I couldn’t remember the last time Mark’s c**k had been inside me.
Not the polite, two-minute, lights-off version he sometimes offered when he felt guilty. I meant the real thing—the filthy, raw, skin-slapping s*x we used to have before the wedding, before the three babies, before I quit the newsroom and started delivering pubs just to keep the house quiet and the mortgage paid. Back then I lived for it. I used to come home from late shifts with ink on my fingers and climb straight onto his face, grinding my wet cunt against his tongue until he flipped me over and f****d me like he was trying to break the headboard. I loved the way he used to spit on my asshole and push in without asking. I loved when he called me his dirty little cumslut and made me thank him while he filled me.
That ver
