Total pages in book: 29
Estimated words: 27597 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 138(@200wpm)___ 110(@250wpm)___ 92(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 27597 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 138(@200wpm)___ 110(@250wpm)___ 92(@300wpm)
“That sounds familiar,” I say, breathing a laugh, sliding my arms up around his neck, so I can absorb his strength, the sensation of his steely shaft against my belly. “In this sequel, does the hero request a soundproof bedroom from the contractor who builds their house?”
Caleb’s blue eyes flash with heat, and somehow, I know he’s thinking about last night, when he had my wrists bound tightly to the headboard of our marital bed, a blindfold wrapped around my eyes, his drives relentless while my screams of Daddy echoed off the rafters. Our sex life defies explanation. It’s constant and raw. We never know when the mood is going to strike and we never deny ourselves, either.
That impulsivity has led to a lot of public lovemaking.
It started for my benefit. Caleb learned early that PDA heightens my desire, as does the possibility of being seen. Caught. Now, the fact that we can’t stop ourselves, no matter the setting, has a lot to do with his overwhelming obsession. With me.
Five years ago was only the beginning.
Now, he fills notebooks with information about me. Observations. He thinks I don’t know about them, but one time, he left his file cabinet unlocked and a stack of notebooks—all labeled with my name—caught my eye. Maybe a normal woman would have been scared to find out their husband keeps track of her moods, opinions, hairstyles, how many orgasms she has per day. Where she goes and who she associates with. Fantasizes about her twenty-four hours a day.
But none of that scares me. I fantasize about him to the point of madness, too.
I would burn myself alive for him.
And speaking of burning, his mouth is hungry on mine now, his hands down the back of my panties, molding my cheeks reverently.
“We should stop,” he rasps. “This afternoon is about you, angel. I’m being selfish.”
“You could never be selfish,” I croon against his mouth.
I hook a leg around his waist, and he shudders, his eyes taking on a glassy quality. “I have less and less control with you.” Two hands on my backside, he picks me up, baring his teeth against my lips. “I almost fucked you on the table in the restaurant last night.”
“I’d have let you,” I say softly, lapping at his panting mouth. “Daddy gets what he wants, when he wants it.”
“Angel,” he groans, tilting his hips. “My fucking addiction.”
“We’re early,” I whimper, peeling down the straps of my sundress, my sex clenching at his visible reaction to my bare breasts in the dappled sunlight. Pupils expanding, chest heaving, a curse forming on his lips. I lean forward to flirt our mouths together, rubbing my aroused nipples against his chest at the same time. Getting myself wet for him. “It’s only fitting to have your fresh, warm come inside of me while I’m signing a book about us.”
My husband is overcome, then. As he often is.
He rips his zipper down and shreds my panties, leaving them in tatters.
I’m soundly fucked in the alley, his animal snarls muffled with my praising kisses, my legs dangling up above the ground, high heels clattering down once his thrusts turn frantic, his mouth devouring my throat, my neck, my mouth while we get our momentary fix of each other, his teeth clamping onto my shoulder when he erupts, my hips angling and grinding on his smooth base, the contact with my clit allowing me to follow him, shaking and shuddering, our combined moisture splattering down to the pavement.
“I love you, angel,” he grits against my temple. “Til death.”
“Til death, Caleb,” I sob, my heart in my throat. “I love you, too.”
I sign three hundred copies of our story that day with a smile on my face, Caleb watching proudly in the shadows, both of us knowing the real story will never end.
THE END