Page 23 of Sex Love Repeat

“Back so soon?” he asks me through a mouthful of food, setting the bowl on the counter and stepping over, wrapping a hand around my waist and pulling me tight to his hard, wet body.

I resist the urge to push him off, the wet feel of him sinking through my clothes, the scent of salt water hitting my nose. “It was a quick visit.—one to appease my mom before their trip to Italy.” I smile up at him, his hand gripping me tighter, and as he presses me against him, I feel an entirely different type of hard muscle. My smile widens, and I laugh, dropping my bag on the floor and wrapping my arms around his neck. “God, you are impossible.”

“What can I say? I’m addicted.” His words are soft, so sweet and sincere that they tug my heart in a way that cannot be described. I reach between us and tug on the zipper of his suit, dragging it down, his breath increasing, ragged against my mouth as he releases my waist and grips my face, pulling it to his with both hands, and walks me backward until I hit the counter.

I cup him in my hand, pulling him out, the weight and rigidity of him beautiful, causing a weight in my pu**y, a need in my core. His mouth softens against me and he takes his time, dipping slowly into my mouth as he thrust forward with his hips, begging me for more with his body, his c**k sliding in and out of my hand, wet vinyl cool and itchy against my thighs.

“You’re wet,” I whisper, coming off his mouth.

“So are you,” he replies, pressing forward, pinning me against the wall as he takes another taste of my mouth.

It is a fact I can’t deny, my panties sticking to me, his hands reaching down and pulling up my dress, the thin material contrasting with the cashmere sweater that I wear over it. I move his cock, placing it between my legs, my boots putting me at a height that makes us fit perfectly together, the warm space between my legs squeezing his cock, the slow in and out of his bare thrusts creating a delicious friction between my legs. “I love you,” he says, tucking my hair behind an ear and staring into my face, my eyes closing as the slide of his c**k draws a long pull of pleasure against my clit. “I need you.”

“I need you, too. Right f**king now.” I open my eyes, catching the full brute of his ocean-blue eyes, the skin around them tan despite the cool air, flecks of gold in his hair, bleach blond brows furrowing as he squeezes my cheeks, pulling my pelvis tight to him, the fit of us causing his breath to hiss.

“As you wish,” he growls, lifting up with his hands, my legs leaving the floor, a shriek of surprise leaving my mouth. He kneels, with me in his arms, lowering me to the kitchen floor, setting me gently on my back, the hard floor cushioned by my sweater, his hands pulling my skirt up and sliding my panties to the side, a finger slipping into me, his eyes lighting up at the touch.

Then he is inside me, f**king me on the floor, our legs a tangled mess of boots and bare feet, his wetsuit wreaking havoc against my legs but I don’t care. I don’t care about anything other than the perfect, slick pattern he is f**king into me. His face stares down at me, framed by the flex and pull of his shoulder and chest muscles as he takes me with his cock.

It is fast, it is messy, our bodies bouncing in unrestrained passion, his breath hard on my skin, his hands bracing against the floor, the deep thrusts that cause me to wrap my legs around him and gasp with every stroke.

He rolls, keeping me inside of him, my sweater now hot, and I yank it off, my arms tangling in it, his hands helping to pull it free. I grin down, his playful smile matching my own, his length twitching inside of me, a subtle hint for me to move. I lean forward, resting my hands on his chest and ride, up and down, each downward pump grinding my pelvis against him, his hands running lightly over my br**sts, his eyes glued to mine. I f**k him until I come, crying out as I clench him tight and sink onto his chest. He takes over, pumping his c**k up into me, holding me tight with his arms, his mouth hot on my neck, my body stilling as he hammers out swift, quick f**ks.

Then he comes. I love to hear him come. He is vocal, moaning my name as he thrusts hard and deep, his arms tight around my body, his actions almost frantic in their movements. He needs me. He loves me.

He stills his hips, his arms reaching up and pulling my hair to one side, his mouth soft against my skin as he kisses my collarbone. I close my eyes, enjoying the trail of his fingers against my skin, his c**k getting soft inside of me, the cool air from the open window floating over my bare ass. I love him. I need him, too.


My relationship with Stewart is a catch 22. If he didn’t work, or didn’t have a slave’s addiction to the work, our relationship would be a success. We would have the fabulous sex life, and the relationship to accompany it. We would drink champagne in bed and share our hopes and dreams, stories of our past. We would spend weekends in bed and drive to the beach when the sun was out. We would have children and watch them grow up, argue over bedtimes and house rules. All that is not possible because of the full-time mistress that is his job. But if he weren’t married to his work, if he was a normal man with free time and a clear mind, then he wouldn’t be my Stewart. He wouldn’t have the same intensity, the confidence and satisfaction that he gets from his job. He is the job. His entire being, the traits that I love, are all cultivated and created on that phone, through deals and negotiations. Stewart without his single-minded devotion to work... I wouldn’t even know that man. He would be a stranger to me. And if I had a full-time Stewart, then I wouldn’t have Paul. A full-time Stewart would have no reason, no need for Paul. A full-time Stewart would want me all for his own.

He wakes me with his mouth, interrupting a dream with a reality far sweeter. His mouth awakens my passions as well as my body, and he claims me, sliding his warm body atop mine, nudging my knees apart and grinding his body against me, the smooth slide of naked skin causing me to shiver beneath him. His c**k grows hard between our bodies, and we are both ready when it bumps lower, thrusting inside of me.

It is the perfect way to wake up, the perfect way to start my day. Stewart knows what I need, knows the insatiable pull within me. And, wrapping my arms around his neck, I let him fulfill me.

Fourteen hours later, he drives, his hand loose on the gearshift, the car taking the tight curves of the road with ease. He drives like he does everything else: intently, with an edge of recklessness barely restrained by tight control.

I lean back, letting my head drop against the headrest and run my hands gently over his forearm. He is happy, his mouth turning up at the edges, a secret grin playing over his features. His hand releases the shifter and turns up, my palm sliding into his and our fingers interlock.