And fuck if I don’t listen.
There is something about this woman that makes me forget I’m usually the dominant personality in the room. Normally, being told what to do outside of sports absolutely infuriates me. I don't take direction well, and I certainly don't follow it. But the moment she speaks—the second I tasted her—all bets were off. She could tell me to do anything, and I would. You should see her. You should see these shorts. I’d get on bended knee and fucking crawl for this woman if she asked.
I awkwardly duck my head, my broad shoulders catching on the plastic car frame as I try to fold my height into the tiny space. It’s a frantic, clumsy scramble of limbs. My knee knocks against the steering wheel and my breath hitches as I navigatethe tight quarters until, finally, I’m wedged in beside her. The door hisses shut, plunging us into a cocoon of dim red light and the faint, nostalgic scent of old upholstery mixed with Aspen’s intoxicating vanilla perfume.
The interior is stiflingly close. Because of the narrow seat, she has no choice but to half-sit in my lap, her body pressing flush against mine in a tangle of adrenaline and heat. She turns in the tight space, the movement causing the car to rock slightly on its hydraulic base.
When the plastic car is rockin’, don’t come a knockin’.
She reaches up, her fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of my neck, pulling me down into her orbit.
“Stop being such a bore and just be here,” she breathes, her lips brushing against the sensitive skin of my neck, sending a localized electrical storm straight to my gut. “Kiss me like we’re ditching class in high school, Chillmonger.”
I can’t kiss her like some teenager. This woman is my fever dream made flesh, and if I touch her for too long, I’m going to lose my mind. I’m already halfway gone. If I allow this indulgence to continue, there’s no telling how far I’ll take it. I’m trying my best not to make her reach for the safe word, but she’s so close now that I can taste the sweetness of her arousal.
She is the ultimate temptation. And right then and there, I decide—if the devil is coming for us, let him watch.
I pull my wife’s mouth back to mine, and in an instant, the last of Ms. Goody Two-Shoes vanishes.
Someone bangs on the side of the plastic shell, yelling that it’s their turn, but we bark a “Fuck off!” in such perfect, harsh unison that the intruder actually scurries away. I have no intention of moving. Not now. Not when my wife has her hand wrapped around my growing erection.
She’s stroking. Squeezing. Wrecking.
Fuck, this does feel like high school.
“This is just,” she breathes, her voice a mix of shock and heat. “It’s really big. Like you.”
I grin, my hand sliding to the back of her neck to grip her firmly. “Careful, wife,” I growl against her lips. “You’re going to lead me to believe you’re a filthy girl, and I’m certain you’re not.”
“Certain, huh?” she breathes, her thumb grazing the head of my dick.
I slowly trace a tantalizing circle around her lips with my tongue, never taking my eyes off hers as I watch her pupils blow wide. “Certain.”
I believe in love. I believe in the heart-stopping, world-ending kind. But my proclivities? They lean toward fucking. I’m a man of specific, darker tastes, and I usually have to be in a deeply trusting relationship before I can take a woman as far as I want to go. It’s exactly why I’ve spent my fair share of time at Cinnamon Grove’s Supper Club. It’s the perfect playground for a man like me.
Then again, so is Vegas. And so, apparently, is my wife. At least, she’d like to think she is.
She swallows hard, her gaze searching mine in the red-tinted dark. “How do you know…that I’m not filthy? What if I could be?”
I study her. I can see the dare dancing in them, but beneath the bravado, there’s a flicker of something else. There’s a hint of fear.
“Would you let me fuck you in a car like this?” I challenge, my voice dropping to a rough register. “Somewhere outside? In an alley? In the bathroom of a crowded club?”
Her breath hitches, her eyes blown wide in the dim red light. “I…what?”
I let my dick pulse against her palm, the contact emphasizing every word. “Right now. Forget a hotel room. I’d fuck you in aprivate dining area so hard, the patrons would stop eating just to listen to you come over and over again.”
“You’re serious?” she whispers, her thumb tracing the head of my dick, her touch hesitant but curious.
“I’ve never been more serious. Let me take you out of here and do filthy things to you, Ms. Mysterious. Let me see if you can actually handle the things I want to do to you.”
I frame her face between my palms, needing to taste her again before the world intrudes. While her brain is still clearly rewiring itself, I crush my mouth to hers. It’s a greedy, possessive thing. A hard reminder of exactly what she’s playing with.
“I’d love to eat your pussy while we take one of those romantic horse-drawn carriages around the city,” I rasp against her lips. “I saw one just a few blocks back. Would you let me, wife?”
She’s speechless, her lips parted, and her face flushed. The “Goody Two-Shoes” has officially been replaced by a woman who looks like she’s just discovered a brand-new kink. A new appetite.
And fuck, do I want to feed her.
