It made no fucking sense, in any sense of the word. Perhaps it came as a consequence of living a life more familiar with marks and bruises than gentle touches, but God he wants.
He loves his wife, and he’s always had a healthy ache for her gentle touches that served as a balm to his long-tortured soul. But sometimes, he wishes that she was the degenerate that he teased her as in the beginning of their relationship. The type to be a bit more…assertive than considered healthy. Who wouldn’t hesitate to rake over his features lasciviously for as long as she liked.
The type who would take him against his will.
He wants his wife to hammer into him relentlessly, regardless of whatever green flag bullshit spewed from his mouth. Following every whimpered ‘no’ with a rough thrust that threatened to rip the delicate walls of his ass.
Heck, she could even ride him so hard that his cock turned purple from bruising. Driving down into him so rough and fast that it nearly broke his cock.
Have her abuse his body until he was broken, until his mind only consisted of her and the ministrations she enacted on his body. Fucking him beyond overstimulation and ascending him to heights never before known by man. Until he was only a hairline away from death itself
Harry closes his eyes and lets out a silent, shaky sigh, feeling the uncomfortable squelch of cum against the fabric of his trousers. He opens them again to study his wife once more, who shut her book with a snap, unwittingly sending a tremor down her husband’s spine.
God, if only she knew.