Platonic Cuddling

A gasp escapes me as my back hits the wood, and hands grab mine, pinning them high above my head, forcing me to look straight into the face I’ve tried so hard to forget. Kai. His scent filled my senses, spicy and dangerous and so damn soothing. His gaze burned into my skin and the amount of fury in them almost made me shiver. “What the hell is wrong with you?” I snap. He leans in, voice low and venomous. “You like cuddling up in another man’s arms, Virelle?” “Excuse me?” I hissed. “Ric is my mate. I can do whatever the hell I want.” His jaw clenches as his nostrils flares. “You think he can please you?” I glare at him, ignoring the heat pooling low in my belly. “Yes, I do, because he’s my mate and I can do whatever I want, I don’t owe you anything.” “Bullshit,” he growls and before I could blink, his lips crash against mine…hard. His lips are rough and angry, his teeth grazing mine with his tongue forcing its way in, like he’s trying to claim what he threw away. My mind is screaming at me to shove him off, but my body is traitorous and trembling, and is already responding. I could feel Nyzarelle howling in delight, as I clutched to him for dear life. I'd never felt like this with Ric A moan slips from my mouth but is swallowed by his tongue as his hand grips my thigh, trailing up until I feel them on my folds. He massaged my folds roughly, before stuffing his hands into my panties and pooling a finger into me. My back aches as he finger fucks me angrily, not giving space to catch my breathe.

My husband had a severe addiction for physical intimacy. However, in the seven years of our marriage, he never touched me, not even once. To suppress his urges, he soaked himself in bone-chilling ice water every night. His arms were covered in needle marks from constant injections. It broke my heart to see him like that. I offered myself to him many times, but he insisted on simply giving me a restrained kiss on the forehead before saying, “Don’t be silly, Summer. I’m not like those animals. How could I ever bear to hurt you? For you, I’d gladly live the rest of my life in a platonic marriage.” This strange, almost obsessive restraint of his lasted seven years. Despite the numerous times he pushed himself far enough to end up hospitalized, he still refused to cross that line. Then, on our wedding anniversary, a young woman named Anna Brandt came in for her ninth hymen restoration surgery. After the anesthetic was administered, her cheeks flushed red. As her mind grew hazy, she started crying weakly like a lost kitten. Looking at the love bites scattered across her body, I shook my head and assumed she was just another girl who had gone astray. That was until I heard her last tearful whisper. “John Shaw, you jerk.” My hand trembled and I nearly dropped the scalpel. Because my husband’s name also was John Shaw.