room to room, Ford telling me the stories of all his precious fucking belongings, the tension built between us. Ford’s eyes seemed to burn into mine and the way he was looking at me, I couldn’t tell if he wanted to throttle me or rip my clothes off. I honestly couldn’t decide which one I wanted either.
Finally, we made it into his office. Both of us stared at the antique desk that stood against the wall.
“This desk?” Ford slapped his hand on it.
The sound made me jump, but I wasn’t scared. I was turned on. The anger I felt had begun to morph into lust and I could tell by the way Ford’s eyes kept raking up and down my body that he was feeling the same way.
“Tell me,” I said.
“You want to know about this desk?” he asked, advancing on me.
I nodded and he grabbed me by the hips to shove me toward it, pressing my ass up against the edge. With one simple lift, Ford could have me sitting on top of it.
“We bought it in Paris,” Ford said, his face close to mine, his voice low in my ear.
His fingers tightened against my hips and I pressed against him. He was hard. I was wet. I wanted him, and he wanted me.
“How nice for you two,” I said, glaring.
“At a famous flea market,” he continued. As he did, he began unbuttoning my shirt. “The seller swore that Hemingway had once written on it.”
My shirt was hanging open now, exposing my lace bra. Ford reached out and gave the front clasp a little flick, and my breasts spilled out.
Breathing hard, he reached out and cupped them, his thumbs dragging over my nipples more roughly than they ever had before. I arched into his touch. I wanted more.
“Tell me,” I ordered.
I spread my legs and his hands dropped to unbutton my pants and yank them off, my thong going with them in one fast, rough movement. In half a second, I was naked and Ford was hoisting me onto the desk. He was grinding against me, cock straining behind the zipper of his jeans. Groaning, I opened my legs wider, wrapping my legs around him.
“Tell me,” I repeated, my voice throaty.
“You want me to tell you that we didn’t believe for a second that Hemingway had written on it?” he asked, slapping one hand on the desk behind me, the other undoing his jeans, his hard cock springing free.
“Yes,” I said, my mouth watering at the sight.
“But since we’d been drinking Death in the Afternoons all day, the whole thing felt fated, so we spent an exorbitant amount of money on it?”
“Yes,” I moaned as he traced the slit of my wet pussy with his tip.
I was so hungry for him, I leaned back on my hands, opening my legs even wider. He must have liked what he saw.
“Fuck, Em,” he said, gripping his cock as he panted.
“Fuck me,” I agreed, tilting my hips to guide him.
“Yes,” he said, and with a smooth, fast thrust, he was inside.
I gasped as he filled me up, so big and so deep. Gripping the edge of the desk, I bit my lip as he began fucking me, whispering low in my ear as he picked up his pace.
“You think the shit in my apartment is important to me because I’m still into her?” he asked, punctuating his words with slow, hard thrusts.
“Yes,” I moaned, throwing my head back, his mouth coming down to suck my throat. I felt near to tears again, overwhelmed with emotion and all the sensations that went along with having hot, angry sex with my husband.
“Then what do you think it means that I’m fucking my wife on a desk that I bought with her?”
That was the problem. I didn’t know what it meant. Was it some kind of filthy erotic game for him? Tearing me down just to fuck me afterward in all my humiliation and rage?
I was simultaneously so hot and angry and turned on that I couldn’t think straight. All I could focus on was Ford’s cock, pumping in and out as he rode me hard on top of the desk he’d bought with Claudia in Paris.
“Ford,” I cried out.
“That’s right,” he said, driving himself even deeper. “I’m your husband. I’m your fucking husband and I’m fucking your tight, sweet little pussy on this desk.”
It creaked beneath us, each thrust knocking it against the wall.
I never thought I’d be into hate sex, but I loved