Total pages in book: 33
Estimated words: 30983 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 155(@200wpm)___ 124(@250wpm)___ 103(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 30983 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 155(@200wpm)___ 124(@250wpm)___ 103(@300wpm)
“My God, just look at you,” he says now. “My wife is so fucking perfect.”
“You should see my husband.”
“You’re about to see a lot of him.” He stops in front my chair and I tilt my head back obediently, waiting for instructions. Joel’s support and encouragement have given me freedom from the bonds of my past. Freedom to pursue who I want to be professionally. He’s made me the mother of two little boys, who look just like their father.
But I’m most fulfilled when I submit to him.
That’s my choice.
He makes sure to balance that decision by praising me, showing me gratitude, reinforcing my safety, loving me authentically. And so I am at his command in moments like this. Exactly where I want to be.
“Unzip my pants and put my dick in your mouth.”
I squirm with excitement in my chair, my toes digging into the area rug. I can’t get his fly undone fast enough, hiccupping a sob when his beloved length springs out, demanding attention. “Should I suck on it until you come?”
He closes his eyes, visibly enjoying the question in itself. The options I’ve given him. “Not today, young lady.” He threads his fingers in the back of my hair, drawing me toward his lap until I have no choice but to open my mouth and accept his big, salty weight, the enormity of him that still never fails to strain my jaw. “Look at me while you service it.”
I nod like a good girl, using both my hands to twist and stroke his trunk of flesh, rubbing my lips where they meet his balls, my choking noises briefly filling the room.
“Just like that, angel. Yes. Yes. Yes. Ohhhhh shit. Yes. My favorite corner of this earth is that little curve in your throat. Take me there. Take…me…there. Oh God. Oh God.”
His praise has me scooting to the edge of the chair to get closer, closer to my man, and he correctly interprets my actions as a green light to thrust harder, to make use of me, and that goes on for several minutes. Joel going for broke, then stopping with a wince, because he’s on the verge of ejaculating. Regrouping. Resuming the panting pumps.
I’ve left a mess on my leather chair by the time he pulls out, my chin shiny with spit, my hair is tangled from his fingers. “How do you want me?” I gasp in between drags of breath.
He fists my hair and draws me to my feet, turning us and sitting down.
Leaning back with his arms on the sides of the chair, his sex protruding from his lower body, fat and veiny, his eyes are a storm of obsession. With me.
“Where does Daddy go?” he asks, thickly.
“Inside me,” I manage, squeezing my thighs together. Trembling. “Deep.”
“Good girl. Do what you’ve been taught.”
I hike my skirt up and straddle him on the chair, taking him inch by incredible inch until I’m fully impaled, the ten inches of throbbing male sending rhythmic ripples from my tummy to my sex. Oh. Oh my goodness. He stretches me in a slow melt that is almost enough to bring me to climax, but I squeeze tight and hold on, wanting to savor him. This. I’m almost acclimated enough to move, but I cry out when he rips my blouse down the middle, sending buttons clicking all over the ground.
“I’m hungry, Haylo. Fuck me like you’re trying to get pregnant.” He wrestles back my head, using his teeth to drag my bra down my breasts, exposing them to the cool room. Spitting on them one by one, before leaning in hard to bite the meat of my right breast, sending a wave of sharp longing to the deepest recesses of my core. “You know the kind of fuck I’m talking about. I want to feel your little womb.”
His tone, a unique combination of demanding and vulnerable, brings into focus why he’s acting like this. Why he wants our lovemaking to be even more intense than usual.
My father is coming to dinner tonight. It’s a rare occasion, though our relationship with him and his new wife is warm. We might never be close, but our rapport is improving all the time. There’s just a little something in the past, something that was exorcised in a hotel room in Barcelona a decade ago, that puts my husband in a mood to be reassured.
Bottom line, Joel will want me to sit at the dinner table tonight looking sated.
Which won’t be difficult, because that’s how I spend my life.
“You make me so happy,” I whisper against his mouth, beginning to move, lifting and scooting my hips up and back, balancing on the steel length of him, plunging down and rolling my lower body. “You make me so hot,” I confess breathily, finding a bouncing pace, throwing in a filthy twist of my hips every time he’s fully buried, making his jaw unhinge, his grip turning bruising on my butt cheeks.