Promises and Pomegranates by Sav R. Miller

“I’m not doing anything.”
“Don’t lie to me,” he says, reaching up to collar my throat with one hand,
flexing his hold on the sides. “Why did you come all the way here if you
weren’t planning to stay?”
“You served me annulment papers!”
Growling, he increases the pressure on my throat, fucking me harder, like
he’s actively trying to split me in half. “I was trying to be mature and
respectful about our situation.”
“You didn’t even come find me after I left you at the theater,” I cry,
release pounding through me, dragging all the hurt along with it. My orgasm
crests, looking over the hill as my vision scatters, the ability to speak
becoming more difficult. “How can you say you missed me when you didn’t
come after me?”
“Oh, fuck, Elena.” He squeezes harder still, pistoning into me so roughly I
can feel the bruises forming. “I came after you. I wanted to barge into your
grandmother’s apartment and throw you over my shoulder, take you back
home with me where you belong. I stood outside for hours, trying to decide
how much you’d hate me if I took that choice from you. If I didn’t let you
come to terms with things on your own.”
I start to spasm around him, my climax erupting before he’s even finished
his sentence as black spots flood my eyesight, that familiar sense of floating
suspending me in time as I fall over the cliff.
“That’s it, my sweet wife. You come on your husband’s cock. Make him
regret not spending the last two weeks buried inside of you.”
“God, Kallum,” I moan, the orgasm still pulsing, sending wave after wave
of euphoria.
“Does my little cock whore need filled?”
I nod, frantically, clawing and scratching at his marred chest, propping
myself up into a sitting position and yanking him down into a kiss. Rocking
my hips back and forth, meeting each thrust with a miniature one of my own,
I tangle my tongue with his, relishing the taste of myself on him.
His palm finds my back, spreading out and holding me flush to his chest
as he pushes in one last time, a throaty moan tumbling past his lips. Sweat
slicks down our bodies, the origin of which drops belong to who gone as he
collapses on top of me, the table groaning under us.
I poke his side as the table buckles. “Maybe we should move elsewhere.”
Pulling himself upright, Kal stares down at me for several long beats, the