Total pages in book: 25
Estimated words: 23595 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 118(@200wpm)___ 94(@250wpm)___ 79(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 23595 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 118(@200wpm)___ 94(@250wpm)___ 79(@300wpm)
My fucking breath is sawing in and out of my lungs.
Between my legs, my cock is a stiff pole, pressing against the table.
I’m drawing attention to myself from nearby tables and that’s not good. I’m supposed to be blending in. Being normal. But I never expected to hear my wife confess to wanting me to act as her Daddy. To have the ultimate power role. Jesus, those words are like a drug to me. To a man who craves control when it comes to his wife. I’m one stroke from coming in my pants.
“I want him to be…parental. In bed. That’s what I mean by taking it far.” A pause ensues. “I just want to make sure this doesn’t connect to my trauma in any way.”
Elmira hums. “In my opinion, it doesn’t. Joseph Hynes wasn’t a father figure. The two of you didn’t have sexual contact, nor did he force himself on you. I don’t see a connection.”
“Okay,” Jolie breathes, sounding relieved. “Now I just have to nudge him, I guess.”
I laugh without humor and drain the rest of my coffee.
Nudge me?
Oh, angel eyes. There won’t be a need.
4
Jolie
My favorite time of the day is when Christopher walks through the door. He’s always rumpled from sitting at his desk, tugging at the knot in his tie, briefcase in the opposite hand. But the fatigue always flees from his blue eyes when he sees me. More often than not, he boosts me onto the entryway table and whatever I had cooking burns while he takes out his stress on my body, bucking into me savagely, my hair wrapped in his fist.
Tonight when he walks through the front door, there’s something different about him. I can’t quite put my finger on it. He’s watchful and calm. Intense as always. But there’s a new thoughtfulness to his expression that somehow sets my pulse thrumming.
He kisses me on the back of the neck where I stand at the stove.
In the reflection of the microwave, I watch him slowly remove his jacket and tie, his eyes tracking down over my butt and thighs. I’m always wet when he’s this close to me, but I swear I can feel my sex pulsing now, his measured breathing filling me with anticipation. It’s probably due to the conversation I had with Elmira today. One I’ve been meaning to broach for a couple of weeks. Wonder how long it’ll take to actually act on my decision to tell Christopher about it?
I stir the simmering tomato sauce, my eyes closing when I hear my husband remove his belt. Looking down and to the right, I can see the long strip of leather dangling from his fist.
“How was therapy today?”
This is your opening. Take it.
“Good.” I smile at him over my shoulder, but it fades when I find him looking positively wolfish, his hair even more finger tousled than usual. “We’re making progress.”
“That’s great.”
“Yes.” God, I feel so breathless. Probably because he’s usually inside me by now. The anticipation is turning me hotter, another degree for every second that passes. “Combined with kicking and punching another human being, I’m like a new woman.”
Christopher huffs a sound. “A woman?” His open mouth comes within an inch of my neck. “And yet you’re dressed like a teenager.”
“I am?”
I look down at my outfit. A pink tank top tied up between my breasts, no bra, itty bitty jean shorts that don’t even cover my backside. And it dawns on me what I’ve done. I’ve dressed younger. Probably as a way of forcing myself to tell Christopher about the fantasies I’ve been having. The fact that he’s noticed and that his voice is like gravel makes my nipples peak painfully.
“Yes, you are.” Slowly, he hooks the leather belt between my legs, one end fisted at my belly button, the other at the small of my back—and he pulls upward, bringing me onto my toes with a whimper. “It’s almost like walking in and finding a little girl instead of my wife.”
A sob scratches from my throat and I drop the spoon I was using to stir the sauce. “Christopher…”
This is not the first time my husband has seemed to read my mind. When we’re in bed, he knows what I want before I do. He knows when I want to change the channel of the television or drop a subject. He knows when I’m nervous or happy or annoyed. So I’m not surprised that he walked in here, took a look at my outfit, and knew there was something afoot. I’m grateful for his intuition now. It’s going to be so much easier to talk about what’s on my mind, because he’s pushing me there. Giving me no choice.
“Which is it?” He tugs the belt harder, pushing the seam of my shorts against my clit, and I heave a sob. “Are you my wife or my little girl?”