Total pages in book: 30
Estimated words: 28222 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 141(@200wpm)___ 113(@250wpm)___ 94(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 28222 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 141(@200wpm)___ 113(@250wpm)___ 94(@300wpm)
And I’m right.
But those few strokes are euphoria.
Mostly because her legs start to kick, her body struggling through the pleasure.
I’ve come to expect this from her, how she instinctively fights off the orgasm, due to its magnitude, and that’s what she does now, kicking and whining.
“Let it happen,” I growl, fisting her hair and yanking, my hips moving at hyper speed, a race to the finish line, my stomach slapping off her butt cheeks. “Let that little thing squirt for Daddy. Nothing wrong with it. Your body knows it’s right, even if no one else does.”
A gasp falls from her mouth and…
Fuck yeah, there it is.
The dam breaks and she’s creaming all over my pumping cock and…oh LORD…that’s my exit sign. I take it with a closed mouth groan, feeding a torrent of seed into her clenching hole, her sweet body jolting from the immensity of the release. Mine, too. We spasm together, grinding, gasping for air, my mouth against her sweaty neck.
I’m shaken, as I am every single time I take Claire, and it takes me long, lethargic moments to recover, but I know it’s extra important this time to regain my senses. Still catching my breath, I fix her clothing, as well as my own, pulling her limp body into my arms just in time for the carnival worker to return with a half-eaten hot dog.
“Enjoy the ride?” he asks, shutting down the carousel.
“Sure did,” I say, giving him a curt nod as I step off the ride. When the worker looks at my passed-out wife with an air of concern, I say, “The excitement took a lot out of her,” and I keep walking, putting us in an Uber and bringing my wife home for the first time.
Little do I know that it might be the last.
Chapter Thirteen
Claire
“You’re not washing any more dishes, Claire.”
“What else am I supposed to do?”
Draven and I are arguing in the parking lot of Tartine the next morning, but it’s not really an argument, is it? Not when we’re smiling at each other and I’m still glowing from our “honeymoon.” I’m also playing with the buttons on the front of his shirt and admiring the gold wedding band on my ring finger. How it catches the sunlight.
Holy cow. I’m a married woman.
I’ve married the man of my dreams.
“I’m putting you on garnishes,” he says, his tone brooking no disrespect.
I give it to him anyway. “Garnishes? Like sprinkling parsley on the plate?”
I giggle as he stoops down and throws me over his shoulder, giving my backside a resounding slap. “It’s an underrated artform.”
“It’s favoritism.”
“So be it, little girl. I own the restaurant.” He strides toward the rear entrance of Tartine. “When we own our own place in Maine, you can choose your role. Event coordinator. Décor. Or better yet, special assistant to the executive chef.”
“Hmm.” I grin at his flexing butt as he walks. “What would that position entail?”
“That position would entail…well, positions.”
My laughter carries across the parking lot. “You’re not taking me seriously.”
Stopping in his tracks, Draven carefully pulls me down from his shoulder and I assume my favorite position. Legs twined extra tight around my husband’s waist. He takes a moment to savor the hold, not to mention the way my breasts push up against his chest, ever so high and plump in the neckline of my tank top. He groans, but visibly composes himself soon after, kissing my nose. “You are the only person I take seriously in my life.” He touches our foreheads together. “I just want to keep you close to me until we can leave this place. Okay? Can you bear with me until I speak to Pierre about a buy out?”
“Just call me the garnish queen,” I whisper, stroking his face. “For now.”
“For now,” he agrees. “Very soon, I’m going to take you far away from here.”
“Well, well, well,” Pierre says, coming around the corner of the restaurant, flipping a set of keys in his hand. “If it isn’t the love birds back from their irresponsible day off.”
“Pierre, I’m not in the mood,” Draven says, his jaw popping. “In fact, I’m never in the mood for you.”
“Isn’t that too bad?” Pierre sniffs in my direction, eyeing the thighs wrapping around his brother’s waist and inserts his keys into the back door. “Let’s just get to work on that special sauce, shall we? We have a full dining room of reservations this afternoon. The cops are coming to do crowd control.” With a narrowed gaze, he observes us both on his way into Tartine. “You really must share the exact recipe, brother. In case we have another day like yesterday.”
“I’m not sharing shit,” Draven says, carrying me through the backdoor.
“Now, now,” Pierre admonishes. “That’s not a team player attitude.”
Draven and I share an eye roll.
“I love you,” I mouth at my husband. “Just think about Maine.”