The Widow’s Hunger ( II )

BLAIRE

The mattress dipped under Richard’s weight, the expensive springs groaning as he moved over me. He didn't pull the dress off completely yet; he let it hang around my waist, the black lace bunched up and abrasive against my hips. He wanted the contrast, the formal elegance of my mourning clothes against the raw, naked hunger of my skin.

"Richard, please," I gasped, my hands fumbling with his silk tie, my fingers shaking so hard I could barely get a grip. "I can’t... I’ve been waiting so long."

"I know you have," he whispered, his voice vibrating against my collarbone. He caught my wrists, pinning them back against the pillows with one hand. With the other, he reached down, his fingers hooking into the waistband of my silk panties. He didn't rip them; he peeled them down with a slow, agonizing precision that made my breath hitch.

I was already soaking, the scent of my own arousal heavy and sharp in the cool air of the suite. When he saw the dampness staining the silk, a dark, primal look crossed his face, the first crack in his "gentle" mask.

"Look at you," he muttered, his thumb tracing the swollen outer lips of my pussy, spreading the moisture until I was whimpering, my hips arching off the bed in a desperate search for friction. "You’re practically dripping for me. Did you think about this while you were sitting by his bed, Blaire? Did you imagine it was my hand instead of his?"

"Every night," I confessed, the truth spilling out of me like a wound. "God, every single night."

He stopped for a moment, his eyes boring into mine, searching for the depth of my deprivation. "Tell me, Blaire," he murmured, his voice dropping to a low, rough rasp. "How long has it been since you were really sex-starved? How long have you been craving a man’s touch?"

"Three years," I choked out, a sob catching in my throat as the weight of those empty years crashed down on me. "Oh, three years... ever since Manuel’s cancer started. Three years of being a widow while he was still breathing."

Richard let out a low, guttural sound and sat back on his heels just long enough to shed his clothes. When he stepped back into the flickering light of the hearth, I saw the true weight of the "inheritance" Manuel had left behind. He was thick, heavy, and fully gorged, a dark vein pulsing down the length of his shaft as it twitched against his lower belly. He looked powerful, untouched by the sickness that had taken his brother.

He crawled back over me, his knees forcing my thighs wide. He positioned the wet, blunt head of his cock at my pussy entrance, rubbing it against my clit in slow, rhythmic circles that had me clawing at the sheets, my toes curling into the silk.

"Tell me you want it," he commanded, his jaw tight as he fought for his own control. "Tell me you want your husband’s brother inside you."

"I want you," I screamed, my legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him closer until I could feel the heat radiating off him. "I want you inside me, Richard! Now!"

He didn't make me beg again. He drove into me in one deep, soul-shattering thrust. I let out a loud, jagged cry as he bottomed out, his thick cock stretching me past my limit, filling the emptiness that had been a dull ache for three years. The feeling of him, real, hot, and alive was so intense I thought my heart might stop.

I felt the girth of him expanding inside me, claiming every sensitive nerve as he bottomed out against my cervix. He stayed there for a moment, buried to the hilt, letting me adjust to the sheer size of him before he began to pull back.

He began to move, a steady, methodical rhythm that was designed to drive me insane. Every shove hit my cervix, a bruising, deep contact that sent sparks behind my eyelids. He wasn't slamming into me like a beast; he was sliding, his hips grinding against mine, making sure I felt every inch of his skin. He leaned down, his mouth finding my breast again, sucking the nipple deep into his mouth while he hammered into my core.

"Three years," he growled against my skin, his pace turning frantic. "I'm going to make up for every single day of it. I'm going to make you forget you ever belonged to anyone else."

He reached down between our bodies, his thumb finding my clit and rubbing it with a fast, expert pressure while he continued to hammer into me. The friction was unbearable, a white-hot pressure building in my core that made my vision blur. I could feel the walls of my pussy clenching around him, desperate to milk every bit of pleasure from his thickness.

My inner muscles were spasming, trying to hold onto him as he pulled nearly all the way out before slamming back in, the sound of our bodies meeting echoing in the quiet room.

I felt the climax coming, a massive, body-numbing explosion. My muscles tensed, my pussy milking his cock in tight, frantic pulses as I came, my screams muffled by his mouth as he kissed me, drinking in my release. Richard let out a raw, jagged roar, his own body shuddering as he emptied himself deep inside me, his hot cum filling me to the brim. He gave one final, violent thrust before collapsing against me, his chest heaving.

We lay there in the quiet, the sweat cooling on our skin, the black lace of my dress still tangled around my waist like a reminder of the sin we’d just committed.

"That was just the beginning, Blaire," Richard whispered, his hand sliding down to possessively cup my breast, his fingers sticky with my pussy juice, a sign of our shared mess. "We have all night. And tomorrow... tomorrow, you have to deal with Raymond."