My Husband’s Best Friend

“Better find some candles,” Derek murmured behind me, voice low and rough, “or we’re gonna have to keep each other real warm.”

His flashlight beam swung away. Footsteps retreated down the hall. Then nothing.

I stood frozen in the kitchen doorway, wineglass still in my hand, rain lashing the windows so hard it sounded like gunfire. My blouse clung to my skin, soaked from the dash inside. My pulse hammered in my throat.

I lasted maybe thirty seconds.

Then I was moving. Bare feet silent on the hardwood, heart slamming so loud I barely heard the thunder. The master-bedroom door was cracked open, a thin blade of gold light slicing across the floorboards.

I pushed it wide.

Derek stood at the foot of the king bed, back to me, sweatpants already kicked off. Candlelight from the nightstand licked over every inch of him: shoulders carved from years of manual labor, the deep V of his torso, the thick, heavy curve of his cock standing straight up against his abs like it had been waiting for this exact moment.

He turned when the door creaked. Eyes black in the flickering light.

Neither of us spoke.

I crossed the room in four strides, grabbed the back of his neck, and kissed him like I was drowning. He made a guttural sound and his hands were on my ass instantly, lifting me off the floor like I weighed nothing. My legs locked around his waist; my skirt bunched at my hips; the soaked lace of my panties dragged against his bare skin and we both groaned.

Two steps and he dropped me on the dresser. Perfume bottles crashed to the floor. My blouse tore open under impatient hands (buttons pinged across the room like hail). Cool air hit my breasts a half-second before his mouth did: hot, wet, merciless. He sucked my nipple so hard I cried out, teeth scraping, tongue flicking, leaving red marks I’d have to explain for weeks.

“These fucking tits,” he growled against my skin, switching to the other, biting just hard enough to make me jerk. “Been hard for them since the day you walked down that aisle in that tight little maid-of-honor dress.”

I fisted his hair, yanked his mouth back to mine. I tasted myself on his tongue, wine and want and years of forbidden. My heels dug into the small of his back, urging him closer. He ground against me once, twice, the thick length of him sliding through the ruined lace between my legs, and I whimpered into his mouth like a desperate animal.

He broke the kiss only to spin me around, bend me over the dresser, and rip my panties down to mid-thigh. The mirror showed everything: me flushed and trembling, lipstick smeared, him towering behind me, one hand wrapped around that gorgeous cock, stroking slow and deliberate.

“Look at you,” he rasped. “Daddy’s perfect little princess bent over for her husband’s best friend.”

Then he dropped to his knees.

One rough grip on my hips and his mouth was on me from behind: tongue dragging up my slit, sucking my clit hard, pushing inside like he wanted to crawl into me. I screamed, palms slapping the mirror, pushing back against his face while he devoured me whole. Two thick fingers plunged in alongside his tongue and curled hard; I came instantly, thighs shaking, gushing over his chin.

He didn’t stop. Kept licking, sucking, fingering me through it until I was sobbing, trying to crawl away from the intensity. He stood up, spun me again, lifted me back onto the dresser like I was weightless.

“Open,” he ordered, voice shredded.

I dropped to my knees without thinking.

He fed himself into my mouth slow: inch by thick inch, stretching my lips, hitting the back of my throat until tears ran down my cheeks and spit dripped off my chin. I took as much as I could, hands braced on his thighs, moaning around him like a p**n star. He threaded fingers through my hair, guiding me, fucking my mouth in shallow, controlled thrusts while thunder crashed outside and candle flames danced wild.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he groaned. “Take Daddy’s best friend down that pretty married throat.”

I did. I took everything he gave me until my jaw ached and my mascara ran and I was humping the air like a bitch in heat, desperate for friction.

He pulled out suddenly, hauled me up, and threw me onto the bed. I landed on my back, legs spread wide, blouse hanging open, panties still tangled at my knees. He crawled over me, pushed my thighs wider with his knees, and lined up.

One brutal thrust and he was inside me bare, stretching me open, filling me so perfectly I screamed his name into the dark.

He fucked me like he hated me and loved me at the same time: hard, deep, relentless. The headboard slammed the wall in rhythm with the storm. I clawed his back, wrapped my legs high around his waist, met every punishing thrust until the bed was creaking and we were both sweating and swearing and shaking.

He pulled out, flipped me onto my stomach, yanked my hips up until I was on my knees. One hand fisted in my hair, the other gripping my waist hard enough to bruise. He slammed back in and took me from behind, every stroke hitting deeper, harder, until I was babbling, begging, coming again so hard my vision went white and I soaked the sheets beneath us.

He growled my name like a prayer and a curse, slammed in one last time, and held deep while he came: pulsing inside me, filling me up hot and thick and completely. I felt every spurt, every throb, and I clenched around him greedily, milking him dry.

We collapsed sideways, still joined, his chest to my back, both of us breathing like we’d run ten miles. His hand slid up to cup my breast, thumb lazily circling my nipple, smearing the mess we’d made.

“Three weeks,” he whispered against the sweat at my neck. “Every night. Every position. Every drop is mine now.”

I turned my head, kissed him slow and filthy, tasting both of us on his tongue.

“Take it,” I breathed. “Take everything he thinks is his.”

And he did.

He rolled me onto my back again, still half-hard inside me, and started moving slow: lazy, deep strokes that had me arching and gasping all over again. The candles guttered lower. Rain hammered the roof. Somewhere in the house a clock chimed midnight, but time didn’t matter anymore.

There was only Derek: his weight pinning me down, his mouth on my throat marking me, his cock dragging over every sensitive spot inside me until I was coming again, softer this time, a rolling wave that left me boneless and trembling.

He followed right after, spilling a second time, quieter but deeper, like he was branding himself into me.

When he finally pulled out, the emptiness made me whimper. He kissed it away: soft presses of his lips to my temple, my cheek, the corner of my mouth.

“Sleep,” he murmured, pulling the wrecked comforter over us both. “Storm’s not done. Neither are we.”

I curled into his chest, sticky and sore and utterly ruined, and smiled into the dark.

Let the lights stay out forever.

I’d found the only fire I needed.