Chapter 1247 Menu

Chapter 1247: Chapter 1247 Menu

Not yet. Ross wanted to wring every last orgasm from her first.

Wanted to feel her shatter around him again and again until she was nothing but a trembling, cock-drunk mess beneath him.

He reached beneath her, fingers finding her swollen clit—rubbing fast, merciless circles in time with his thrusts.

Anita convulsed—back bowing so sharply her shoulders left the cushion—another shattering climax ripping through her.

Her pussy spasmed violently, squirting hard this time, soaking his hand, his thighs, the leather in a hot flood.

Ross groaned—low, guttural—feeling her milk him relentlessly.

“Fuck—Anita—”

He slammed in one final time—burying himself to the hilt—and held there, letting her ride the peak while his cock throbbed deep inside her.

He wasn’t done.

Not even close.

But for now, he let her shake and whimper beneath him—pussy still fluttering around every inch of him—knowing she’d beg for more the second she could form words again.

“Ahhhhhh…”

“Ohhhhhh… fuck…”

“Ughhhhh… yes… yes… Ross…”

Anita’s voice cracked and splintered, each moan dragged out longer than the last, raw and desperate.

The bedroom was thick with heat—sweat, sex, the faint metallic scent of exertion.

Hours had passed since Ross first pushed inside her, slow at first, almost teasing, letting her feel every thick inch until her thighs trembled and her breath hitched.

Then the rhythm changed. Harder. Deeper. Unrelenting.

He was a machine. A beautiful, brutal machine.

Her hands had long since stopped pushing weakly at his chest.

Now her nails scored red lines down his back every time another orgasm began to coil low in her belly.

She’d lost count somewhere around the fifth—or was it the seventh?—when her legs had locked around his waist and she’d sobbed his name into the crook of his neck.

Each climax ripped through her like a storm front: sharp, blinding, leaving her shaking and gasping and somehow still begging for more.

At the beginning there had been guilt. Sharp, stabbing guilt.

Every time her body clenched around him and pleasure flooded her veins, she’d pictured her husband’s face—his quiet smile, the way he always kissed her forehead before leaving for work. She’d whispered…

“I’m sorry” once, so softly Ross hadn’t even heard it over the wet slap of skin and her own ragged breathing.

That guilt had felt real then. Heavy.

But Ross didn’t give her room to think.

He flipped her onto her stomach, yanked her hips up, spread her wider.

He pinned her wrists above her head with one massive hand while the other gripped her throat—not choking, just holding, reminding her who owned her body in that moment.

When he sank back inside her from behind, deeper than before, the angle made her see white. Her toes curled. Her voice broke into something animal.

Another orgasm. Then another.

The guilt started to fray.

It frayed with every thrust that punched the air from her lungs.

It frayed when he growled low in her ear, “You’re so fucking wet for me, Anita. You were made for this cock.”

It frayed when he made her come again while she was still shuddering from the last one, when her mind went blissfully, terrifyingly blank.

By the time the clock on the nightstand showed three full hours had passed, the guilt was gone.

Vanished.

She no longer pictured her wedding ring glinting on the dresser where she’d tossed it.

She no longer remembered the promises she’d made in front of family and friends.

There was only this: the stretch of him inside her, the burn in her thighs, the slick slide of their bodies, the way her clit throbbed every time his hips slammed forward.

There was only Ross—his scent, his heat, his low, filthy praise that spilled into her ear like whiskey.

“You love it, don’t you?” he rasped, slowing just enough to make her whimper at the loss of friction. “Say it.”

“I love it,” she gasped, voice wrecked. “I love your cock… I love how you fuck me… please don’t stop…”

He rewarded her with a punishing thrust that made her scream into the pillow.

She came again—harder this time, her whole body seizing, inner walls fluttering and gripping him so tightly he cursed under his breath.

He didn’t pull out.

He kept going, riding her through it, drawing it out until tears leaked from the corners of her eyes and her moans turned into broken little sobs of overstimulation and need.

Hours blurred.

Sweat soaked the sheets. Her hair clung to her neck and face in damp strands.

Her lips were swollen from biting them, from kissing him, from begging. Ross never seemed to tire.

If anything, he grew hungrier the longer he had her—the more she gave in, the more possessive his grip became, the rougher his voice.

She lost track of how many times she came.

She lost track of time.

She lost track of everything except the man above her, inside her, owning her in a way no one ever had.

When he finally rolled her onto her back again, hooked her legs over his shoulders, and drove into her with long, punishing strokes, she looked up at him through damp lashes and whispered something she hadn’t meant to say out loud:

“More…”

One word. Quiet. Ruined.

Ross’s eyes darkened. His pace faltered for half a second—then turned feral.

He fucked her like he was trying to brand that word into her bones.

And when the next orgasm crashed over her—bigger, brighter, more devastating than any before—she screamed his name until her throat gave out.

Nothing else existed.

No husband.

No life waiting outside this room.

Just Ross.

Just this cock.

Just the endless, shattering pleasure that kept pulling her under, deeper, forever.

Morning arrived soft and slow, the first real daylight in what felt like an endless night.

Anita woke to the smell of coffee and the gentle press of Ross’s body curled behind her.

Her skin still carried the faint ache of overuse, a delicious soreness that made every shift of the sheets remind her of how thoroughly he’d claimed her.