I spin to face him as he lunges for me, and then we’re both tumbling down to the floor, hard enough to knock the air from my lungs. But I fight, pushing his hands away and trying to roll. He stops me with a knee and then a cruel hand in my hair, and then his other knee is wedged in between my thighs, driving them apart. The brutality of that knee and the weave of the antique carpet beneath my bare ass is enough to remind my body of the furious cropping I just endured. His hand leaves my hair to palm my cunt, and I can hear and smell it. Wet. Needy.
His eyes flare in the dark.
I’m flipped onto my stomach, and my wrists are gathered and pinned above my head. I can’t tell if I’m still squirming to keep up the pretense of fighting or if I’m squirming to feel the carpet rough against my nipples, to grind my glowing red ass against Ash’s erection.
Whatever the reason, it earns me a smack on the ass so hard I cry out, and then the blunt head of him is shoving into me. He feels huge like this, bigger than I’ve ever felt, and when I dare a peek behind me, his body is sleekly powerful in the moonlight, all muscles and sweat. A nocturnal predator.
I’m being devoured by him, his cock eating me up from the inside out, burning the fear right out of me and sowing pleasure amidst the flames, and have I ever been able to breathe? I’ve forgotten what breathing is, what existing is, what everything other than being fucked like a rebellious slut on the floor of the Lincoln Bedroom feels like.
I’m going to come, it’s like barbed wire in my pelvis, dragged up from the pain in my ass and the adrenaline from the fight, but Ash beats me to it. He pulls out and tosses me onto my back once again, and then he’s straddling me with his knees on either side of my shoulders and fucking his fist with short, angry breaths.
“Your body belongs to me,” he says fiercely, the muscles in his shoulder and arm thick and bunching as he works himself at a furious pace. “And your gold hair and your face and your heart. Say it. Say it.”
“It’s yours,” I say, mesmerized by his power, his anger, his cock. “All of me belongs to you.”
He lets out a hissing breath and then it comes, long white stripes across my face, spattering into my hair, lacing my eyelashes and dripping into my mouth. So much of it, so much pent-up lust, and when he’s drained himself of every last drop, he stands up.
For an eerie moment, him standing over me and me on my back covered in his orgasm, I have the strangest fear that he’s going to leave me here. Walk away, make me pick myself up off the ground and limp into the bedroom by myself.
But his anger isn’t spent, not completely. He leans down, and then I’m being hoisted over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, carried into our bedroom and unceremoniously dumped on the bed. He tosses a handkerchief at me.
“Wipe your face and spread your legs.”
“I—” But before I can get anything else out, he’s up on the bed and his mouth is on my pussy, hot and open.
My back bows off the comforter, the sensation after coming so close to climax and being denied almost too much. The orgasm rushes back at full force, and Ash shows no mercy or patience with his mouth, sucking and flicking and tonguing me with all the anger he used while fucking me.
“Come, goddammit,” he hisses. “And you know what to say when you do.”
I come, hard and twistingly long, my feet rubbing against the blanket and my hands fisting uselessly at the pillows above me, and my heart in my throat. I come so hard that everything fades away except the heat of my husband’s mouth.
“Thank you, Sir,” I pant, as the climax begins to recede and I can breathe again. “Thank you, Mr. President.”
He peers up at me from between my legs, his eyelashes long enough to cast shadows in the lamplight, and for a moment, his face is wide open, heartbreakingly open. And then he’s on top of me, kissing my mouth, claiming it like he claimed everything else tonight.
I taste my pussy in his kiss, and I kiss him back even harder, licking his tongue and his lips, which makes him groan. “You belong to me,” he says into my mouth. “You’re mine. My wife. My own.”
“Yes,” I breathe back. “Yes.”
He squeezes one of my breasts hard. “I need you again.”
I can feel his need against my thigh and I obediently spread my legs. This time he kicks his pants off all the way, but the bed and the kissing don’t make it any less urgent, any less brutal. He fucks me until I come again, he fucks me until sweat rolls down his chest and his lungs heave for air and finally, at last, something seems to let go of him. He comes with the force of a man returning back to himself, with the force of an exorcism. This time he empties himself inside me with a jagged breath that seems drawn from his very soul.
I’m almost sad when his green eyes light on mine and I see them filled with concern and love. He flicks on a brighter light and stands up, inspecting my cunt, examining the welts on my ass. Then he asks, “How do you feel right now?”
It’s standard check-in talk, the kind of question he’s asked me countless times before, but we both know this time is different, that we edged close to a cliff we’d always kept well in the distance.
“Delirious,” I say. “And a little shaken.”
“I pushed you hard tonight,” he says. “I count on you being honest with me. I count on you stopping me if it’s too much.”
I shake my head before he even stops talking. “It wasn’t. I’m not ashamed to safe out or ask you to pull back. But Ash, I—” I stare up into his strong face, noticing the way the stubble shadows his cheeks this late into the day, the tousled waves of his hair. The glint of his wedding ring on his hand. “—your anger is more frightening than a riding crop.”