Remarriage (1v1, H) - 3
Just as the words left his mouth, her thighs were wrenched wider. Wang Chong’s brows knotted; her legs had locked too tight around him. Impatient, he hooked his calloused palms behind her knees and slung them over his narrow hips, then drove forward like a man possessed.
Lu Xiniang had never dreamed of such a storm.
His chest (hard, furnace-hot) scraped across her br3asts; the friction dragged her n1pples into stiff, aching peaks.
He felt them rise before she did. Without breaking rhythm, he dipped his head and caught one rosy bud between his teeth.
“N-no, don’t—”
She had never nursed a child, never known any play but dutiful silence with Wang Zhi. Now her spine arched of its own accord, shoving the soft globe deeper into his mouth.
Below, his c0ck owned her.
Every thrust slammed the fat head against her womb’s mouth, reckless, merciless.
Shame scattered like blown petals. She clawed his arms, sobbing, gulping air each time he drew back an inch. Tears jewelled her lashes; her eyes shimmered scarlet.
“Please… slower… it hurts.”
She no longer called him Chong-ge’er.
Her Chong-ge’er was alive, safe in Xiangcheng, burning incense to her tablet.
She was his aunt-by-law, sworn to chaste widowhood. This was blasphemy in flesh.
Her broken pleas licked his ear like moans.
“Where does it hurt?” His voice scraped raw, breath scalding her cheek.
She writhed, hips trying to retreat, words tangled.
Yes it hurt—but the hurt was braided with a dark, sweet itch that licked up her spine and melted her bones. Decorum screamed no; her body screamed yes.
She bit her lip bloody and refused another sound.
Wang Chong’s calloused palm slid from her waist, dipped beneath her ass, and brushed the tenderest skin he’d ever touched. She quivered like a leaf; he barely grazed her, yet his fingers came away glazed in silk.
He couldn’t tell how much still hurt. Her brows were knotted so tight he eased his hips, rolling his c0ck inside her the way a scholar grinds ink—slow, deliberate circles that made his teeth ache with restraint.
But slow was torture.
A feast spread before a starving man and he was told to nibble.
He pressed his forehead to hers. “Better? I need to move.”
Silence.
Fine.
He pinned her down, one broad hand swallowing her br3ast, and let the beast loose. Hips snapped, heavy, faster; the thick hair at his groin lashed her cl!t with every stroke. His fat c0ck speared in and out of her swollen pvssy, loud, wet, obscene.
“Ahh… too full…”
The dam broke. Her nails carved crescents in his arms; a rush of hot honey flooded her channel. She came with a broken cry, thighs shaking around his waist.
He only growled and fucked her through it.
Her spend made everything slicker, tighter, sweeter. He wasn’t close to done.
Minutes—hours—blurred.
She drifted on the edge of blackout, limp, boneless, pvssy stuffed and pulsing.
He’d already spilled once, thick ropes painting her womb, yet the greedy c0ck barely softened before it reared again.
Let him, she thought, drifting under.
She was dead anyway.
The woman let the darkness take her while the man kept rutting into her sleeping cunt.