Total pages in book: 30
Estimated words: 29018 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 145(@200wpm)___ 116(@250wpm)___ 97(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 29018 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 145(@200wpm)___ 116(@250wpm)___ 97(@300wpm)
Chapter 3
Jaye
I hate running behind. I hate it a lot. Yet once you have kids, you learn you’re rarely ahead of schedule, which is why being on time becomes one of the best feelings in the world.
Archer casually leans his muscular body against the door frame that separates our bedroom and bathroom, hungry gaze gliding itself down my slightly bent over backside.
Won’t complain that after ten years and two kids he still looks at me like he’s starving and I’m the last meal he’ll ever have. It’s really…flattering. Especially since I’ve got stretchmarks in places, I didn’t think you could get stretch marks even after reading about it.
“See something you like, Mr. Cox?” I playfully ask on a wiggle of my thong covered hips, figure moving away from the mirror where I was applying my mascara.
“I see everything I love, Mrs. Cox.” He releases a small, heated grunt and drags his gaze up to mine. “And I’m about to taste it, too.”
Turning his direction is instantly done. “No, no. We don’t have time for that.”
His predatory stalking closer indicates he didn’t hear what I said.
Or heard it and ignored it.
That one is more likely.
“Archer…,” my voice quietly warns, “my dad will be here any minute.”
“That sounds like a challenge, sweetheart.”
“That was so not meant to sound like a challenge!” I girlishly squeak.
“You should’ve chosen different words.” He arrogantly chortles, lifts me up by the hips, and plants me on the edge of our slate gray counter. “Words matter, Jaye.”
Except for when I say we don’t have time for whatever it is he’s thinking.
Odd how that works.
My husband’s fingers curl around the edge of my underwear and begin to tug them down prompting me to playfully ask, “And what exactly do you think you’re doing?”
“Making sure my Mrs. Claus comes early.” The waggling of his eyebrows is delivered during the complete removal of the delicate fabric. “Now, let’s get you on my naughty list.” He tosses the material carelessly over his bare shoulder. “Open those legs wide for me, sweetheart.”
And willingly I do, despite the fact the odds not being in our favor.
I can’t wait for Rainne to be old enough to read The Hunger Games. I think she’ll really enjoy it, and I’ll enjoy the discussion questions that are sure to follow. Yes. Yes, of course I’m always planning for what books my daughters will read. Did you really expect something different?
Lowering himself to his knees is quickly followed by his face disappearing between my thighs. While slow and steady is a style we both enjoy, we also know it’s not one that’s available when the girls are home or awake. Archer latches his mouth onto my clit and releases a pleased hum that has my entire frame arching into him. His tongue whirls around the sensitive territory, swiping and striking and searching for the right pattern to get me panting. Anxious to find the one that’ll have me screaming his name. Begging for mercy. The slippery wet muscle eagerly drops lower, tip lightly dipping inside, stealing a taste of the stickiness that’s steadily increasing. More satisfied groans escape my husband and prompt him to open his mouth wider. Savagely suck. Oscillate between splitting me in two with his ravenous tongue and leisurely twirling it from side to side against the delicate little nub that desperately needs more pressure. One hand impatiently dives into his dark locks on a wild, flustered huff. And then so does the other. And then without hesitation both are gingerly tugging him into me as my hips lift to ride every inch I can reach. Wetness mercilessly slathers itself across his furiously moving muscle. His lips. His nose. Drizzles down his chin, fusing with the dribbles of spit that have somehow escaped during his insatiable gorging. The ability to breathe gets harder and harder to the point my lungs are burning for reprieve, yet the euphoria from being unrelentingly tasted and taken and tormented by false promises of a climax just to be snatched away gets higher and higher until I can no longer remember if I came or need to come.
If I’m whimpering or whining.
If I’m wailing or whispering.
My toes curl around the very edge of the counter at the same time my head jerks back, thumping into the mirror. Bangs against it waste no time rushing to sync to the thrusting being delivered deep inside. The tiny hits of sexual viciousness executed to myself as much as to him are what lures us both over the edge. Orgasmic shudders shoot up my spine, folding me forward, causing me to unforgivingly clamp my thighs around his face while silent screams rain down over him. My body sags and bounces and bounces and sags, surrendering entirely to the wet muscle wildly whipping in determination to catch every drop. However, from my now hunched over position, a wonderful new sight is suddenly revealed to me. Through sexually hooded eyes, I greedily watch Archer furiously stroke his cock to the point of coming. Thick streams brutishly splash across our tile on loud, frame shaking, muted howls of ecstasy. Our bodies spend the next few moments doing their best to survive waves of aftershocks before melting in separate directions with him back onto his heels and me slumped lifelessly against the glass.