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“Hey,” I say, crossing into the master suite of my 2,400-square-foot home I share with Craig and our nine-year-old twin daughters, Mia and Tia. My heels sink into the plush mauve-colored carpet.
Craig is standing in the middle of the room drying himself off with a plush burgundy towel. Beads of water slowly cascade down his bare chest. I try not to glance down at his dick. Even soft it’s long and plump and thick with veins.
I run a hand along the back of my neck, and swallow back bittersweet memories of how good it used to feel inside of me.
“Hey,” he says back, wrapping the towel around his waist. “Long night. Again.”
“Yeah.” I step out of my heels, then scoop them up. “We’ll probably be working late the rest of the month.”
“Oh, yeah?” he says. “Why am I not surprised? Seems like, lately, that’s all you do. Work late. You spend more time at the office than you do here.”
Please. Not this again.
He’s right, though. The last several weeks, I’ve been staying later and later at the office working as far as he knows. But, the truth is, as you already know, I’m spending every free moment I have time with my legs wide open, with Charles’ tongue or his dick fucking the shit out of me.
I run a hand through my short pixie-cut. “I know. Things will slow down once this huge case is over.”
Being a defense attorney and working at one of the largest, most prestigious criminal law offices in the state means getting some of the most difficult criminal cases, like this case I’m assigned to right now.
My clients are a fifty-seven-year-old and twenty-two-year-old, mother-son team. The mother shot and killed her husband of twenty-three years right after sex because he hadn’t ejaculated enough sperm to her liking. An argument ensued. She was convinced he was out cheating on her again. And she’d had enough. He slapped her. So instead of calling the police on him, or better yet… leaving him, she waited until he was asleep, then shot him the groin and chest before shooting him in his head. Consequently, she feels justified because he’d had multiple affairs in the past and had already given her genital herpes two years earlier.
Sadly, her son helped her dispose of his father’s body by removing his teeth and chopping off his fingertips with a hatchet, then dumping his body over a bridge. Now, while his mother is facing first-degree murder charges, he’s facing conspiracy charges, body disposal, and tampering with evidence.
“Let’s hope,” he says, skepticism etched in his tone. “Did you eat, yet?”
I’m relieved he doesn’t say more, and nod. Yes. A mouthful of cock and cum. “Yeah, I ordered a shrimp salad.”
I silently pray he can’t smell—not the shrimp, but the lingering juices of my well-fucked pussy. Although I brushed my teeth and freshened up in the women’s lounge at the office, I still try to avoid Craig when he reaches for me, hoping he doesn’t smell my dirty deeds all over my skin. That he can’t smell Charles’ nut on my lips. Or the lingering scent of my pussy stained on my fingertips as I played with myself while on my knees sucking Charles’ dick.
“I’m exhausted,” I quickly add, hoping he gets the subtle hint—that there’ll be no pussy tonight, if I can help it. I give him a quick peck on the lips, something light to appease him…for now, hopefully.
No luck. He pulls me into his arms, pressing himself into me. I fight to keep from tensing up. He licks his lips. Stares me in the eyes. “Hopefully not too exhausted for your husband. I need some loving. Bad.”
It isn’t a request.
Shit. So much for subtleties! How the hell am I going to get out of fucking him tonight? I can’t use the cramp lie, again. And I can’t tell him it’s that time of the month because he knows my cycle, eerily better than me.
I give him another kiss on the lips in order to pacify him. But he tightens his grip around my waist and I can feel his dick slowly coming alive as he grinds himself into me. His right hand slides down to my ass. He cups it. Squeezes it.
“I’m serious. I want my dick inside you…tonight.”
I swallow. “Craig, please.” I am pinned by his gaze. He stares at me, pupils dilated with want. And need. And hunger. His lids grow heavy, his breathing less controlled. I feel his dick pulsing behind his towel, the long, heavy length of it straining for release. There was a time when my pussy would clench for it. “I need to unwind a bit. Let me go shower, first.”
As if burned by my response, his hand leaves my ass, and he loosens his grip on me. I step out of his embrace, dodging another kiss, and his demand.
But, just as I think I am free, he grabs my arm, pulling me back into him. “You don’t need to shower.” He nuzzles my neck. “You still smell sexy to me.” His tongue trails along the back of my ear, then along the column of my neck.
Ohgodohgodohgod…no!
I swallow the lump in the back of my throat. Suddenly I am feeling sick. Why does he have to be…so goddamn loving all the time? Why can’t he simply be a fucking asshole? A dirty, lying, cheating-ass bastard like so many other men I know? Why does he have to want me so, badly?
Why does he have to make me feel so, so…goddamn dirty?
Because you are!
A filthy bitch!
