Not on her back

Paul turned her at the edge of the mattress and put her hands on the sheets. Bent her forward. Doggy — robe gone, bare ass up, cheek pressed toward the pillows that still held a ghost of a marriage that had already left the room. He kicked her feet a little wider with his boot. Settled behind her like he owned the angle.

Then his mouth was on her.

Tongue first — pushed into her cunt wet and sudden, fucking into her with it while she gasped into the comforter. No warm-up speech. Just heat and pressure and the filthy wet sound of him eating her open. Beatrice’s fingers clawed the fabric. Knees giving. He held her hips hard enough to bruise and kept her spread so she couldn’t close up on him.

He stayed there until her thighs shook.

Then he licked all the way up to her asshole.

Hot stripe. Slow. Filthy. From soaked cunt to the tight pucker above it, landing there and staying — tongue circling a place nobody had ever put a mouth. Beatrice jolted so hard the mattress dipped. A shocked sound ripped out of her throat.

She had never been licked there before.

“Paul!” She groaned in protest. Christian woman not used to such a place being tasted. Shame flooded hot under the want. Her whole body tried to pull forward onto the bed and his hands dragged her right back onto his mouth.

“What? I can’t help myself baby… been thinking about tasting you since I met you.”

He didn’t apologize. Licked once more — deliberate, filthy — and the tip of his tongue pressed just enough to make her cry out again, muffling it in the sheets. Then he rose behind her. Belt buckle. Zipper. Jeans shoved down his thighs just far enough. The thick heat of him slapped against her ass as he mounted her, cock sliding along her slit, not in yet — grinding, teasing, dragging through her wet from clit to hole and back until Beatrice coated him with it.

Every rock forward painted him slicker.

She could feel how messy she was. How easily he slid. Shame and pride tangled; she pushed back without meaning to, chasing the blunt head every time it caught at her entrance and slipped past instead of giving it to her.

Paul’s hands braced her waist. Still grinding. Still not thrusting home. Just using her mess to shine himself while she shook under him, breath breaking out in short broken sounds, afternoon light striping the bed that used to belong to someone else.

Outside, the street was quiet. Inside, Beatrice dripped down him and waited for him to stop teasing.