SO TEMPTED TO TOUCH: Erotica short stories.

Part 2

Daisy.

He leans in, his lips brushing against my ear.

“You’ll think of me every time you lie next to him now,” he whispers. “But next time…”

His hips grind against mine, his D sliding along my sensitive moist pssy, teasing me mercilessly.

“Next time, Daisy… you won’t have to imagine.”

My heart pounds so hard I can hear it in my ears.

As his words sink in, I know… there won’t be a next time. I won’t survive this tension, this constant ache.

I want him inside me, now!

“Then do it,” I whisper, my voice breathless, wrecked with need. “Don’t make me imagine.”

Something shifts in his eyes. That playful edge darkens — replaced by pure, unfiltered hunger.

He’s hard. Thick and big. It’s not just the outline I saw last night. My mouth waters, my body clenching with desperate, aching need.

“Daisy…” His eyes raking down my naked body like he owns me. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this.”

He lines himself up, the broad tip of him pressing against my pssy opening.

My hips buck. I can’t help it — the need to be filled, claimed, completely undone by him is unbearable.

“Please…” I whisper, the last shred of pride long gone.

His lips crash against mine as he thrusts inside —a deep and hard push filling me completely.

My gasp is swallowed by his mouth as my body stretches to take him, the slight sting giving way to pure, raw pleasure.

He groans into the kiss, pulling back only to drive into me again, deeper, harder, setting a brutal rhythm that leaves me clawing at his shoulders, moaning helplessly beneath him.

The sound of our bodies meeting, skin on skin, fills the room — the slick, filthy rhythm of it making my cheeks flush even hotter.

“You feel so f!cking good,” he growls, driving into me with each word, his hips slamming against mine, his c**k stretching me perfectly. “So tight… so wet… f!ck, Daisy.”

I can’t think. I can barely breathe. All I can do is take it — take him — my body burning, my walls clenching around him as he pounds into me, relentless, possessive, claiming every inch.

Every thrust knocks the air from my lungs, my nails digging into his back as I lose myself completely.

And God… I’m close again. So close.

His hand slips between us, his thumb circling my cl!t in perfect rhythm.

“Come for me,” he orders, voice rough, his thrusts never faltering. “Squeeze my c0ck… I wanna feel it.”

My body obeys before my brain can catch up.

I fall apart beneath him — shattering, convulsing, crying out as my 0rgasm hits me like a freight train, pulsing around him, milking him.

He buries himself deep, groaning low in my ear as he follows, his hips jerking, warmth spilling inside me in thick, hot waves.

We collapse together, breathless, tangled in sweat and tangled sheets, the weight of what we’ve done crashing down just as heavy as his body on top of mine.

But even as my heart races with guilt and panic…

The only thing I can think is —

I want him again.

~~~~~

It doesn’t end that night.

It should have.

I should’ve shoved him off me, covered myself, buried the evidence under sheets and shame — but I didn’t. I let him fack me like I belonged to him, like my husband wasn’t asleep down the hall, like my daughter wasn’t under the same roof.

And worse?

The next time… I was the one who went looking for him.

It started with little moments.

In the kitchen, when Greg and Kelly weren’t looking, his hand would brush my waist. His fingers would graze my hip, just low enough to make my breath hitch.

Then one morning, I walked into the laundry room — and he was waiting.

Before I could say a word, he had me pressed against the washing machine, his hand shoved between my legs, his mouth on mine.

“Couldn’t stop thinking about you last night,” he growled, his fingers teasing my soaked panties aside. “Thought about bending you over this machine… making you come before the spin cycle even started.”

I didn’t stop him.

I spread my legs wider and let him finger me right there — gently, deep and rubbing against my gspot— while my husband sipped coffee in the kitchen.

I came on his fingers, biting my lip so hard I nearly bled to stay quiet. He'd lick my juices from his hands and smile. Then he'd walk out as if nothing happened.

The guilt?

It burned.

But the thrill?

It was unbearable… and completely addicting.

And that’s how it started.

Quick, filthy f!cks when no one was watching.

Bent over the bathroom sink while the shower ran.

Pinned against the pantry door when Greg and Kelly were outside.

On my knees in the garage, his c0ck shoved down my throat, his hand fisted in my hair, whispering how good I looked choking on him.

The sneaking around only made it hotter — the risk, the danger.

I told myself it would stop.

That I’d get it out of my system.

But every time he looked at me like he wanted to ruin me… every time his c0ck stretched me wide and filled me to the brim… every time he whispered Mrs. Smith like it was the filthiest title in the world —

I gave in.

Over. And over. And over again.

And the worst part?

I stopped feeling guilty.

I started wanting more.

It didn’t take long for everything to fall apart.

Or maybe… for everything to finally fall into place. Drake asked me to be his. He confessed his love to me.

The sneaking around with him turned into late-night confessions. Pillow talk. Plans and whispers of what if.

And once I stopped lying to myself, I realized the truth: I didn’t love Greg. I hadn’t for years.

Our marriage was a quiet routine — an empty bed, a silent ache I convinced myself was normal.

Drake?

He made me feel alive. Wanted and loved.

Filing for divorce was surprisingly… easy.

Greg barely fought it. He knew, deep down. He’d known long before Drake ever touched me — that he’d already lost me.

And Kelly?

She barely blinked. “It’s about time,” she shrugged when I told her. “Honestly, Mom, you and Dad have been done for years.”

She didn’t care. She had her own life, her own ambition, and apparently, no clue just how intimate things had gotten with Drake before the papers were signed.

But I didn’t care anymore either.

Because now?

I was Mrs. Daisy Holloway.

Drake's wife.

Our wedding was small — scandalous for some, whispered about by many — but neither of us cared. The moment I said “I do,” the last thread of guilt snapped free.

The honeymoon?

The real prize.

Our hotel suite overlooked the ocean, the warm breeze slipping through the cracked window as I sprawled across the bed, nak3d beneath soft white sheets.

Drake stood at the foot of the bed, eyes dark and hungry — like he couldn’t believe I was his.

And f!ck , I couldn’t believe it either.

“Spread your legs for me, Mrs. Holloway,” he rasped, already crawling up the bed. “Let me show you how married life’s gonna feel.”

I obeyed, breath catching as he slipped between my thighs, his broad shoulders parting them wide.

His mouth found me instantly — tongue dragging through my lab!a, lips wrapping around my cl!t, sucking, teasing, ruining me with slow, deliberate strokes.

I moaned, fisting the sheets as my back arched off the bed.

“f**k… Drake…”

His hands gripped my hips, holding me still as his tongue dove deeper, relentless, devouring me like I was his favorite meal.

“Mine,” he groaned against me, his words vibrating against my most sensitive spot. “Every inch… every f*****g moan… mine now.”

I shattered beneath him, trembling, crying out, my body was his to use, to worship, to wreck.

And as I l

ay there, breathless, spent, completely undone… I couldn’t help but smile.

Because this time, I wasn’t sneaking around.

This time… I was exactly where I belonged. With Drake.

~The End~