear—but they felt good. Wrong felt good to her in bed. Doing wrong in bed got her hotter than flower petals and love poems could ever hope to.
She heard Rasul’s breathing turn harsh and pulled herself out of her own head. Her husband, merciless and selfish on the outside, could no sooner come before given permission than he could leave the house without checking the locks. Emily prompted the script he needed to fulfill before he could claim his release.
“Slower,” she muttered.
He hammered her faster.
“It’s too rough.”
That earned her a sharp smack on the ass, harsher tugs to pull her into his impact.
“Stop.”
She felt his body shift against hers as he snaked a hand around her waist, two fingers finding her clit. She watched him in the mirror, every muscle in his body coordinated to make this look effortless. She balanced on one arm and put her freed hand over his. She didn’t have to pretend she couldn’t pry it away—she couldn’t. As she tugged at his wrist, his fingertips stroked her clit, bringing heat and pressure and pleasure, all of it multiplied by the fact that she couldn’t stop him.
As the second orgasm rose inside her, it was his face in the mirror that unleashed it. Cold eyes, hard expression, but those parted lips giving him away. She fell apart once more against his fingertips, feeling him push deep and hold her tight against him as her spasms came and went. Her arms shook as she came down from the high. She turned to look at his face.
“Did you…?”
He shook his head. “Want your hands on me.”
She nodded and he slid out. He sat on the edge of the mattress and Emily mustered the coordination to make it to the floor, to kneel between his spread thighs and await instruction.
“Touch me.”
She wrapped her hand around his cock—swollen and slick and blazing hot. “You need something?” she asked sweetly.
“Stroke me. Tight.”
She did as commanded, earning a series of those too-rare moans.
“Talk to me,” he muttered.
“Love your cock.” She measured it with her eyes and hand. “Hard and thick. All mine.”
Another moan. “Show him how much you love it.”
A shiver rippled through her, not only from having her fantasy indulged, but from knowing the idea had Rasul hot as well. She worshipped him with aggressive pulls, making him wait a full minute before she lowered her lips to his head.
“Yes.”
She lapped at him then looked up to meet his gaze. “You want him to watch this?”
“Yeah. Show him.”
She closed her lips over his crown and stroked him tightly from the base. He pushed her hair back from her face, tucking it behind her ears as though giving their unseen guest a better view. She felt him wind a length of it around his hand then a gentle push forced her mouth farther down his cock.
“Good.”
After a minute he pulled her hair, coaxing her back. He slid his cock out and nudged her hand from him, taking hold of his shaft. He ran the tip across her savaged lips.
“Watch me.”
She nodded and sat on her haunches, hands folded obediently atop her thighs. She gave him her full attention as he masturbated—his cock and fist and the flexing muscles of his arm and stomach. His face, most of all. His gaze flicked all over her body in return, and as his hand sped up she knew he was close.
“Lemme see,” she murmured.
“See what?”
“Lemme see you come.”
A moan gave him away once more. He reached out for her, grasping her shoulder with his free hand and drawing her close.
“Emily.”
She felt the heat of his release lash her neck and collarbone and she shut her eyes, lost in the sounds of his pleasure, audio glimpses at the most elusive of animals—the strongest man she’d ever known, utterly helpless.
Breathing slowed and bodies cooled. Emily padded back to the bathroom to tidy herself then joined Rasul in bed. There was still dinner to be made and eaten, but that could wait a few minutes longer.
Wrapping his arm around her waist, he pulled her close, her back to his chest. He pressed kisses to her neck and ear, fond and sleepy. These quiets moments in the wake of sex were as intimate as the act itself. More so, perhaps. The only occasions when Rasul could be described as tender, borderline vulnerable. Hand him a newborn baby—nothing. A puppy, nothing. A crying child, nothing. Attentive perhaps, but unmoved. He approached all situations with one of two attitudes—controlled detac
hment or ferocious aggression.
Except this moment. This moment was how she imagined he might react in the presence of their own child one day…calm, affectionate, free of the memories and rituals and duties that haunted him. Or might that greatest of all responsibilities only intensify his paranoia? A worry for another time.
She felt him nod off behind her, his powerful arm going slack across her ribs. She slid from his embrace and dressed, pleased to leave him to nap while she started the grill. She’d fill her lungs with the brisk spring air and the smell of spices, knowing he was upstairs, asleep. Asleep and free from himself for a blissful half-hour, a fleeting gift she felt honored beyond words to be able to give to him.
Chapter Three
Rasul pulled up to the bar at nine, two hours into Emily’s Tuesday night shift. He slammed the car door and hit the lock button on his key fob. No need to obsess, as the only things of value inside were material.
An old feeling, a streak of excitement, warmed his body. He’d made this small journey—the walk from his car to the bar’s entrance—hundreds of times. A few years ago this place had been his colleagues’ favorite after-work drinking spot, and he’d gone along largely to socialize and unwind, though he wasn’t adept at either activity.
As time went on, he’d paid less and less attention to the conversations and more and more to the sweet, honey-voiced woman who worked behind the bar. It had taken him a month to even ask her name. Two months to ask her out. Six months to propose and another year of living together before she’d say yes. Now he rarely visited Emily at work, knowing it constituted her small, autonomous social life outside their home. He’d selfishly prefer to be her entire life, but she didn’t work that way. Most Western women didn’t, and he could find that agreeable on an intellectual level, even if the caveman in him begged to protest.
He pushed in the door to the bar, the smell hitting him with nostalgia. It wasn’t quite a restaurant, though they served a decent menu of pub food. Like everything in Reston, it was clean and pleasant, if slightly impersonal as a result. He’d never been a drinker back in the Middle East. In fact, he’d not been a drinker when he first started coming to this bar. Emily had poured him his first beer, first ever in his stubborn, control-freak life, and he’d come to associate that taste with her. And that feeling of ease. He probably never would have found the sac to ask her out if not for beer.
