“I don’t want you to, either,” she breathed. “I feel so surrounded.”

I rose then, unable to contain my need to fuck her senseless any longer. My hips jutted in and out almost violently, and she took it all, soaked me in and let me back out again, gave me something that I didn’t ever want to forget. She absorbed me. She was everything in that moment. All I could see.

“You drive me crazy,” I said and then let out a string of select swear words.

I could feel myself getting closer, closer to the divine heaven of coming inside her perfect, beautiful, celestial fucking body. I stared at her face, her eyes big and taking everything in. She was still all tied up; and I saw how not touching me was painful for her, yet she was getting off on it. I thrived on that pain. I was still thrusting in and out, her thighs holding me in place, when I ran my hands from her neck down to her breasts and all the way along her torso.

She arched, straining for my touch, “Ronan, oh—oh God….”

Annie came apart, swift and fierce, saying “please” over and over, begging me. She shook from the force of her orgasm but was unable to reach for me.

I had all the power, and she had nothing. I could do anything to her, and she was simply there to enjoy the ride. A willing, submitting participant in this game for two. This was the dynamic I’d craved my whole life, but I had never found a partner as perfect as my dear, sweet, gorgeous little hermit.

In the next second I came with a deep, strangled groan as I melded my mouth to hers and thrust my tongue inside. I’d never climaxed so hard on my life. I felt empty, drained in the most wonderful sense of the word. I drew away and cupped her face in my hands, planting tiny, worshipful kisses on her cheeks, her mouth, her forehead, her eyelids, and murmuring desperate declarations. “You’re perfect. The feel of you. Can’t get enough. I’m addicted. I love you.”

I was still kissing her, working my way down her neck and nibbling on her earlobe, when I realized I’d said that last part out loud.

Chapter Nineteen

New York’s Finest

Blogging as *The Socialmedialite*

April 11

It’s time for everyone’s favorite blog post! That’s right—it’s time for DILFs!

Sometimes “DILF” stands for “Dudes I’d Like to Flip Off.”

Sometimes “DILF” stands for “Dogs I’d Like to Fix” (I think everyone remembers the prodigious leg-humping incident of 2014).

And sometimes, “DILF” stands for “Donalds I’d Like to Fire” (spoiler alert, it’s always Donald Trump).

But I think everyone’s favorite kind of DILF post is when it stands for “Dads I’d Like to Fuck”☺

It may be crass. It may lower me in your eyes. You may object to the fact that I’m looking at these dads with lustful intentions and licentious lewdness. But—come on—if our society has MILFs, then we need to have some DILFs for the ladies.

Amiright, ladies?

So, feast your eyes on the pictures below, my sisters in avariciousness. Today I’ve included a record-setting 36 desirable, drool-worthy dads.

You’re welcome.

<3 The Socialmedialite

*Annie*

I didn’t say it.

Not in the car on the drive back.

Not when we made love again that night in the shower…although I almost said it then. I said a lot of things in the shower—like telling Ronan he was a sex god, and that I needed him, and begging him to make me dirty so we could take showers and baths together eight times a day—these things made me blush scarlet every time I thought about them once the sex haze had cleared.

I didn’t say it when he woke me up the next morning by blindfolding me and trailing ice cubes over my bare skin, promising me pleasure only if I could lie still and silent.

Nor did I say it over the next two weeks as we went from event to event or when we came back to the hotel every night.

He didn’t say it again, either.

However, regardless of where we were—a charity garden party fundraiser, a visit to a public school for a photo-op, a youth rugby match—he always found a way to show me how he felt. He made sure that I was served special peppermint tea at the garden party. He introduced me to the kids at the school as his fairy princess. He gave me his coat at the youth rugby game and rubbed my arms to keep me warm.

At night he showed me by tying me up, taking me how and when he liked, always being in control, initiating lovemaking that was both terrifyingly tender and tenderly terrifying.

I loved it. I loved how he surrounded me. I loved how ceding control made me feel safe and protected. I loved begging him, following his rules. I loved the freedom I found in complete capitulation.

And yet…I didn’t tell him that I loved him, even though I did.

He must know, I thought, staring blankly at my computer screen. I was reading through the latest comments on my DILF post. People’s reactions ran the gamut of appreciative to shocked to Hey! That’s my husband!! Woot!!

I noticed that WriteALoveSong responded with a photo comment of a very, very nicely built male member of the military dressed in a bluish camouflage uniform holding the hand of an adorable little boy. The boy had brown curls and rosy cheeks and couldn’t have been older than four. She’d added beneath the picture, Add this to your next DILF post (and you’re welcome).

The charity I was highlighting along with the post was for veterans who were also parents. It helped them train and find work after discharge from the military. I’d tried to include as many dads in uniform as I could, but of the thirty-six, only fifteen were service members.