I didn’t even lock the door when I got home.
I wanted him to come in.
My thighs were still sticky with his c*m, my panties were gone, and my skin was flushed with the filth of everything we’d already done. I showered, but not all the way. I didn’t want to be clean.
I wanted him to smell it.
My husband was asleep in the guest room snoring softly with his work laptop still glowing beside him. He’d said he didn’t want to disturb me when he came in late.
Perfect.
I slipped into our marital bed in nothing but a silk robe, legs spread slightly, waiting. Wanting. Needing.
And then, like he read my filthy little mind, the door creaked open.
He didn’t say a word.
He just stepped into the room, shut the door behind him, and locked it.
I sat up slowly, heart racing. “He’s asleep,” I whisper
