First Hotwife Talk Sex

His mouth is still on yours when his fingers start moving in slow, deliberate circles, the kind that make your stomach flutter. You let out a quiet breath into the kiss, your hand sliding down over the front of his pyjama bottoms, feeling him hard and warm under your palm.

You break the kiss just enough to whisper, “I want you.”

He doesn’t answer, just pushes the duvet back, his hand guiding you onto your back. His eyes search yours for a second, not asking permission exactly, but making sure you’re still with him.

You nod once.

He slides your pyjama bottoms down, the cool air brushing your skin before he settles between your thighs. The weight of him there is grounding, familiar, but there’s an edge tonight, a tension that’s been building for weeks.

You wrap your legs around his hips as he pushes into you, the stretch making you gasp. He groans low in his throat, his forehead dropping to yours.

“Still thinking about it?” he murmurs, his hips starting to move.

You grip his shoulders. “Only with you here.”

He kisses you again, harder this time, his thrusts steady and deep. You feel every inch of him, every slide and pull, the rhythm syncing with your breathing.

Your nails press lightly into his back as you whisper the next part of the fantasy against his ear — the part where you walk back into your own front door, still flushed from someone else’s touch, and find him waiting for you.

It makes his hips slam a little harder, a low groan escaping him. “Jesus, Em… say it again.”

You do, and the words push you over. Your legs tighten around him, your stomach clenching as the pleasure crashes through you, your breath breaking against his neck. You ride it out with your arms wrapped tight around him, holding him there until the waves fade.

Only then does his pace change, harder now, more urgent. His breathing is ragged, and you can feel him getting close. He pulls out quickly, his hand wrapping around himself as he finishes in short, hot pulses across your lower stomach, the warmth spreading over your skin.

He stays there for a moment, breathing hard, before reaching for the tissue box on the bedside table. He wipes you gently, his hand lingering on your hip when he’s done.

When he finally lies back down, he pulls you against him, your head resting on his chest. His heartbeat is still quick, but there’s no tension in his arm around you, just a slow, steady hold, like he’s not letting go.