I caress my hands along her sides and squeeze her ass, my tongue and hers mating like mad, her nipples brushing against my chest, heaving up and down ‘cause she’s worked up so bad by what I’m doing to her. Her whispers that she loves me only make my cock throb harder and I can barely see straight. My eyes lock with hers, and hers look heavy lidded and watchful.
Growling softly, I lick my way up her throat, to her mouth, kissing her everywhere as I start to drive inside her.
It’s as if the world stops and doesn’t start moving again until I’m fucking embedded, balls deep, inside her. Inside my wife.
For the first time with no condom. Nothing between us. Just her.
She feels so damn perfect I’m straining every muscle in my body to make this moment last.
I move, deliberately deep. “Every piece of me,” I thickly murmur down at her, moving and moving, wanting to flood her, to fucking fill her with me until there’s nothing else.
She’s tight, hot and wet for me, and I’m driving harder and harder in the danger zone, her heart beating with mine. I never want to pull out, to come out of here—out of her. Fucking her. I cup her cheek and ease back to glance down at her stomach.
“I want your belly growing, Lana. I want your body swelled up because of me, and a baby you and I are going to make right there, inside you. A baby that I put there.” I kiss her to show her I mean it, moving faster and faster.
Lana is clawing at my back, her nails sliding down to grip my ass and dig into my tattoo. “RACER!” she’s crying out.
My fucking wife, taking me, my seed, everything I want to give her and giving me everything back.
I come inside her with a harsh growl, and Lana detonates when the spurts of my cum shoot up inside her walls. She trembles beneath me, her eyes rolling to the back of her head as she arches up, clutching me as her lifeline.
She tucks her face into my neck when we’re done, and I run my nose along her hair, smelling and kissing her as I whisper that I love her.
“I love you,” she says, gripping my jaw and looking deeply into my eyes, tears glistening in hers. “Thank you for coming into my life. Thank you for being you. For showing me how to love again, and how to love like this …”
“Crasher,” I rasp, stroking my knuckles down her cheeks, “you’re the one who showed me how to love. And I’m never going to love anything or anyone the way I love you.”
It’s a vow. Like the ones we spoke in church, this one in a moment of intimacy when my wife’s sweet, malleable body is entwined with my larger one and is still gripping me inside her. Her cheeks are flushed, and I peck her lips every few minutes as we caress each other, relaxed and in fucking love.
Since Belgium, my BP seems stabilized, something I’m thankful for. Sometimes it’s like a shadow that’s with me wherever I go, there but not quite touching me. Others, it feels like it’s one that I can outrun. I’m learning to live with it, and so is she.
At some point in my life, I thought I was fucked by getting stuck with bipolar.
All I knew was that somewhere, somehow, some asshole had fucked me over in the health department. Taking something crucial for a normal man and making me less than what any normal man in the world was. I fought to be more. Better. Faster. Smarter. If only to fucking feel good enough. I managed well, thanks to the support of my family. And their acceptance. But it was her who changed my idea of this shit.
It’s easy for people to like you when you’re fine, when you’re fun, when you’re on top. But when you’re down and shit gets hard, only the true stuff remains. Who you are to the bone, not a lot of people can appreciate it, some of that shit can only be seen by someone with eyes that can really look deep. And see you. None of the other stuff.
This BP only makes me realize that the connection she and I have, the fucking love, the trust, the highs, and even the lows, what we have—isn’t for sissies. But Lana and me … What we have.
This love is real.