Family Holidays
The suite door clicked shut with the practiced silence of a man who'd spent decades avoiding attention in his own house. Jessica didn't turn around—the scent of his cologne, something woody and expensive that always clung to the office corridors, told her everything. She spread her knees wider on the satin duvet, the December chill raising gooseflesh along her thighs as she watched his reflection approach in the gilded mirror above the dresser.
His fingers traced the pearl necklace he'd given her at the company's anniversary gala last month, the same pearls now resting against her collarbones as she arched her back slightly. "You wore them," Marcus murmured, his thumb brushing the hollow of her throat. The observation wasn't about jewelry—it was the unspoken rule of their arrangement, the signal shimmering between cultured pearls and bare skin.
Jessica exhaled through her nose as his other hand slid up her inner thigh, his wedding band catching the low light from the hallway. The cold metal made her twitch, though she'd known it would be there. His grip tightened, pressing her open wider against the duvet's whisper-soft fabric, that impersonal hotel luxury they both preferred for these encounters. Somewhere downstairs, a champagne flute shattered against marble, the sound swallowed by the piano's rendition of "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen."
Marcus didn't bend between her legs so much as descend—methodical, reverent, like a priest genuflecting before an altar. The first slow drag of his tongue along her seam had her biting the inside of her cheek hard enough to taste copper. He'd taught her this trick too, back when she'd still gasped aloud; how to swallow sounds while his wife laughed with Jessica's husband over canapés three floors below.
She watched his reflection in the mirror—the way his silvering temples moved between her thighs with the same precision he used to dissect quarterly reports. That first time had been in the bridal suite's powder room, her voluminous gown shoved up around her waist while he licked honeymoon sweat from her skin before the reception toast. The memory coiled hot in her belly now, twitching against his tongue as he hummed into her, the vibration traveling up her spine.
Marcus pulled back just enough to murmur against her inner thigh, "You taste like guilt today," before dragging his teeth over the same spot. Jessica's fingers twisted in the duvet as she remembered how he'd produced the condom that afternoon—professional, detached—while her new husband drunkenly serenaded distant cousins in the garden below. There were no such precautions now; the absence of latex between them was its own perverse consummation, more intimate than marriage licenses.
He entered her with a single sharp thrust that knocked a gasp from her lungs, his hand clamping over her mouth before the sound could escape. The rhythm was punishing, efficient—not the languid teasing of stolen boardroom lunches but the frantic pace of men who fucked like they signed contracts, with calculated brutality. "Look at yourself," he growled against her ear, forcing her chin up toward the mirror where her flushed face stared back, pupils blown wide. "Filthy little cunt playing wife downstairs."
Her orgasm hit like a snapped rubber band, the kind that leaves a welt. Jessica arched violently against him, her thighs clamping around his hips as her cunt pulsed around his cock—silent but for the creak of the bedframe and the wet slap of skin. Marcus didn't slow, using her shuddering body as leverage to drive deeper, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her hips hard enough to bruise. "Good girl," he murmured, the praise at odds with the way he was splitting her open. "Taking it like you took my son's ring."
When he came, it was with a grunt muffled against her shoulder, his teeth sinking into the silk of her dress straps. She felt the hot spill inside her, the forbidden thrill of it making her toes curl against the duvet. He held himself there, pulsing, his breath ragged against her damp skin. Then, with a slow drag of his thumb over her hipbone—proprietary, assessing—he whispered, "Maybe this one will look like me."
His fingers traced the pearl necklace he'd given her at the company's anniversary gala last month, the same pearls now resting against her collarbones as she arched her back slightly. "You wore them," Marcus murmured, his thumb brushing the hollow of her throat. The observation wasn't about jewelry—it was the unspoken rule of their arrangement, the signal shimmering between cultured pearls and bare skin.
Jessica exhaled through her nose as his other hand slid up her inner thigh, his wedding band catching the low light from the hallway. The cold metal made her twitch, though she'd known it would be there. His grip tightened, pressing her open wider against the duvet's whisper-soft fabric, that impersonal hotel luxury they both preferred for these encounters. Somewhere downstairs, a champagne flute shattered against marble, the sound swallowed by the piano's rendition of "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen."
Marcus didn't bend between her legs so much as descend—methodical, reverent, like a priest genuflecting before an altar. The first slow drag of his tongue along her seam had her biting the inside of her cheek hard enough to taste copper. He'd taught her this trick too, back when she'd still gasped aloud; how to swallow sounds while his wife laughed with Jessica's husband over canapés three floors below.
She watched his reflection in the mirror—the way his silvering temples moved between her thighs with the same precision he used to dissect quarterly reports. That first time had been in the bridal suite's powder room, her voluminous gown shoved up around her waist while he licked honeymoon sweat from her skin before the reception toast. The memory coiled hot in her belly now, twitching against his tongue as he hummed into her, the vibration traveling up her spine.
Marcus pulled back just enough to murmur against her inner thigh, "You taste like guilt today," before dragging his teeth over the same spot. Jessica's fingers twisted in the duvet as she remembered how he'd produced the condom that afternoon—professional, detached—while her new husband drunkenly serenaded distant cousins in the garden below. There were no such precautions now; the absence of latex between them was its own perverse consummation, more intimate than marriage licenses.
He entered her with a single sharp thrust that knocked a gasp from her lungs, his hand clamping over her mouth before the sound could escape. The rhythm was punishing, efficient—not the languid teasing of stolen boardroom lunches but the frantic pace of men who fucked like they signed contracts, with calculated brutality. "Look at yourself," he growled against her ear, forcing her chin up toward the mirror where her flushed face stared back, pupils blown wide. "Filthy little cunt playing wife downstairs."
Her orgasm hit like a snapped rubber band, the kind that leaves a welt. Jessica arched violently against him, her thighs clamping around his hips as her cunt pulsed around his cock—silent but for the creak of the bedframe and the wet slap of skin. Marcus didn't slow, using her shuddering body as leverage to drive deeper, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her hips hard enough to bruise. "Good girl," he murmured, the praise at odds with the way he was splitting her open. "Taking it like you took my son's ring."
When he came, it was with a grunt muffled against her shoulder, his teeth sinking into the silk of her dress straps. She felt the hot spill inside her, the forbidden thrill of it making her toes curl against the duvet. He held himself there, pulsing, his breath ragged against her damp skin. Then, with a slow drag of his thumb over her hipbone—proprietary, assessing—he whispered, "Maybe this one will look like me."
2ヶ月前
