The Perfect Wife

Jemma Valentine, all golden hair and soft curves, meets her man at the door. He looks tired. She lets the robe slip from her shoulders and sinks to her knees without a word. Her lips part, warm and wet, and she takes him in until her nose presses against his skin. The room fills with the soft, steady sound of her throat working around him. After a while she rises, turns, and drapes herself over the couch, hips lifted, back arched. He grips her waist and slides in, slow at first, then deeper, harder. Her breath catches every time he pushes past that tight ring of muscle. The pace grows rough. When he’s close he pulls free, and thick ropes land across her parted lips and flushed cheeks.