I nod urgently and his pupils dilate, a drop of ink into the green and I can actually see his pulse pick up.

He’s mine. He is.

But for how long? The intruding question makes me desperate, reaching for him and needing him deep in every part of me, knowing he can’t really take my breath away but offering it up anyway in tiny, constant bursts.

He steps closer, and although his grip on my hair doesn’t lessen, I greedily reach for his shirt, tugging it free of his pants. With shaking fingers, I work each button free and once his smooth, warm torso is exposed, I hear my fevered moan and my hands slide up across his skin, frantic. How would it feel, I imagine, to want him as much as I do and not have access? And then just tonight—a single, dangerous night—he lets me touch him, taste him, f**k him?

I would be wild. I would be insatiable.

He growls when I spend too long running my hands up and over his chest, fingernails scratching across his small, flat ni**les, stroking the teasing line of hair leading down below his belly button and into his pants. Impatiently, he tugs at my hair, pushing his hips forward, and grunts his approval when I quickly unfasten his belt, his zipper, and shove his pants down his thighs so I can free his cock.

Oh.

It juts in front of me thick and warm; when I reach for him, he’s steel in my palm. I use both hands, gripping and sliding down his length, wanting him to let go of my hair so I can bend and suck on him with as much hunger as I feel.

He exhales a tight groan as I pump him in my fist and then curls down, capturing my mouth in a brutal, commanding kiss. His mouth sucks at mine, pushing my lips apart as his fist tightens in my hair. He slides his tongue inside, pushing deep, f**king me with an unmistakable rhythm.

I won’t be gentle, he’s telling me. I won’t even try.

Thrill ripples through me and I twist free of his grip, intending to lick him until he comes, but with a growled curse he pushes me back on the bed, bending to retrieve his tie so he can wrap it around my wrists and secure it to the headboard.

“Your body is for my pleasure,” he tells me, eyes dark. “You’re in my house, little thing. I’ll take whatever I want.”

He kicks off his pants and climbs over me, yanking my underwear down my legs and shoving my skirt up my hips. With his hands flat on my thighs, he spreads my legs, leans forward, and roughly thrusts into me.

It’s a relief so enormous it makes me scream; I’ve never before felt so full of him. I’m starving and satisfied, wanting him to stay just like this forever. But he doesn’t stay deep inside me for long. He pulls back and then slams forward, gripping the headboard for leverage and taking me so roughly each thrust makes my teeth clatter, forces air from my lungs.

It’s wild, and frantic, his body over mine, my legs clamped around his waist so tight I wonder if it hurts him. I want to hurt him, in a sick dark way I want to pull every sensation to the surface, make him feel everything all at once: the lust and pain and need and relief and, yes, even the love I’m feeling.

“I wanted to get things done tonight,” he hisses, hands clamping around my thighs. He pumps hard and fast, f**king me so roughly, sweat trickles off his temple and lands on my chest. His anger is terrifying, thrilling, perfect. “Instead I need to come home and deal with a naughty student.” His hips are pounding and pounding into me and he groans, eyes growing heavy. His large, rough hands reach for my br**sts, and he slides his thumb across my nipple.

“Please make me come,” I whisper, honestly.

I want to stop playing.

I want to play forever.

I want his approval, I want his anger. I want the sharp smack of his hand across my breast only seconds before he delivers it. He knew.

“Please,” I beg. “I’ll be good.”

“Bad pupils don’t get pleasure. I’ll take and take and you can watch me instead.”

He’s moving so hard the bed is shaking, groaning beneath us. We’ve never been so rough. The neighbors must hear, and I close my eyes, relishing the knowledge that my husband is so completely cared for in bed. I’ll give him anything.

“Watch me come,” he whispers, jerking from me and gripping his cock. His hand flies down and up his length and he curses, eyes on me.

The first pulse of his release lashes me across my cheek, and then my neck, my br**sts. I’ll never be able to imagine a sexier sound than the deep groan he makes when he comes, the way he growls my name, the way he stares at me. He bends, sweaty and out of breath; his eyes move over my face and down, inspecting how he’s decorated me. Climbing up my body so his hips are level with my face, he presses his c**k to my lips, quietly ordering, “Lick it clean.”

I open my mouth and lick around the tip, and then suck down, along the velvet-soft skin.

“Ansel,” I whisper when I pull away, wanting to be us now. Wanting him.

Relief fills his eyes and he runs his finger across my lower lip. “You like this,” he murmurs. “Pleasing me.”

“Yes.”

He pulls away, bending to kiss my forehead as he carefully unties my hands. “Attends,” he whispers. Wait.

Ansel comes back with a damp cloth, wiping my cheek, my neck, my br**sts. He tosses it into the bin in the corner before kissing me gently.

“Was that nice, Cerise?” he whispers, sucking on my lower lip, tongue probing gently into my mouth. He moans quietly, fingers dancing over the curve of my breast. “You were perfect. I love being with you that way.” His mouth moves over my cheek, to my ear, and he asks, “But can I be gentle now?”