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He keened and tilted his hips up, pushing back against my intrusion. “Oh. Oh. Ngh.”
I shook my head, still awed by him. “You’re a perfect wife. Mine.”
He blinked up at me as I patted his knee and tugged out my finger.
“It’s past dinnertime,” I murmured, scraping my fingers over the pale skin of his inner thigh. He stiffened, then relaxed. “It’s time for you to wash up and make me dinner. What do you think, sweetie?”
The glare returned full force, and I couldn’t help but laugh.
Absolutely fucking perfect. I couldn’t wait to fully break him in.
He rose on his elbows, his eyes narrowing more. “Are you serious?”
I raised my eyebrows at him. “That’s what wives do, Princess. They make meals and clean the house and give their husbands children.”
He snorted, very unladylike, as he kicked at me. “Hell spawn is more like it.”
I seized his foot before he could hit me, and I huffed at him. Stroking a finger over his ankle, I chuckled. “Don’t be that way.” I paused, staring. “Look at you. Pussy freshly fucked and spilling with my seed. You completely ruined your present.” I grasped the hem of the dress and tugged it gently. “I’ll buy you a new one. Actually, I’ll get you an entire wardrobe.”
He gritted his teeth. “You’re insane, you know that right?”
“Possibly.” I grinned at him and brought his ankle to my mouth so I could suck on the bone there like it was his tit and I was hungry for more. I was older than Quin, though, and my cock wasn’t quite ready to get hard again so soon, especially after edging for so long.
“This is what you’re going to do, Wife. You’re going to clean up and make yourself presentable, and then you’ll head to the kitchen and cook dinner. Something healthy. After that, you’ll clean while I get ready for bed. I always go to sleep first because wives have a lot of cleaning up to do in the house before you come to bed. My whiskey tumbler is still in the craft room and my den needs some straightening up, too.”
The corner of his mouth curled in defiance, but I wasn’t done.
“Before you sleep, I want a schedule of your college classes. I want to know where you are at all times. I’ll let you study, but your duties here as my wife will not be forgotten, am I understood? If I want to fuck you and breed you, you’ll let me whenever and wherever I choose. I will have you pregnant soon.”
His mouth fell open. “Are you serious?”
I nipped his anklebone, and he hissed. “Get to work, sweetie. I’m starving and it’s not for you this time.”
Before he could respond, I shoved him toward the edge of the mattress and slapped his ass. The action earned me another tasty glare.
6
QUIN
“WHO DOES HE THINK HE IS?” I grumbled under my breath as I walked down the staircase. I squeezed my left hand into a fist and winced because the slice along my palm stung. “I’m starving. Clean my stuff. Oh, and make sure you look nice first,” I said, imitating his deep voice, but not very well. What a self-entitled sanctimonious prick. Did he try this shit with Mom? No wonder she’d left him in the dust. I’d never met a person who fit this lifestyle less than her. I didn’t mind being helpful and doing things around the house, but my feelings were strangely hurt.
After all that deep dicking, he’d sent me off alone.
Eh, I should probably get used to it. It wasn’t like I was really his spouse. When he’d gotten together with Mom, he’d doted on her, doing things for her and taking her places, but this wasn’t a relationship. I was slightly better than a hooker.
“You’re an idiot, that’s what you are,” I mumbled. “And you—” I glanced down at my crotch. “—you’re even worse!”
Predictably, my dick said nothing, but it should be ashamed of itself.
My asshole twinged as I stopped and shifted from foot to foot. Huffing, I stared around the kitchen. Ugh, where to begin? I ran my fingertips through my damp hair. I’d showered and redone my makeup, but I didn’t know what he thought qualified as dressing nice, so I’d thrown on one of my more colorful “around the house” choices—yellow sweatpants that made my ass look great and a matching zip-up hoodie.
He could waste his money to buy me something else if he wanted it.
Excitement shivered through me. Would he? Nah, probably not. Guys were fast to get what they wanted and much less quick to give you gifts or cash.
Back to this horrific task—dinner preparation. Why, oh why, did he think I knew how to cook? The kitchen was nice, as far as those things went. It was much bigger than the kitchens in the houses I’d stayed in overseas, though smaller than the one in husband number two’s New Mexico mansion. Mr. Chavez had been very kind to me, but he’d seen through Mom pretty quickly and was the only one of her husbands to send her packing. At the time, I hadn’t understood what had happened, though.
“What the heck does Colt think I can cook?” I muttered, then stomped over to the fridge. I opened the door. I’d never really considered why the kitchen was pink. I mean, I liked it—and as far as colors went, maybe it was one of my favorites—but now that I knew Colt had this whole fantasy in his head of a wonderful 1950s housewife who does “wifely things,” maybe it made more sense. The tiles in the backsplash were what I thought of as coquette pink, and everything in the room went with the feminine theme. There were roses on the dish towels and the bronze pans hanging over the rose-marble island gleamed.
