Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 89238 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89238 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
She rocks up into my fingers, so eager, so ready. “I was. I want you.”
My chest rumbles. “My wife is so fucking horny.”
She gasps, parting her lips, her head falling back onto the pillow.
“You love it when I call you that,” I observe, stroking her as she turns wetter and hotter. I dip my face to her neck, murmuring up to her ear, whispering hotly, “My wife.”
“I do like it,” she says, arching her hips, seeking more of my fingers. “Do you like calling me that?”
This is just a game. A word game. A sex game. And still, I play it, taking her hand and curling it around my cock. I’m steel right now. “That’s how much I like it.”
“Gage,” she moans. “Fuck me.”
I can’t deny her. I love teasing her hot, wet pussy with my fingers. Driving her wild with my touch. But I relent, giving in to her gorgeous demand.
I let go of her then smack the side of her ass. “Get on all fours like a good wife.”
With a naughty grin, she gazes at me from under her blonde hair, then shifts to her hands and knees. Taking her time. Getting in position.
“Is this how you want me?” she asks, so innocent, and yet not at all as she offers me her beautiful body.
Back arched. Ass up. Hungry eyes on me.
Dear god. She’s fucking incredible. All soft and warm, aroused and eager. As I kneel behind her, I run a hand down her body. My fingers are electric from touching her. “Just. Like. This.”
I rub the head of my dick against her slick heat, then sink inside.
“Oh god,” she gasps, then thrusts a hand between her thighs.
Holy fuck. She’s so damn ready.
Before I can even fill her to the hilt, she’s stroking herself feverishly, using me to get off, and I can barely stand how good this feels.
The heat of her pussy.
The smell of her desire.
The strength of her want.
I drive into her, gripping her hips mercilessly as she plays with herself, getting closer and closer then arching her back.
Soon, she’s groaning, almost too loud. “Quiet, baby,” I warn.
But she can’t seem to help herself. She can’t stop moaning. I slide one hand up her chest, coasting over those bouncing tits, up her throat, then I cover her mouth.
Her breath stutters against my palm before she mutters a strangled “coming.”
Seconds later, I am too, the morning blurring into pleasure, then I collapse onto her, holding her close, wrapping her in my arms.
Her heart beats against my hands. It’s addictive. Just like her. I don’t want to leave.
“You need to go,” she whispers.
“I know,” I say reluctantly.
But first, I head into the en suite bathroom, grab a washcloth, and return to clean her up. When I’m done, I kiss her goodbye. “Thanks again,” I say.
She knows I don’t mean the sex. She knows I mean the early morning run with a friend. Something I haven’t done since I was in the majors. “Anytime,” she says, and I feel a pang of missing.
For the anytime with us that won’t happen, even though I almost, almost believe that it could.
I go, sliding into sneakers then leaving my brother’s house and this perfect morning behind. Once outside, I pick up the pace and sprint a couple blocks to Monroe’s home. I make up the minutes lost. He’s exiting right as I’m arriving, and he hits the ground running with a crisp nod.
Together, we run toward the Golden Gate Bridge. “We haven’t done a morning run in a long time,” he says.
“I know. Elodie is taking the girls to school,” I explain.
He shoots me a curious look. “Aren’t you domestic?”
I flash back over the last few weeks. We’ve been busy, yes. But we’ve made time for dinners together. For mac and cheese, for couscous and cauliflower, for salads and pasta dishes, for rice and beans and Thai noodles. “Eliza has started eating just like Amanda,” I tell him. “Vegetarian too.”
“So the girls’ habits are rubbing off on each other.”
“They’re scarily alike,” I say, picturing the way the girls interact. “Amanda’s into pottery. She’s so talented she made me a vase for the bar and I filled it with some fall lilies, and now people are asking where to get it. She applied to art school and should find out soon. But I know she’ll get in. She’s that good.”
Monroe arches a brow as we near the bridge. “That’s impressive.”
“Art school. I know,” I say, pride rushing through my bones.
“I meant you knowing all the details about Elodie’s little sister,” he corrects with the thoughtful cadence of a shrink since, well, he is one.
“It is?”
“You care about her,” he observes.
“No shit. She’s a good kid. She likes Eliza, and she’s got this fierce attitude about the world and women. She loves board games and art and rolling her eyes and hanging out with her friends, and she has strong opinions but a tender heart.”