He Isn't Hers, She Isn't His

He isn't yours. You aren't his.

She repeats the mantra over and over, until her mind begins to recall the words without summoning them to the forefront.

She holds her breath for a moment, lungs burning for air, but denying herself the sweet rush of oxygen into her body. She knows the feeling all too well.

She chokes out a sob, finally letting cool air into your lungs. She remembers just how well she can recollect the sensation of breathlessness; her inner walls contract from the memory. The flash of moist lips and tongues battling for control, hands groping for tender flesh invades her mind. She forces the images down, resisting the urge to the scratch the undeniable itch of sexual frustration.

The twinkling band of white gold around her finger is a reminder that she's happy, content, blissful. All she's ever wanted, she has. Anything she needs is provided. But he finds a way into her thoughts, into the subconscious part of her mind supposed to be reserved only for her husband.

It has to end, she tells herself. The 20 minute drive (and the bottle of Guinness she downed) helps her garner the strength to put a stop it all. She practices her spiel along the way, and is prepared to repeat it to his face...if only she can muster the courage to knock.

Standing on his stoop, she closes her eyes, pulling her fist back from his door. She sucks in air, then releases it; her breath visible. She wishes she could knock, if only to get out of the cold. Her thoughts are engulfed by the warmth of his home, his arms, his bed. The touch, the exquisite torture of his tongue dragging down the column of her throat sears her flesh and brings her closer to the release she's imagined, but denied herself. In that moment, she begs for it. An almost inaudible 'please' coaxes his hips to pick up pace, pounding her to oblivion. The build was only the prelude, the fire that shoots through her causes her to gasp and hold on to his shoulders for dear life. Her walls spasm, as she digs her nails into his skin, leaving half-moons imprinted there.

It is never tender with him. He is always hurried. There are always bruises in unseen places she finds days later. But she's sure she's left evidence of their time together on him as well. The thought makes her smirk triumphantly, and then frown.

She hates herself for loving it.

"I can't do this." She shakes her head of the memories, pressing her palm flat against the wood.

Just as she's convinced herself that another day would work better for her, the door flies open. They're staring at each other, she with mortification; he with knowing indifference.

She's immobile, glued to the spot, staring at him and wondering why she thought this would be a good idea.

"I'm done," she blurts, jutting her chin up defiantly.

He leans against the door jam and folds his arms over his chest, amused by her words. The corner of his lip quirks up and it annoys her that she finds herself wanting to run the pad of her finger across it.

"Oh really?"

His condescending tone has her seeing red. She finally realizes why she wanted to end it in the first place.

"Yes! I'm done with you, with this," she shouts and gestures between them. "Whatever the hell this is. I'm not doing it anymore. I'm married for god's sake!"

He nods his head, listening intently to her monologue. All the while, his expression never changes, which only enrages her.

"I'm serious!" Her foot stomps and she reminds herself of her 5-year-old niece during a temper tantrum. This only adds to the humiliation that's been growing since she stepped out of her car, but she can't stop herself.

"I'm not coming here anymore, so take a good look, because this is the last time you'll see—"

"Shut up."

Baffled that he spoke at all, her brows furrow. "Excuse me?"

"Shut up."

He steps forward, his five-ten frame looming over her. If she didn't know him as she did, she would have been intimidated by his menacing stature. His brown eyes dilate, taking her in, swallowing any coherent thought she previously had.

His hands palm her face, bringing her flush against his chest. Their lips are inches apart. He regards her evenly before his lips graze over her face, trailing down to the delicate skin below her ear. She sucks in a breath, unprepared for what he says next.

"I don't care about the situation." His voice is heavy with desire; his breath hot against the shell of her ear. "When my tongue is inside you, you're fucking mine."

She bites her lip, unwilling to argue the negative. She's drunk with want and all denial falls flat as she crushes her lips against his. Hooking arms under her jean-clad thighs, he lifts her and allows her to wrap her beautifully long legs around his waist.

His lips are frenzied, trying to commit her taste to memory. His grip on her hair is possessive as he tugs her head back to expose her throat. She feels his teeth scrape against the sensitive deep mocha skin, and then lap at what she knows will be an ugly bruise in the morning.

Her mind is racing, but not registering her own actions. She hears him kick closed the door, bringing them both into the warm confines of his home. It smells of him, the musky scent of his Armani cologne only heightens her lust-filled cognitions. It's all around her, possessing her every awareness, so much so that it's consumed by only him. She wants him inside her, stretching her walls, stroking her so intimately and touching her so deeply that she feels it even after he's coated her insides with his seed.

She feels the wall at her back, and the unmistakable weight of his arousal pressing into her. She's been here too many damn times to count, and each time it feels new.

He puts an inch of space between them so he can tug her jacket from her arms and toss it uncaringly over his shoulder. This gives her a moment to catch her breath, to try to think clearly when everything inside her is telling her to reach for his lovely ash-colored cock and bring them both to release.

"I can't," her protest is replaced with a moan as he attaches his lips to her throat and sucks languidly.

"You can, and you will." He's muffled against her skin, but she feels the vibrations and seriousness of his words. "God, I want to taste you so badly."

Her response is a whimper he recognizes as complete and total surrender. With an animalistic growl, he hauls her up and carries her to his bedroom.

He doesn't bother turning on the light as he deposits her on his unmade bed. There's no need. He knows every inch of her, can sense her growing need and, in turn, becomes harder. He squeezes himself through his jeans, if for just a moment, to relieve the pressure until he can slip into her slick channel and mark his territory. He groans at the thought; nothing will sate him, except for her.

He stands at the foot of the bed, watching her move to pull off her own clothes. Her heavy lids regard him with want. It's the same look that attracted him all those months ago.

In one swift motion, his t-shirt is gone. His broad chest is dusted with dark hair and his deeply bronzed skin is illuminated by the hallway light. She licks her lips in admiration and he wants that plump mouth wrapped around him.

He crooks his finger at her, beckoning her forward. He smiles as she obediently crawls on all fours across the tussled sheets.

Crouched before him, her almond-shaped eyes shift up to his face, quasi-questioning his motives; this slightly annoys him. Her timidity is usually alluring, but not now. They've been here before; she knows what he wants.

He grits his teeth and twines his fingers through her hair, bringing her face closer to his throbbing member. "Fucking do it."

Without further hesitation, she undoes the button and then the zipper, her bottom lip sucked into her mouth in anticipation.

It takes just one tug of his jeans to have his swollen appendage spring to life. Her walls contract and she knows her panties are soaked with her own juices.

She wraps her hands around its girth and relishes in the twitch of his hips.

They both catch a glimpse of her wedding ring glint in the light and halt for a moment. His eyes dare her to stop, challenge her to find an ounce of self-control in their sea of chaos. Her lids narrow, and he's sure he hears an expletive slip from her lips as she opens her mouth and places him carefully on her tongue, dragging it up the underside.

"Jesus," he groans and grips her locks tighter, unceremoniously pushing her down further.

Relaxing her jaw and throat, she opens her mouth to accommodate him.

She gazes up at him again; he's watching intently as he enters her mouth, and then retreats, completely unhurried. He glistens with her saliva, and he wants so badly for her to hold him like that forever.

When she pauses a moment to adjust her position, he punishes her by painfully yanking on her hair. She gasps around him, feels the tears immediately spring to her eyes from the discomfort.

"Don't you dare fucking stop." His voice is dangerously low, but he loosens his grip on her and strokes her hollowed cheek with his palm.

He controls the movement, as he usually does. She wants to bite him, prove that she can take the reins if she really wanted to. Instead, she narrows her eyes, and adds more suction, bringing him further down her throat. She hums out a moan that vibrates through him, if only to show him which one of them is in control. And as she had hoped, his hips thrust forward involuntarily, his balls barely brushing her bottom lip. Her hand reaches up to scrape nails down the quivering muscles of his stomach with her mouth permanently suctioned around his cock. He arches upward while she moves up and down the musky length of his shaft, teeth occasionally grazing and tongue stroking and tracing. The hand in her hair lets up, sliding down to brush fingertips over your cheek. She hums in appreciation of his touch, which draws a long moan from him.

After a moment of letting her lavish his glorious member with her impressive tongue, fucking her mouth isn't enough. He wants inside her. He wants her writhing underneath him as he punishes her pretty pussy with the hardest fuck of her life, so she remembers she belongs to him and no one else. But first, he wants to taste her juices, bring her to the brink with his fingers and tongue.

Tugging on her hair and gently cupping her cheek, he steps back to her dismay. She frowns slightly and reaches out to bring him back.

He tsks while grinning at her. "Patience is a virtue."

"Fuck you," she sneers, and pulls her blouse over her head to expose creamy dark skin, which is devoid of any blemishes. Her bra is red and lacey, it practically covers nothing. Her nipples perk under his hungry gaze.

He smirks, calling her motives into question. He wants so much to believe that this is for him, that she came over knowing that he would never let her end their relationship that easily.

Roughly, he pushes at her shoulders, forcing her to lay on her back. She suppresses as gasp as he grips her hips and pulls her to the edge of the bed. He kneels between her legs, nuzzles his nose into her jean-clad crotch. Her scent is intoxicating. He can sense her dampness and his already swollen cock twitches, grazes against the sheets.

Without warning, he pulls her jeans and takes the matching lace panties with them. She's completely shaven, which doesn't surprise him. She knows he loves her chocolate lips devoid of hair, so no part of her is concealed from him. He can already tell she's soaking wet and slick enough to shove his entire length into her without a thought.

"You will, baby," his voice is above a whisper before he flicks her glistening engorged nub with the tip of his tongue. "You will."

A moan tears from her throat, coaxing him to continue thrusting his eager tongue in and out of her. He simulates what he wants to do with this own hardened sex. He laps at her, devouring her like he hasn't had a meal in weeks. Her head thrashes about, and her hips reflexively lift off the mattress, pushing him closer to her aching core. He knows she wants to beg for his cock, plead for the relief that can only come from fucking her senseless to the point where they both scream for mercy.

"Tell me how you want it." His breath tickles her insides, cools her drenched nub. He gazes over her flat stomach, between the valley of her cleavage and into her eyes. Her irises are lust-filled and have gone almost black with need.

"Tell me what you want me to do to you," he says again, more forcibly before slipping two fingers inside her.

Her high octave whine and the grip of her inner walls around his digits tell him that she's putty in his hands. Wherever he wants to take her, she'll go. Whatever he demands, she'll obey.

He drags his digits out slowly, and then surges back in quickly, pulling from her lips a pleasured sigh that makes him want to rub one out all over her deeply sun-kissed stomach. Imagining the contrast between the hot white liquid of his seamen against dark-canvassed skin is what makes him speed up his movements.

Her fingers dig into the sheets, unceremoniously pulling them from underneath the mattress. The cadence of her moans match the insertion and extraction of his middle and index finger, as they stretch her wide, ready to accommodate his painfully hard dick.

He can hear in her erratic breathing that she's close. She wants to reach that glorious peak that will plunge her into the dark abyss where only thoughts of him reside. No one else exists, but them.

"Fucking tell me," he growls, giving her enlarged clit several pats, eliciting her to cry out. "Tell me what you want."

"I-I want..." she starts weakly; barely able to create coherent thoughts, "I want...you."

He groans in response and slows his pace to a lazy drag. "You want me to what? Tell me."

"Oh my god," she groans, and he barely recognizes the guttural sound that rips from her. "I want...you to fuck me."

"Good girl."

He completely extracts his fingers that are sticky and gleaming with her essence. Too appetizing to pass up, he draws them into his mouth and sucks them clean. She's a mixture of sweet and tangy, rich and flavorful womanhood. The taste will linger on his pallet hours after he's finished taking them both over the edge.

"Turn over," he commands, but doesn't wait for her to comply.

Rolling her onto her stomach, he assesses her round backside for a moment before pulling her hips up so that she's entirely visible. Her lips and slit are slick and ready to receive him. He bites his lip, just on the precipice of a control that is waning by the second. He drags his palm over one cheek, and then gives it a resounding smack.

She squeals, but not from pain. He knows she adores the love taps he lavishes along her ass and thighs.

Taking his blushing dick in his hand, he runs it between the darkened globes and grinds lazily along her lower lips and puckered bud, consequently smearing her wetness along the underside of his manhood.

He hears her sigh and watches the column of her long spine arch up, as she thrusts herself back against his throbbing sack. He fists her left cheek, halting her movements. She groans in protest and glares over her shoulder at him.

Her look of disapproval only makes him chuckle. "Tell me again."

"I want you to fuck me," her tone more demanding, not at all timid as he's become accustomed.

"Prove it," he challenges.

Her brows furrow and confusion mars her soft features. His eyes move to the gleaming on her left hand. She follows his gaze and fingers the large diamond, hesitating for a moment. She understands the consequences of noncompliance just as well as what it means to submit to his unspoken ultimatum.

Smacking her lips irritably, she wrenches the rings from her finger and slams them down on his nightstand before reclaiming her exposed position in front of him.

She grits her teeth and glares. "You're an asshole."

"And don't you forget it," he says, surging forward to bury himself hilt-deep into her sopping pussy.

He sets an erratic pace, pounding out the frustration of being denied the biting grip of her womanhood for more than a week.

He knows her husband doesn't make her do the things he makes her do. She doesn't scream her throat raw when he fucks her, with only his name eternally spilling from her lips. She doesn't tug at the bed sheets like a rabid animal in the throes of passion. She doesn't come so hard he's sure the earth quakes with it.

No, she knows to whom her pussy belongs, and by time he's done, he will too.

He pauses only to spread her legs wider with his thighs, and reaches out to grab the arms that are holding her up. He feels a bit of protest from her and remedies that with a stinging smack to her ass.

She sucks in a breath as her head falls against the mattress; her arms locked behind her in his unyielding grasp.

"Yeah, baby," he pants, each word punctuated with a thrust. "You like that?"

She only whimpers, unable to form words. All thoughts center on the way her body reacts to him, how it sucks him in and holds him tight. She can feel her walls tensing, that familiar building up of nerves before she explodes into tiny little pieces.

The slick collision of bodies, and the moans and grunts that fill the room become the soundtrack of their time together. He knows instantly that she's close when the pitch of her moans goes sharp.

"Are you gonna come on my dick?" He grunts, releasing her arms to concentrate all efforts on fucking her to oblivion.

"God, please," she breathes and shoves her face into the mattress to muffle the increasing volume of her moans.

He hisses, feeling her walls spasm around him and his balls tighten. He slows his pace, and he grits his teeth to hold off spilling into her. He wants her to come multiple times before the night is over.

Sweat shimmers over the length of her back and wisps of her hair stick to her damp shoulders. He runs a hand along her spine, while continuing his now torturously slow pace.

Pulling himself almost completely out, he drags the pad of his thumb over his drenched cock, collecting her juices. When he feels her contractions subside, he picks up his pounding rhythm again, simultaneously teasing her puckered bud with his amorous digit. He watches himself and the tip of his thumb disappear within her and reappear slicker than when they went in, and he's sure he's never been this hard in his life.

He hears that upper octave again, and relishes in the fact that he brought her to the peak once more.

"Fuuuuck, yes baby," he pants, all semblance of control lost. "I'm coming, where do you want it?"

He extracts his digit and lets all his weight fall onto her back; his hands leaving bruises on her hips, and his face buried in her hair.

"Where baby?" he groans in her ear, hips grinding her clit into the mattress. "Tell me."

She lifts her head slightly to allow her words to penetrate. "Inside me," she breathes. "Come inside me."

He needs no other coaxing as he gives four more punishing thrusts before he comes violently, coating every inch of her warm cannel. Every muscle in his body tenses, his breath hitches so hard it's almost as if he's sobbing.

A strangled sound rips from her mouth as her walls clench around him for what feels like the millionth time tonight. Her mouth is dry, throat sore from the rasping sounds he's forced her to emit.

He leaves himself buried within her minutes after they've both come down from their high, until finally, he feels her attempting to shift away. He doesn't object as he rolls off of her and onto his back. She stays on her stomach, face still concealed by the cream-colored sheets.

"Are you dead?"

She snorts, her face slowly turning toward him. "I think so," she sighs.