He sank into her with a long, commanding thrust — not brutal, not gentle, but calculated, relentless. The girth of him buried deep, claiming every inch as she lay draped across the table where she and her husband had shared countless meals. Whatever sting of guilt she might have felt at the thought dissolved instantly as the warmth of the smooth wood pressed into the swell of her breasts. The surface was firm and just high enough that only the tip of one foot could tease the floor, leaving her suspended, hips lifted and exposed.
Each forward drive of his body pressed her harder into the table. The friction of the wood drew her nipples tight and burning, making every thrust an exquisite paradox — a sting that ignited and a softness that yielded. His sack slapped sharply against her clit with every deep stroke, sparking teasing flutters that shimmered and winked deep in her core.
He wasn’t the biggest she’d ever felt, but certainly the biggest she’d taken in longer than she could recall. He stretched her to that knife-edge place where pain and rapture coiled and twisted together, making every stroke a delicious threat.
He had no intention of pleasing her tonight. No thought of coaxing or softening, no pretense of making this about anything other than what it was. This was about using her. Pure, raw, selfish use. And she knew it. The knowledge sank deep…
