Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 83190 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83190 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
“Fuckfuckfuck,” my husband hisses behind clenched teeth, “yeah…that’s right, baby, keep fucking screaming.” The words are huffed. Grow airier by the passing second. “Keep screaming while you fucking come on my cock.”
Howls so heavy and harsh that they burn my lungs are shot to the ceiling while my hips ferociously continue to lurch forward enduring more slaps to the clit, obsessed with the delicious way they burn. Enamored by the way they prolong the euphoria being pounded into me.
“Keep screaming until I’m fucking coming, too.”
Determination to follow the order leads to me sadistically screeching and screaming and scraping during each additional grind. Spit trickles past the tie, down to my tits, where the hand that was previously holding my hip abandons it to swirl the fluid around my nipple prior to giving it a hard yank. The wailing that’s conjured not only brings tears to the corners of my eyes but searing streams of cum. Brendan grunts and grumbles as his dick rabidly thrashes, branding me his on the inside before slipping out just enough to mark me on the outside as well.
You know I was planning to hose off already.
He didn’t have to make the shit a fucking necessity.
Our shared shower should go quickly—after all the clock is ticking and we’re toying with overtime—but instead it’s slow.
Much slower than I know it should be.
He uses the moments under the hot water to kiss my shoulders and whisper sweet sentiments no one else ever has. He lathers me while teasing me about the shower cap I’m sporting and washing it all away between tickles meant to make me squirm in a puerile fashion. Words of love are attached to actions of the same sentiment allowing us to both warmly transition from the filthy fuck buddies we were behaving like in the closet to the adoring husband and wife duo the media has heard we are.
They don’t typically see it because I fly solo more often than not.
It’s my job to be the face.
His job is to be the padding.
And thankfully, it’s a job he’s done pretty well since the moment he touched down in Texas.
Getting dressed, made up, and accessorized happens at a stressfully swift pace and luckily for me, I attached myself to someone who doesn’t need the same apple when it comes to these situations that I do meaning by the time I’m good to go so is he.
The only wardrobe advice he requests is whether or not he can wear his eyebrow piercing or if he needs to keep it removed, wanting to look nothing but “respectable” for our big appearance.
Ugh.
Hearing those words damn near has me trying to delay our walk to the waiting vehicle in order to express my gratitude in the form of a handy j.
Our ride in the limo is filled with less sexy talk and a shit ton of last minute conversational reminders that I wear the C in this marriage on camera and that like the one bearing the A, he looks to me for guidance rather than just assuming he knows the best play to make.
The second we’ve stepped deeper inside past the last line of photographers outside the event room, Brendan leans over to brush his lips against my ear, “Did you say all tits and no tummy for your dress, baby? Because that’s what the fuck I’m seeing.”
I adjust the arm that’s looped around his on a playful poke. “Is that a problem?”
“It will be if they can spot my semi in any of those photos.”
Needing to hide my girlish giggles leads to me burying my face against the arm of his jacket while my clutch wielding hand delivers a sweet swat to his stomach.
God, I don’t know what I love more, the fact that I turn him on so much or that he isn’t ashamed to say it.
Seriously.
Is there any woman on the planet who hates hearing how fuckable someone finds her?
“Champagne?” a waiter politely offers, forcing me to unhide my slightly reddened complexion.
“For her? No,” Letty’s voice unexpectedly interjects as she grabs one of the flutes being offered. “For me? Yes.” She tips it towards him with a wink. “And keep them coming.”
He bows his head in acknowledgement and presents the selection to Brendan. “Sir?”
“Yeah, no. Cheap champagne isn’t really my shit.”
The male’s brow pinches together. “It’s not-”
“It is,” my husband casually cuts off, expression unbothered. “Events like this may cater to higher clientele but unless specifically told otherwise, you operate like any other. You serve cheap shit you got a good wholesale price on in expensive glasses to give the illusion they’re consuming something better than they are. Most either aren’t champagne connoisseurs therefore it’s an easy misconception to sell, or they prefer something directly from the full-service bar, which is where the real money is for both the event as well as the bartenders.”