It was about half past nine. Gil and Mara had gone to bed, but they were fighting; words flew, harsh and cutting, between them. The issue, which concerned the appropriation of some unexpected money, seemed pretty major to both of them. Mara felt they should save it; Gil thought it could purchase a new car, which he felt they needed. But, in the spirit of marital arguments, the topic had shifted. Now each was upset with the other for real or perceived failings, or at least for small shortcomings that hadn’t been addressed when committed.
Mara was fuming, lying there with one knee pulled up under the sheet, refusing to look at her husband. She knew Gil was hunched in his pillow with his arms forbiddingly folded. They didn’t often get so heated when they disagreed since, thanks to their love for each other and for God, they tried to work things out. Maybe it was because Mara was about a week away from starting her period. This time of month always made her contrary and stubborn. To herself, she asked irritably, Doesn’t Gil know that by now?
On his part, Gil believed he was completely right, trying to provide for her and make good use of the money he earned. Her objections seemed unfounded; they weren’t struggling and they had a decent amount in savings. It annoyed him when she wet-blanketed suggestions for nice things they could afford and which he wanted to get for her.
They were silent for some long, awkward minutes. Mara’s lips were constricted in displeasure, but her heart was very unsettled. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to be. Not with Gil. She loved him—crazily, as a matter of fact—and she knew he loved her. Since getting married four years ago, they’d both learned a lot about bending to each other and selflessly giving up personal desires. And theirs was a sweet marriage. They were wonderful together, sharing so many things in character, habits, likes and dislikes, and pastimes, and getting better every day in their intimacy.
At that thought, Mara recalled some advice she’d read: if you’re fighting with your man, make peace by making love. Men feel connected to their wives through sex, and it’s a prime tool to melt anger and fix problems.
She took a slow breath, then peered over at Gil. His face was turned about three-quarters away, so he didn’t notice. But his jaw muscles were flexing and relaxing by turns. He was still angry. Yet just that little movement under his hard brown skin caught Mara. Opposite sensations—remorse and desire—softened her. She raised herself up on her elbow. She felt like the mood was all wrong for having sex, but she was willing to try.
“Okay. I’m feeling mad. I admit it. But I want you really bad, right now.”
Gil turned, his brows remaining grim and lowering, but surprise evident in his eyes. “What?”
“You don’t know how sexy you are when you’re mad,” was her irrelevant reply, her tone low as she drew close to him.
He seemed hesitant as she pressed her body against his. Then she kissed him, her mouth hot and searching. In two seconds, he wasn’t hesitating anymore. They ate hungrily from each other’s lips, biting, nuzzling, sucking. The flames of temper were quickly redirecting to a new fire, a burning frenzy of passion and need. Mara could feel it as Gil’s hands wandered from her back to her soft rounded buttocks, thinly covered by her underwear. She stroked his hair and rubbed his neck. Her tender breasts under her camisole were quashed against his chest.
“I want you, Gil,” she breathed, breaking the kiss but unable to tear her lips from his completely.
“I want you,” he answered simply.
In a flash, he’d thrown her on her back and pulled off his shirt, then collapsed on her to resume kissing. She could feel the heat of his mouth and the heat in her vulva. Such speedy arousal amazed her. Wiggling her hips, she ground her pelvis against him, especially as she felt a solid swell form in the front of his shorts and press into her.
The move pumped his manhood with boiling blood, and he frantically struggled to get his shorts off, devouring her mouth and chin and jawline and neck the whole time. She pushed down her underwear, and he directed his shaft to her slit and pushed in. A gasp broke from her lips. He paused as the deliciousness of being inside her registered in his brain. Mara groaned and squeezed her breasts uncontrollably. Gil started a heavy thrusting.
Hard and deep they danced horizontally together, the twisting and joining of hips unsteady yet luscious. Mara realized she’d forgotten their conflict and just wanted to feel every inch of her husband’s body. Dampness formed droplets on his bronzed skin, adding a slick sound every time he rammed himself in and met her body with his. She gripped his shoulders, then his tight butt, reveling in the contraction of his muscles.
Finally, he looked her in the eye deeply, meaningfully, as he continued to plunge his rod into her wet garden. “I love you, you know that?” he said huskily.
“I know it. And I love you,” she whispered back, her eyes glued to his. Just that look was so intimate.
Then, gently but forcefully, she pushed him up and onto his back and quickly guided him into her hole again. But instead of remaining upright in cowgirl position, she laid flat on him and rolled her hips. He started and caught at short breaths as his shaft was kneaded and clenched by her warm insides. Added to the provocative sensation was the pressure of her vulva rubbing against his pubic bone. Her craving for him revealed itself in the fluid moistening her labia and dripping down his shaft.
He almost couldn’t take it. Weakly he clasped her bottom, squeezing the twin moons as shocks of pleasure lit him from head to foot. Mara’s fingers gripped his shoulders. Her breasts—round, firm, and full—pressed deep into his pecs. His throbbing manhood was deep inside her, and gasps escaped them both. Almost, the two were one.
And then they began to crest that wave, the summit of highest human delight…Gil felt Mara shaking, her belly convulsing, her hips bucking into him…his shaft was on fire and full with excitement…he was getting closer to the explosion…she screamed each time he touched her G-spot…his name fell from her lips wildly…she clenched his hard forearms, her nails cutting into his flesh…a loud groan vibrated his throat…the cream of his passion erupted in her womb…and they thrashed and clung together as their love-juices mixed.
Mara lay spent, stretched out half-naked on her husband’s body. His eyes rested tenderly on her head, nestled on his hairy chest, while he wrapped her in his arms. He noticed that though he’d gone soft, he was still inside of her, his manhood safe in its most desired place.
At last, she lifted her head to look into his eyes. “I’m sorry I was so stubborn and said the things I said,” she began.
“I’m sorry too. Forgive me?” he asked humbly.
“I forgive you. Forgive me too?”
“Already have.” He pulled her close and kissed her hair.
“If you think we should buy the car, I’m okay with it,” she said slowly. It took an effort to go along with something she didn’t really agree with.
“Well, I was thinking we might hang on to our old clunker a little longer,” he returned. “Maybe we’ll get a deal later on. In the meantime, I’m trusting my wife to handle our money.”
She smiled, feeling herself growing teary. “Thanks, baby. Oh, I love you, you wonderful hunk of man!”
It was true. She could make love to make peace with her husband, and the thought gladdened her.
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