Total pages in book: 131
Estimated words: 126818 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 634(@200wpm)___ 507(@250wpm)___ 423(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126818 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 634(@200wpm)___ 507(@250wpm)___ 423(@300wpm)
“Well,” he said calmly, even as I was doing my best to drive him nuts with my tongue and mouth. “I was going to keep the line between respectful wife and my flings firmly drawn, but I suppose…”
I groaned, continuing to suck and bobbing my head back and forth eagerly.
I want to be your everything. Your sexy nymph and virginal bride.
“I suppose the line has already been crossed. Choke on my cock, you beautiful slut,” he finished his musings by grabbing my hair harder and began to fuck my mouth ruthlessly. Each time, his tip hit the back of my throat. And each time, I almost came when it happened. My eyes got teary, but only because my gag reflex was on high alert.
“Tap my thigh twice if you want me to stop.” His voice hovered above my head. I didn’t want him to stop. I sucked harder, more greedily, taking him all in, moaning like I never had before. I could tell he was getting close to his release. His thighs began to quiver, and that male scent of sex hung thick in the air.
Though he seemed like the type to finish in the mouth, my husband pulled out of me, came into his fist, then tenderly—almost longingly—used his cum-covered fingers to wipe my hair from my face, tilting my chin up.
“That was good,” he said. “You get an A+, Flower Girl.”
“Then why didn’t you come in my mouth?” I tried very hard not to whine and, in my opinion, almost succeeded.
“Instinct, I suppose.” He was already getting dressed. “Escorts have been known to steal billionaires’ sperm. My ground rules are I always bring my own condoms and never leave my cum unattended.” He lowered himself to his knees, so we were almost eye to eye. “Now, how about I return the favor and eat that sweet pussy?”
My eyes widened. “On my period? Never.”
“I don’t care.”
“I do.”
“Fine. Nipples it is.”
He didn’t stop until he made me come.
It was the first time I came like this.
One of many firsts my husband introduced me to.
While my home life was still far from blissful, it was resembling normalcy more and more every day. My husband was mine, at least for the time being.
I knew he wasn’t seeing other women.
That he was faithful and desired me.
Even Ash, Belle, and Sailor backed down from badmouthing Kill. Maybe it was because of the poker game they’d lost to him, or maybe they had noticed I’d been happier since moving into my husband’s house, but they seemed accepting of my new relationship.
Some nights, I would look out the window at a lone cloud and talk to Auntie Tilda. I’d tell her about my life. My job, my plans, my new marriage.
She always stuck around until I got sleepy.
Never sailed away before I said my goodbyes.
And so, I’d forgotten a very important lesson Auntie Tilda had taught me when I was younger.
I believed I could change my husband.
I was wrong.
It took a full month for Joelle Arrowsmith to pick up the phone and give me a call.
She explained her husband gave her my phone number and asked if I could help the twins for a few hours under her supervision. Trace letters and numbers with them.
“They fell a bit behind on the material. As you know, there are certain milestones they need to hit by the time they go to first grade,” she huffed over the phone.
I knew this well. As a pre-K teacher, my job was to teach children age four and five to use training scissors, know their letters and numbers, and sharpen their intellectual and physical skills so they’d arrive at public school equipped.
We agreed I’d come to their house the following Saturday. It worked well because Saturdays were my day to visit Greta Veitch, something I did religiously despite my husband’s disdain. I could easily slip out early and use the extra hours to spend time with Tinder and Tree.
It wasn’t like Cillian was at the house during the weekends.
He went to his ranch to spend time with his horses and never invited me. My husband always made his way back from the ranch to our house in time to consummate our marriage, but woke up extra early the next day to leave before I woke up. God forbid we’d have breakfast together.
I arrived at the Arrowsmiths’ house first thing Saturday morning. Joelle opened the door, her hair sticking out in every direction and bloodshot eyes, and waved me in.
“God, you look fresh as a daisy.” She sounded disappointed.
I laughed. “Well, I try to get eight hours of sleep every night.”
“The twins wake up several times a night to go to the bathroom and ask for water.”
“You need to sleep train them,” I said. “I can help you with that.”
She led me through a narrow, modern hallway painted in scarlet red. The Arrowsmiths lived in an up-and-coming, trendy Southie neighborhood. Their house resembled an actual home from the outside—deliberately humble—but inside, it still reeked of wealth. With granite flooring, crown moldings, and all the other eye-popping things the Fitzpatricks were so fond of.