Chapter 230 - Lovers passionate tempers give way to a fuċk me moment

Mara's already on fire with anger, when he meets her in their bedroom. It only grows as they dress together. A rush: scrambling out of work clothes into something more appropriate for a night of dinner, drinks, a friend's party. John only makes it halfway into his clothing before she snaps, and turns to him hands on the soft swell of her hɨps.

"I don't even know why I'm rushing! We're going to be late. You always make us late!"

She isn't wrong. They are going to be late for the party. And it is his fault. He's sorry, and he's already tried to tell her ten times, whispering it into her milk-pale shoulder. His personal Snow White. Dark hair and red lips.

Except he has no huntsman's cloak and she's shimmed her way into the tiniest red lingerie instead of some fine gown. The round globes of her ȧss sit pretty atop her legs, only accentuated by her heels as she stalks and yells. (Which, sure, he probably does deserve.)

But he also doesn't miss the way her dark eyes crawl over him. Not enough to make him show off, but she'd said a thousand times before. That she loves his solid build, the hold she isn't strong enough to break free from, the bulk of his body on top of hers.

They've spun out this game dozens of times before. It's not always this. But it is always something, some reason to rile the blood in both of them. Sometimes the game is as simple as I'm running, come chase me. Her body splayed out underneath his, Sometimes it's come touch, come look, oh no, I've changed my mind.

The way those little games end is always the same: the two of them, bodies coming together,

He is certain that she's noticed his ċȯċk getting hard as he watches her walk back and forth across their bedroom, yelling at him in that sharp and meaningless way only people in love can do. She can be angry with him, and she can make sure he knows that. This sėxy, heart-pounding way to work out something real.

When she says: "At this point, I'd almost rather not go," he calls her bluff.

The room goes dead silent for a moment, the only sound is their breathing and the wall clock. It mocks them. Finally, he asks, "Oh yeah? What would you rather do instead?"

And that's all it takes really. The spark of a dare. A challenge. For the energy to change. For her to look at him and decide that she did want something more from him than well-earned apologies.

His beautiful, spitfire wife launches herself at him. They go down together, the sheets cool and soft beneath him. She's hot and soft on top. She takes his mouth first. No hesitance there. Rough and insistent. Tasting him and demanding that he do the same. Try to inhale her as much as she is him.

She rocks on him, already looking for friction to get herself off, even as she punishes him. Pulls his lower lip into her mouth, biting, not enough to puncture but enough to make him gasp, grab her ȧss and pull her closer.

Angry-mouthed woman. It makes her taste even better.

She's still rocking, pulling at his scalp, trying to hurt him, making it hurt. But he knows her. This is as much a question as a demand. Give me this. Hurt me how I hurt you.

"This must be the only way you know how to ask for what you want, hm?" he asks. A beat later he smacks one of her ȧss cheeks. "Are you going to answer me?"

She giggles a throaty thing that makes his ċȯċk twitch. She grinds on top of him already slick, the wetness of her ċunt sticking his boxers to his ċȯċk. It may always be like this with her: the edge of explosion, a hair's breadth away from detonation. But he's addicted to it now: the way she hurts him, her fingers tangling in his hair until the nails scratch at him. That's how she draws his mȯȧns out, makes him huff in her ear.

He chuckles too. "Funny, huh? Funny how you need it so bad, huh? Funny how you need to rile me up instead of asking me to fuċk you rough."

Quick as a snake strikes, she grips his jaw in her hand. Just out of the corner of his eye, he sees the sharp nails of her fingers, digging into his cheeks. The sting—he loves the fuċkɨnġ sting, even better when she drops down harder, really rides him like that's how she's going to come, without giving him a fighting chance.

"No," she says, with that throaty drawl of hers. "I'm fuċkɨnġ you."

He'd laugh if she weren't holding him so tightly if his ċȯċk weren't throbbing with each pass of her hɨps.

"You're not fuċkɨnġ me, you're trying to get off. Show me you know how."

She reaches behind her: the telltale wriggle of her pushing those pretty little lace pȧntɨės to the side, leaving her wet ċunt bȧrė and open for him. The first slide of her hands into his boxers is enough to make him hiss. She's always known just how to handle him. How hard to squeeze and when to pull.

Anyone looking at her could see what he sees: a queen on her throne as she eases the first inch of him inside her. Every time he's buried in her ċunt it's still the same: so hot and so wet it's a shock. Feels an impossibility as she squeezes down so hard it's like she's trying to force him out.

He grabs her by the waist, clinging tight, hard enough to bruise, pulling her down as he fuċks up into her, grinning when she gasps.

"This is what you wanted, right?"

Her smart little mouth has lost all its words—just mȯȧning and whining and needy grunts that make him fuċk her deeper, give it to her hard strokes that rock the bed. Her lips, lush and parted, call to him and he fists a hand in her hair. He yanks her down for a kiss, a rough one, half-punishment for the way she talks to him, for the way she's using him to get herself off.

She tastes like heaven, his angry woman. Faintly like the champagne she'd been sipping before throwing her clothes at him, before she's started this please fuċk me fight. Mara's sigh opens her mouth wider, lets him have more, taste more, take her mouth like he's taking her pussƴ.

He needs more after tasting her. He needs and needs and needs. She yelps when he withdraws and flips them over. Putting her on her stomach. She's dramatic: gives him another one of her throaty laughs as he drags her toward the edge of the bed.

"Eat my pussƴ," she says, hooking one of her delicate little feet around the back of his knee. "Eat my pussƴ like a good little boy and I'll forgive you for making us late. "

Eating her pussƴ is not about forgiveness. It's because it's there, glistening and beautiful when she slightly widens her legs. It's because she thinks that's what she wants, but he's going to show her that it's just something else hewants from her. That he's decided he should have.

John settles to his knees. Pulls her the edge, and licks. She mȯȧns and that only spurs him on. He's full of her, here at the joining of her thɨġhs. The smell of her. Musk and sweat and the wetness pooling faster than he can lick it away. Her perfume, jasmine and vanilla. He traces the smell to a spot of her thɨġh where she must have swiped it and bites down hard. Hard enough to make her cry out.

"You don't want me to be a good boy, do you, Mara? Good boys can't do this to you."

She groans when his nose bumps up against the tight, sėnsɨtɨvė skin of her ȧsshole. It is only that he cannot get close enough to her. He thinks that maybe he craves her pŀėȧsurė more than she does. The sheer, unspoiled, uncontrollable burst of it across his tongue. He tongues her ċŀɨt, wrapped around it the way he knows she likes, the way she needs. He keeps her right on the edge of her ȯrġȧsm, denying it each time she tenses, quivering thɨġhs.

"You don't want this good, do you, love?"

He sinks his teeth into the other thɨġh to underscore his point, leaving angry marks in her pale, pale skin.

"I want," she says, on the verge of screeching, "you to let me come."

"You're spoiled," he tells her as he pulls away. She makes a frustrated sound as he grabs at her, making a handle with the hinge of her hɨps. He uses them to line her up as she stretches, catlike, as eager for him to shove it in her as he is. "So spoiled," he repeats, as he rubs the head of his ċȯċk against her. She's so pink. Practically dripping wet. Already looks well-fucked and he's bȧrėly started with the things he's going to do with her, how he's going to make her feel.

"So demanding. So much misbehaviour…" he says, still teasing, watching the cleft of her ċunt bȧrėly take in the head before he pulls it away again. "But I'm still going to fuċk you until you come all over this ċȯċk."

A self-satisfied wail slides out of her as he pushes in. He's not gentle about it. She doesn't want gentle from him. She wants him to fuċk her hard, fuċk her until she forgets everything that's not the place where their bodies meet.She grunts his name, an angry dark sound as he pulls out and fuċks back into her in a smooth, hard stroke.

"This is what you needed."

"Yes," she agrees with a silky sigh. "You're so good, your fuċkɨnġ ċȯċk is so good."

"I know," he says with a dark chuckle, fuċkɨnġ in and out at a pace that's designed to make her rock and mȯȧn with each stroke. So hard, her skin ripples each time he bottoms out inside her, thɨġhs slapping thɨġhs and filling the room with the sound of them together.

"I—I'm going to come," she says, suddenly with a sort of shocked surprise. "Please don't stop—don't stop. Fuck me, fuċkɨnġ fuċk me."

He stops suddenly, withdrawing so quickly she whirls on him. Oh, she is pissed.

"Motherfucker," she hisses. "You can't let me finish? You can't make me come?" An inferno in her eyes.The backs of her legs have turned faintly red from the hard fuċkɨnġ.

He snatches her up, flipping her onto her back. She likes this, when he manhandles her. They're half-creatures now. Given over to to the madness of sėx. The smell of it, the brutality of it, mindless and angry and huffing.

Creatures bent on devouring each other.

He kneels on the bed and with a quick hand, he reaches out to wrap a hand in her hair. All those dark, sleek strands turn into a handle in his palm. He uses it to crank her head toward his ċȯċk. She doesn't hesitate to take it in her mouth. She's well practiced in stretching her lips to take all of him.

"How's that taste?" he asks her with a level voice. She mumbles around him first, before he pulls her off. "What was that?"

"Tastes like me," she says, gasping, before he shoves it back in her mouth. Her lipstick has turned into a blood red cloud around her mouth. He's probably wearing it on his mouth too. On his mouth and his dɨċk and his shirt collar. Whatever parts of him she's decided to claim as her own.

She takes him so well, but she gags just enough to make him pulse inside her throat. He withdraws and realizes that together, they've made a mess of her. Her tɨts hang out of her bra, pink-tipped and streaked with drips of her own spit. Jiggling and ripe enough to bite.

So he does.

It makes her squeal, but he doesn't relent. She's so sėnsɨtɨvė here, always has been. Like she could come just from playing with her tɨts. He keeps going until she cries out his name, until she's turned those pink nɨppŀės red. Red like her her mouth and her nearly nonexistent lingerie and places on their bodies that are going to grow bruises.

"Enough," she says finally. A plea. "Fuck me."

"Yes, my love," he tells her. Yes, yes, he wants this too. He wants to be back inside her. It's like he's already forgotten what it's like to take her ċunt and he was there just moments ago. He holds her gaze with his own as he pulls her legs together, lined up all the way down to the toes.

It makes her pussƴ fist-tight as he slides back into her. So different this way. He likes to look at her. The sweet, perma-shocked O of her mouth as he works his way into her. She's slick and ready for him after all of this. Maybe always, his wife with her needy ċunt.

"That's it," he says, throat tense, jaw gritted. "Take it. Take it. Take it."

He bottoms out inside her with a thrust that makes them both groan. Her toes point and he can't tell if she's wriggling closer or trying to get away. It almost causes panic, this pŀėȧsurė. Like they do anything for it. Set cities ablaze or make promises to devils.

But they only need this, their two bodies and the willingness to give each other just what they need.

He can hearhow wet they are together. The slap of them coming together and parting again. The way she begs him. He wants to fuċk her through the goddamn mattress. He wants to make a permanent mark on this bed of their bodies. An indelible reminder that they own each other, whether they're refined human beings or pure animals.

"Please, baby," she says, "now, now, please."

He knows what she needs. They seem to always know what the other needs, especially after all this time. He pushes deep, somehow trying to get closer. He lets her legs loose, slots between them and wedges a hand under her ȧss, around her hɨps. As he bends his mouth to hers for the kiss he's been promised, he slides her up and down along his length.

Her hand closes around his jaw as she bites at him, his jaw, his chin. Once again, her nails dig into his flesh as she makes him chase her mouth with his own. It is easy to get lost in this, the way they match each other. Gasp for every desperate, hungry gasp. Like there's always going to be an imprint of her on him and him on her.

"Johnny," she says. Wheedling, and wedding night-sweet. "I'm going to c-come."

She digs her heels into his ȧss, pulling him closer. Sweat alternatively makes them slide off of each other and stick together. It doesn't take them long to find the slow, circling grind she wants. That's going to push her over the edge. It's in her wavering lip and heavy-lidded eyes. Then, as it hits her, it's in the way she goes taunt around him, mouth open in a silent scream.

He's going to come too, there's no putting it off. The tight, suċkɨnġ clasp of her ċunt is pulling him closer to it and then she whispers: "Fuck me, Johnny, come inside me," and he has never, ever been able to deny her a thing.

"Yes, baby," she murmurs as he groans and grunts and spills inside her. "Yes!"

Mara laughs aloud as he makes a valiant effort not to crush her, rolling his body off to the side. Wraps and arm around her to drag her close. For a long moment there's only the grasping for breath and stroking each other's skin. A pinch here and there for good measure.

Her wild hair. Dark, and curling around both of them. Her smile. Tamed on the surface, but always at its edges a shewolf's glint.

"Well," he says, slowly, stretching his body. "We'll certainly be late now."

She smacks his ċhėst. "Yes, I suppose we will."

"We won't make our dinner reservation," he says, squinting at the clock. "Maybe we can still make the party?"

She snuggles into him, so much love in the aftermath of her raging pŀėȧsurė. "Maybe. Or."

"Or?"

"We could stay in…refuel…" He catches the long lines of her body that she means him to catch. All the places he's already bitten and bruised and left nothing less than love marks. Marking up the gentle curves of her. His gaze catches on the tipped up corner of her sėx-mussed mouth. He catches her meaning.

John laughs. "You are an insatiable monster. Someone ought to lock you up."

She sits up suddenly, tɨts bouncing. He knows that look. He's known it for years now.

"You'd have to catch me first." She gives him a half second to catch on. New game. New rules. And then she dashes off, out of their bedroom, and he hears her going for the stairs. It's only another moment before he's after her, ready to hunt.

Ends