Total pages in book: 24
Estimated words: 23250 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 116(@200wpm)___ 93(@250wpm)___ 78(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 23250 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 116(@200wpm)___ 93(@250wpm)___ 78(@300wpm)
I can’t say I blame them.
The short, A-line, pale blue cocktail dress my wife is presenting herself in for the evening has had my dick begging to bust since the moment she let me strap her into the crystal high heels I can hardly stop kicking my own ass for not pushing her to wear sooner. They give her beautiful long, brown legs length. Show off the muscles she gets from working rather than sitting around sipping wine all day like other wives of powerful men such as myself often do. Her refusal to sit around and be some sort of trophy is actually one of the things I’ve come to not only adore but fucking respect about Elle over the past few weeks. She isn’t afraid of hard work or making me work hard for that matter. She may have given me her hand in marriage, but she has yet to give me anything since that I haven’t had to earn. If I’m honest, I’m rather enjoying myself. I like taking her to dinner, watching her eyes go wide over lavish dishes she could probably never afford on her own. I like squeezing in walks by the beach or meeting her for gelato on the boardwalk. I could’ve done without the caricature portrait we got last Thursday, but she wanted it. She framed it. She put it on her side of the bed right next to the bottle of lotion I lather on her feet each night whether she’s awake or not. While I hate the exaggerated features bullshit, the damn thing constantly seems to make her smile, and that I love. Seeing her grin, hearing her giggle, feeling her body shake as she comes from my fingers or tongue…is all shit I can’t get enough of. Nowadays I’m cursing and thanking work equally because if it weren’t for it, I wouldn’t be able to tear myself away from my woman.
Elle DeLuca is an addiction I have no intention of ever kicking.
The agreement may be for only six months, yet late at night when she’s curled up against me, I can’t ignore my instinct that she truly belongs to me.
That she’ll be with me.
Forever.
I adjust my hand on the small of her back right on top of the embroidered lace at the same time I sigh, “It’s not a difficult concept, twinkle toes. Choose red or choose black.”
She continues to stare at the roulette table with obvious apprehension. “What if I lose?”
“That’s part of gambling.”
“Yeah, and I don’t like to gamble,” Elle snips as she lifts her stare up to mine, “because I don’t like to just throw money away.”
“I have the money to spare.”
“Okay, but even if you do, that doesn’t mean you should just throw the shit away,” she swiftly argues causing Mickie to chuckle from his position behind us. “You’re pretty much just lifting the lid to the trash and tossing cash in there. You’re not even recycling which would be more responsible.”
“You’re being ridiculous.”
“You’re being ridiculous,” my wife hisses back under her breath. “I told you I am not comfortable doing this, yet here we are…spending money that could be used to better someone else’s life rather than wasted trying to entertain us.”
Her concern kicks the corner of my lip upward. “All the proceeds go to charity tonight.”
She shoots me a slightly narrowed glare in disbelief. “Which charity?”
“The one that’s tied to the Loreville Children’s Medical Center.”
Shock shifts her jaw to the floor.
“Forgive me for forgetting to mention that.” Smugness spreads wildly as I slide my grip over to rest on her hip. “Every dime we spend tonight is for a good cause. No one actually leaves with anything they win. It also goes back to the organization.”
Awe unexpectedly flutters into her stare. “You, Mr. DeLuca, have a much bigger heart than you let on.”
“Let’s not say that shit too loudly,” I lightly laugh. “I have a reputation to maintain.”
Elle snickers, places her chips on black, and casually asks, “So, do you want kids someday?”
“I didn’t even want to be married someday.”
My mindless muttering instantly sinks her shoulders.
Shit.
Probably should’ve phrased that better.
“However,” the word seems to drag her stare back to mine seconds before the wheel is spun, “I am, and I’m happy about it. I imagine the same shit will happen with children someday.” She keeps her eyes planted on the little white ball whirling around prompting me to inquire, “What about you?”
“I think so…” her voice dips in a nostalgic fashion. “I had like the best fucking parents before they died. I…had a whole other life. It was filled with love and attention and non-stop laughter…We were always together. Doing family things. Cooking or gardening or camping. Never mattered that Mom and I hated camping because Dad loved it. He was so into nature and being away from it all that we were happy to do it for him. After he died from organ failure – fuck the flu for that – Mom basically turned herself away from anything that reminded her of him. She like devoted herself to whatever was the opposite of what Dad was or stood for, which is why my stepfather – whose last name we took as another way of her shying away from the man we both lost – is a monster rather than a saint like the one who raised me…That’s the type of man I hope to raise my own kids with.”