I didn’t mean to scream his name.
But I did. Loud. Shameless. While bent over his kitchen counter, his c**k wrecking every part of me my husband never touched right.
He didn’t stop.
Not when I came. Not even after.
He f****d me through it—growling, cursing, whispering how filthy I was. His filthy girl. His w***e. His secret.
And when he finally pulled out, it was only to grab my face and shove his fingers into my mouth.
“Clean it,” he ordered. “Clean your own mess off daddy’s cock.”
I did.
I sucked his fingers while he watched, his eyes dark and full of something feral. Something that said this wasn’t just a one-time thing. This wasn’t just a mistake.
I’d crossed a line.
And now, there was no going back.
The next morning, I tried to pretend I wasn’t aching between my legs. I sat
