Claire came first. She always did.
It wasn’t some unspoken rule in our marriage—it was absolutely spoken, declared, owned. She’d trained me to focus on her pleasure, to worship her orgasm like it was the climax of the entire evening. Because for her, it was. For me? Well… that part was complicated.
Tonight had been intense. Her legs had been wrapped tight around my waist, her hips rising in those perfect rhythmic surges she knew would tease me to the edge and hold me there like a dog straining at a leash. I was breathing hard, soaking in the heat of her skin, the small gasps in her throat, the scent of her climax already blooming in the air. I could feel her nails in my back, the curve of her neck arching as her orgasm took her. That high-pitched breathless sound she makes when she’s really letting go—it hit me like a drug every time.
Then she went still. Her muscles relaxed. A warm sigh spilled from her lips. She gave me a single, knowing smile.
And just like that, she slid me out of her and pushed against my chest.
“That’s enough, baby,” she murmured, her voice still husky with release. “I got mine.”…
