Or rather, Earl Carpenter was fucking Beth Carpenter. He was atop her, his weight a comforting burden pressing into her, pinning her to the bed. Her arms crossed behind his neck, her knees bent alongside his hips. It was... nice. Just like it always was. They had a routine, of sorts. At least onc...
She liked the way his weight felt above her, pinning her to the satin sheets of her marital bed, the way his rough stubble felt against her shoulder-blades, the way his scent -- Old Spice and engine grease, grass clippings and sweat -- overpowered her, surrounded her, entered and filled her. The ...