The Highwayman

The ghost of a boy long dead, and yet who lived on. Perhaps not in name, or perhaps in name only.

Instead, a strong arm swept beneath her knees and lifted her until she was cradled to his thick chest.

Drove his tongue into her with deep, drugging thrusts.
Farah wanted to leave this place. To escape the smell and the death and the fear. But she felt her husband’s ribs expanding with heaving, painful breaths against her chest, and detected bone-deep tremors running through his solid frame, and so she stood passively in his arms, submitting to his scorching kisses.
He said her name almost incoherently between rough drags of his hard lips and bristly chin. “Fairy. My Fairy.”
She tried to answer him, to soothe him, but each time she took a breath, he claimed her lips again.

On a primitive groan, he took her lips in a fierce, possessive kiss. His gloved hands were everywhere, almost clinically, as though checking for injury, then he crushed her to him in an embrace that threatened to squeeze the breath from her.
“Fairy,” he groaned against her lips, and Farah thought she detected the brogue of their childhood. He seized her

Farah wanted a family? He’d plant a manor full of children in her belly. He’d take her until she could no longer walk.

She would hate him. He already hated himself. But she felt so good, and he’d waited so long. “I’m sorry but I—I can’t stop.”
“No,” she gritted out, her voice low and guttural. “Please—faster.”
He fucked her then. One hand bracing her hip, the other grasping the hair at her scalp, imprisoning her head and exposing her throat as he pistoned into her tight body again and again.

m like this all the bloody time around you. I hate it. Do you know that? I have no control. I just want to fuck and fuck and fuck until nothing matters anymore. Until we can no longer move our limbs or lift our heads to eat.” He flexed his still-hard cock inside of her. “This is supposed to go away after I come. But it doesn’t. Not with you, wife. My passion is this insatiable perversion.”

A mouth on hers. A tongue thrusting inside, tasting the essence of her he’d left there, lapping at it.

As the slow pressure mounted, her moans became mewls, her mewls became cries. His finger drifted along the outline of her lips, slipping past her teeth and leaving the taste of sex on her tongue. Sex and leather. She closed her lips and rolled the glove between her tongue and the roof of her mouth, feeling the hard ridge of his finger beneath.

He hissed, growled, and pulled his hand away, drawing it down to her hip and gripping the curve of her ass, spreading her wider for his accelerating thrusts.

Farah’s body answered without thought. A lift of her hips, a press of her thighs, and a soft moan of encouragement.