Simon Riley

If it were a better situation, maybe he could’ve done something more, but for now, it’ll work. He was your husband, he knew when you needed release.

The flames from the candles casted shadows that danced along the walls, the dimly lit room allowing for certain things to be visible. The sweet scent of dirty bourbon filling the room as soft pants filled the empty void.

He breathed heavily, his wrists bound behind his back as he refused to look at you. It was shameful, really. What he was doing to you, to himself. Some man he was.

A bead of sweat rolled down the side of his face, his dirty blonde hair all tousled and messy. He looked down at his knees, planting them even harder into to the bed as he leaned his head into your shoulder.

The light coating of sweat on his chest caught light from the candle, accentuating his tattoos in any and every way possible.

God, you were going to drive him mad.

He let out a soft groan, his fingers twitching involuntarily behind his back as his breaths quickened. He picked his head for a moment, looking at you through his thick eyelashes. “Don’t you ever need a break?” He spoke, his tone whiny. He knew you didn’t, but it was worth a shot trying.