Promises and Pomegranates by Sav R. Miller

dusty pink peak, keeping eye contact as I lap at her. “You already are.”
Despite the purple bruising around one eye, she pinches them both shut
when I close my lips over her, sucking and roving until she’s a panting,
squirming disastrous beauty. Her fingers thread through my wet hair and tug,
encouraging more, grinding her hips forward as she begs for it.
Pulling back, I release her tit with a wet pop, shifting to repeat my actions
on the other; I fit the flat of my tongue on the underside and trail up,
replacing droplets of water with my DNA, engulfing her when I reach the
nipple.
My fingers dig into the meat of her ass, definitely leaving bruises, but
there isn’t a single part of me that cares at the moment.
I want her covered in my marks. Purpled from my fingertips, lips red and
raw from my own, pussy swollen and dripping my cum.
Flesh broken and bleeding for me.
After tonight, I want there to be no mistaking whose bed she lies in at
night. Whose cock she takes, anyway I’ll give it. Whose blood sings for hers.
My body temperature spikes at the notion, the urge to brand her as
quickly as possible taking over my actions. Scraping my teeth gently over her
once, I test her reaction; she arches into it, as if silently begging for more.
Taking her nipple between my teeth, I bite down, watching her chin snap up
and her eyes pop open.
“Fuck,” she breathes, fingers tightening in my hair.
“You like that?” I murmur, increasing the pressure.
Her throat contracts and she nods.
Grinning, I nip again, setting her down as I slide lower; I shift, pulling my
arms around her thighs so I can drape them over my shoulders, dropping to
my knees on the shower floor. Her pale pink panties are soaked through,
doing nothing to hide the outline of her swollen sex to my hungry gaze.
I lick my lips, glancing up at her as my hands glide up her thighs and slip
a thumb beneath the fabric on her hips. They’re lace, so they tear with little
effort, and I toss them aside, taking a moment to admire the silken flesh
between my wife’s thighs.
One of her hands comes up to her breast, kneading softly. With each
move I make, she watches, eyes blazing. I inch forward, coasting my lips up
the expanse of her thigh, and she never removes her gaze.
I pause, seeing the new cut from whoever accosted her at the bus station;
a sliver sliced into her skin by an amateur knifeman, hooking on the end of