My Sinful Valentine (A Beautiful Sinners Collection) by Elena Reyes (black authors fiction .txt) 📕

our reflection in the room’s glass. We are the perfect picture of perversion, and more so as her wetness slips from her hole and coats my balls and thighs.

The room is filled with our scent. With the intoxicating symphony of her wetness on each downward stroke and the soft smack of her ass against my legs with her slow bouncing.

I also love the picture of her half torn-off underwear and the sinful bralette still intact.

So beautiful.

“Please, mi amor,” she begs, and it’s such a pretty sound. So delicate and sweet. I reward her with a quick three pumps of my hips and two fingers over her clit. “Ay, Dios!”

That simple touch, the small feather-like trace across her clit has her calling out to the Lord above, and that angers me.

And while I consider myself a religious man, in that instance I’m filled with jealousy.

It sets something off inside of me.

I can’t control it.

Now, I’m angry because no one’s name should pass through her lips but mine. I’m who she cries out to.

For mercy.

For more.

I’m her motherfucking everything.

“No one but me, Preciosa. Remember that.” Pressing down on her clit, I lift her slightly off with my other hand and I fuck into her tight pussy like an animal. A demon. I pump my cock inside her tiny, stretched hole without mercy, and I revel in the shameless cry that escapes the back of her throat.

Solimar lifts her arm and reaches back, embedding her fingers in my hair, and holds on. She pulls and scratches my scalp, and I fucking smack her trembling bundle of nerves when her nails cut deep enough to spill a few drops of blood.

“Papi!” she whimpers, her tone high pitched and body tensing—her thigh muscles spasming as a hot rush of wetness spills from her. Her orgasm slams into her and hard, pushing me out as my wife squirts for the first time.

“Fuck me.” I’m watching her body shake and hear her cries, but I’m lost to my own pleasure. I slam back in and ride her harder, forcing her body to submit and let me in as she squirms and cries, as it becomes too much, and her eyes roll back as another stream escapes her and lightly sprays the windows in front of us.

The sight of that undoes me. Fucking breaks me, and I can’t stop myself from standing and pressing her against the window with my cock deep inside her as I empty my seed. Stream after stream leaves me and fills her to the brim, and yet, I don’t stop stroking in deep, riding out the very last bit until there’s nothing left and my wife looks ready to pass out.

Then, and only then, do I pull out.

I’m kissing her neck and cheek. I’m carrying her back across the room and taking a seat at the table while cradling her against my chest. Solimar’s eyes are closed and her breathing is even, though she isn’t asleep, I know her mind needs a minute or two of silence and to feel me.

So, I’ll wait. I’ll continue to love her.

I’ll give her whatever she needs because I know that by the time we leave Las Vegas, my wife will never be the same again.

3

“YOU NEED TO get the recipe for these,” I groan out, swallowing the last piece of food on the large plate Alejandro made me—the second one, since his first attempt at an American BBQ platter went cold while he devoured me. Even now, almost an hour after, I still feel him.

The lingering effects of his hands on my skin.

The soreness between my thighs and the subtle clenches of aftershocks that always last hours.

Because that’s the effect the cocky man before me has. My husband owns me heart, body, and soul.

“Te gusta?”

“More than like them. I love these things.” My eyes leave him for a brief second, and I debate making myself a second yet smaller plate. “Who knew fried mac ‘n’ cheese would be this good? I’m an official addict.”

“That could be dangerous,” he muses, pushing away his empty plate and grabbing the beer to his right. Alejandro brings the bottle to his lips, eyes on mine while taking a deep pull and damn him if I don’t clench my thighs beneath the table. Just watching the way his throat bobs, the predatory look in his gaze, makes my pulse race and heart skip more than one beat. “But I’m sure the chef wouldn’t mind sending us home with the recipe.”

“Will you be asking nicely?” I arch a brow, mimicking his smirk. “Or should I—”

“I’ll handle it.”

The quickness in his response makes me giggle. Always so territorial. Silly man…I am yours. “Are you sure? I don’t want a pissed-off chef giving us the recipe for something gross.”

“Do you not trust me, woman?” His mock glare makes me smile wider. “Am I not charming and generous?”

“To me? Yes.”

“And to the world?” he asks. Sitting forward, my husband places his bottle down and waits. His stare is meant to be unnerving, but I find him adorable. “How am I toward everyone I meet?”

“They don’t matter to you.” It was the truth, and he knew it. I also caught the quirk of his lips he tried to hide and failed at doing so. “Apart from your mother, I am the only person alive who doesn’t fear you, and that’s a result of your doing. I know you’d never hurt me, Mr. Lucas.”

“Thank you.” Reaching across the table, he picks up my hand and slides his thumb across my knuckles. “Those words mean more to me than you could ever know, Preciosa. Yet, I’m going to test that trust right now.”

“Okay.” No hesitation. No doubt fills me. Whatever he needs, I’ll do for us.