“Dear one, when are you going to admit it?” asks Mark. He slides his hand past her knee and stops midthigh, his thumb tracing slow semicircles over the silky skin there. Isolde’s lips have separated, her pulse pounding in her throat, but her eyes are still wary. They are fixed on her husband.
“Admit what?” she asks.
His hand moves, and I don’t have to see his destination. I can hear it. The wet drag of his fingers through the perfect place between her thighs. The careful and deliberate insertion of a finger. She arches under the blanket, her head falling back against the wall.
“That you like it when I do bad things,” he says, twisting his wrist. She inhales. “You like when I take a knife to the world and pare it like an apple.”
She doesn’t want to admit any such thing, but the evidence is undeniable. When Mark uses his other hand to push the blanket off her shoulders, the berry-pink tips of her breasts are erect and there’s a telltale flush on her chest. I catch a glimpse of her slick and blushing cunt as the blanket starts to come undone around her legs.
“Do you want me to kill more war criminals to woo you into my bed?” he asks in a voice that’s as sincere as it is seductive. He would do it, of course. He’d kill anyone it took to keep Isolde coming back to him.
Maybe he’d do it for me too, except all three of us know the truth—he doesn’t have to. He doesn’t have to do anything at all to keep me coming back.
Isolde’s eyes are glittering from underneath her long lashes, crescents of defiant blue-green. “I guess you’ll have to try it and find out.”
He tuts, his hand moving between her legs. “Forced to seduce my own wife,” he says sorrowfully. “What has become of me? Tristan, come here. Get on your knees and take pity on me in my derelict state.”
Isolde watches as I step closer and sink to the ground; her hips lift and seek Mark’s touch. For his part, Mark nods down at his pants, indicating that I should be the one to unfasten them and draw out the hot, veined length.
I do, nuzzling against it a moment, and I press my face against the gold hair surrounding his cock too, kissing and breathing and just allowing myself to enjoy this part of him that I love so much.
When I finally put him in my mouth, Isolde’s breath stutters. She is a rustle of blanket and bare feet pushing against the window seat, and she is reaching for Mark’s hand, his wrist, to try to get him deeper, to get his thumb against her clit pressing harder.
Mark inhales as I give his tip a slow and seeking swirl and then inhales again when I slide him as far back as he’ll go. His hips flex a little, as much as they can while he’s on the window seat, and he tries to fuck my mouth like that, an inch back and forth, just the barest amount into my throat and then back out of it.
“Doesn’t he do such a good job, little wife?” he croons to Isolde, all while his merciless hand continues its work between her legs. “Doesn’t he service me so well? Look at those pretty green eyes, the way he wraps his lips around me. Can you see his throat when it—just—ah, fuck, there, there, can you see it? That bulge? That’s me. He’s letting me fuck all the way in there. It feels so fucking good, baby. Yes, keep taking it. That’s a good boy.”