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6
James
* * *
A week passes quickly, and Simona and I become inseparable. She’s basically moved in, and to my surprise, I love it. I’ve never played house with a woman before, and I always thought it would be painful with another person always underfoot, bugging me about stupid things like groceries and laundry.
But instead, with Simona it’s been the opposite. It’s actually a struggle for me to get up every day and leave her behind when she looks so angelic in the mornings. Her hair is always tousled from the night before, and when the sunlight shines over her creamy skin, she literally appears to glow.
Sometimes I wonder what’ll happen once our time together ends. Will I just go back to my regular life as a corporate executive for my family’s firm? Will she start seeing other clients again, servicing men and making them happy? Somehow, that thought brings a sour taste to my mouth. These curves belong to me, and I hate thinking about another man touching them.
But I put it out of my head because for three months at least, I own the curvy girl, and she’s mine to do with as I please. I had her in the stocks last night while spanking that lush ass, and now, she’s asleep in the king-size bed, exhausted and sated. She looks so peaceful that I slip away quietly, leaving for work at Montgomery Holdings. Simona knows I work for a big conglomerate, but I haven’t told her that my actual name is James Montgomery, and not James Montlake. It’s just a precaution, but I’m getting ready to reveal the truth because I trust her.
The day speeds by, but it’s helped by the fact that the curvy girl texts me a few photos of herself during work hours. In the first one, her cheek is creased from the pillow, and her hair is somehow even more messy, and yet she looks utterly gorgeous. Good morning, her text flashes. You left without waking me up.
I text back. That’s right, sleeping beauty. But I’ll be home around six for dinner.
I sit back for a moment, stunned. It seems that we’re very Ward and June Cleaver with our traditional gender roles, and yet it feels right. I love knowing that my woman will be home waiting for me when I step over the threshold, and that dinner will be on the table. Of course, Simona doesn’t have to cook. Take-out is perfectly fine, and I’ve given her the contact info of some of my favorite restaurants in the area, but I wouldn’t be surprised if Simona whips something up herself. She’s an artist, and her creativity expresses itself through food sometimes.
Sure enough, when I open the front door later that night, mouthwatering aromas greet me.
“Sweetheart, that smells delicious,” I say, stepping into the foyer. “What did you make?”
Simona giggles from the kitchen and I step over to peer inside. My woman looks gorgeous with an apron over her curves, her hair pulled back so that it stays out of her face.
“Just some caprese garlic bread and linguine with clams and a vodka sauce,” she calls. “Come help me set the table.”
Wow. I’ve never considered myself someone who’s particularly domestic, but it feels right to have Simona bustling about the kitchen as I hang up my jacket and put down my bag. Before her, I hadn’t eaten at my own dining room table in what feels like eons. Usually, it’s a meal on the couch in front of the TV, so this is quite the change.
Quickly, I change and then set out plates and a bottle of wine on the table.
“Oh good, thank you,” Simona murmurs. “I appreciate it.”
I lean over to press a kiss to her temple.
“You don’t have to thank me,” I growl. “I enjoy doing it, and you’ve been working hard too.”
She merely giggles again before leaning over to place two wine glasses on the table. As she bends over, her skirt lifts a bit and I can’t resist running my hands over that curvaceous ass. It’s soft, large, and utterly squeezable, but then Simona swats me away playfully.
“Hey, we have to eat!” she exclaims.
I merely press another kiss to the side of her throat.
“I’d like to eat you,” I growl. She giggles again but then shifts uncomfortably. “You okay, sweetheart?” I ask with a knowing look in my eye.
Her cheeks color as she nods, taking off the apron and revealing a polo shirt and short pleated skirt beneath the fabric.
“You know why I’m a little uncomfortable,” she breathes. “But I’m fine. Come on, help me bring out the food,” she says. I chuckle low in my throat because in fact, right now, Simona’s got a butt plug buried in her sweet little rump. I’ve been training her over the last week to take bigger and bigger toys in her tiny hole, and today’s implement is probably at least an inch and a half in diameter. I inserted it this morning as she squealed and clenched, but soon, it’ll be time to take it out for an inspection.
