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She hesitates for long seconds then finally, with a trembling hand, begins to push the bedclothes down.
“Just some pjs your sister brought me.” She’s rallied, delivering those words in that sassy-as-fuck tone of voice.
“Show me,” I repeat. My words are a barely civilized half growl.
With a flourish, she tosses the blankets aside.
“Fuccck.”
She’s wearing nothing but a tiny pair of satin white pj shorts with a little, pale-pink bow centered at her navel, and a dainty, short-sleeved tee that covers her butbarely,clinging to her curves like sin.
“Look,” she says in a voice that tells me she knowsexactlywhat she’s doing. “It even saysBrideacross the ass. Just in case you forget who I am and need a label.”
I’ve had it with the sassy little brat. “Oh yeah? Let’s see.”
She tips to the side and flashes her ass at me, just in time for me to slap my palm against it. I relish the satisfying tingle in my palm.
“Ow!” she squeals, flipping back over to her back. “Hey!”
I lean onto the bed on the palm of my hand just as she flops down, effectively pinning her in. Her cheeks are flushed, and her lips are parted. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think the swat to the ass turned her on.
Fucccck yes.
Oh, I’ll have fun with that.
Starting right now.
I cage her in beneath me. “You know we have rules here for wives and husbands, don’t you? Do you know what they are?”
Her eyes twinkle mischievously. “Let’s see. First, a wife must secure permission from her lord and master — um, I meanhusband,Your Royal Highness — before engaging in the act ofbreathing, most especially too loudly. Second. Under the sacred vows of wedlock, no wife shall ever possess more opinions than her all-knowing husband. She must never outshine her husband in any way.”
“Your accuracy is astounding. It’s like you were raised in the mafia.” I lean forward and trace the little spaghetti strap on her shoulder. She shivers but pretends it doesn’t affect her.
Christ, she’s gorgeous. Her eyes are bright and warm, her skin clear and vibrant with a slight flush to her cheeks. Silky, gently tousled waves of honey brown hair softly frame her face. She’s got a girl-next-door, Italian-girlfriend appeal I fucking love.
If I didn’t know any better, I’d describe her as… joyful. Friendly, even. Approachable.
In other words, she’s my exact opposite in every way.
“Go on.”
“Third,” she continues, as if she’s just warming up. “The husband reigns supreme. The wife must conduct all business and socialization with the express written approval of her lord and master. She must never hold a contrary opinion to her husband, due to his fragile ego and precarious grip on the patriarchy. She must—she must?—”
Her voice falters when I slip the spaghetti strap off her shoulder. Jesus, I can’t hold myself back anymore. I want to see her perfect breasts, the way her nipples pebble when I drag my tongue across them. I want to taste her, savor her,consumeher.
“Did I tell you to stop?”
I slip the second strap off and give the top a little tug. It falls just below her nipples. A swirl of arousal licks at me.
“A wife must — must — never be contrary to her husband. She must never quest-question him in an-any way.” She falters as I bend and lick the tip of each perfect, dusky nipple. My boxers tighten against my raging erection just as the first glint of daylight appears outside the window. “A wife must o-obey like a humble servant. Should a wife exercise free will, or commit the unforgivable sin of independent thinking, she will cause her husband to be exceedingly disappointed.”
She’s a clever one. I’m curious how she’ll hold onto that vocabulary and wit when I lick her pussy.
I pull her nipple between my teeth and pinch the other. Her back arches and her lips part.
“Go on, Harper. Stop now and I’ll have to punish you. You don’t want that, do you?”
A sassy glint in her eye tells me she’s willing to give it a go.
