Free Found (Captive Heart #2) by Carrie Aarons

bra.
    “What does a girl gotta do to get fucked around here?”
    Tucker walks to me, picking my sweater up off the floor and holding it up against my body, as if to shield me from his eyes.
    “All right. I think you’ve definitely had one too many. Let’s get you upstairs.”
    Before he can take my elbow to guide me, I swat at his sweater barrier and knock it to the floor.
    And then I start to unzip my jeans. “Come on, Tucker. What’s so wrong with me that you don’t want to see your wife naked? You’ve been home almost a month and you can barely look at me.”
    He turns his head as I slide my jeans down and off. I’m standing in my plain white underwear and tan bra.
    “Look. At. Me.” I bite out the words, the alcohol swimming in my system fueling me to anger.
    I’m so tired of him sidestepping me. Of receiving no affection or love. Finally, after a few beats of silence and his back to me, Tucker turns around. His eyes drift down my body and he sucks in a breath. My ego puffs with pride. At least I know I still have some effect on him.
    “I’m standing here … as your wife. Asking you, no not asking, telling you to have sex with me. I’m tired of this tiptoeing. I miss you. I’m horny. Make love to me. Please.”
    He starts to harden in his sweatpants, and I see the large indentation of his cock. God, how I’ve missed his cock. After three years of being apart, all I want to do is have it inside of me.
    “Char, we can’t …”
    “Why the hell not?! We’re married, we’re not breaking any rules! And we’re human, Tucker! Please …”
    The last word comes out on a choked sob. If he rejects me right now, I’m not sure how we get past this. I push my boldness and luck even further when I go to him, reaching out to stroke both his naked abs and his growing erection.
    “Have sex with me.”

17
Tucker
    S he’s so drunk I can smell the tequila on her tongue. I shouldn’t be letting Char do this, but God, it feels fucking good.
    It’s been three years since someone besides my own right hand has touched my cock. I thought about this moment way too often when I was lying in my jail cell. The first time I would make love to Char after I got out.
    I’ve been holding off for weeks, not sure why I can’t get close to her. And I knew she was frustrated. But not this frustrated.
    I’ve never seen Char even remotely tipsy. The closest I ever saw her get was the night she sprained her ankle at Camp Marsh and I gave her the bottles of red wine. She’d admitted to me then that she’d never had more than a drink or two a semester in college. So I definitely don’t recognize this drunken version Char.
    Or this minx version Char. The woman I left was shy and quiet in bed, I used to have to bribe her with orgasms to get her to talk during sex. She would have never initiated fully, and she never would have so brazenly taken off her own clothes and thrown herself at me.
    I clearly have no idea who my wife is.
    This is a bad idea. Such a bad idea. She’s drunk. We haven’t talked about a thing yet. We’re not even sleeping in the same bed.
    But I’m so turned on for her right now. I forgot about those beautiful, petite curves. All of that whipped cream skin. The way her mocha eyes melt when she’s aroused.
    Couple that with her hands now snaking down my sweatpants and touching my cock, my engorged flesh …
    “Holy fuck. Fuck, Char, fuck …”
    She’s gripping me roughly, stroking up and down my cock and flicking her thumb at the sensitive underside of my head each time she reaches the top. I’ve gone three years without her touch, and I’m not going to last if she keeps this up.
    “Char, slow down, fuck …”
    She keeps up her pace, pushing up on her toes to kiss my pecs, my neck, nibble on my jaw …
    Something akin to an electric jolt zaps down my spine and rockets through my balls. And then I’m coming, a sticky, hot mess on her hand and in my sweatpants. I gasp for air, shooting my hand out and