Page 11 of Operation: Wife Her Up

“All right, Goldilocks,” I finally say. “We can find some other way to spend the time.” I twist, lightning fast, and pick her up. She squeaks again as I haul her into my lap.

Her little hands pushing against my chest just as I imagined.

I stroke my fingers along the back of her neck, plunging my hand into her hair. The soft blonde curls wrap around my fingers and I make a gentle fist in the silky strands, forcing her to go still.

She gasps as I close the gap between us, close enough now that my mouth hovers just above hers.

I can feel the warm sweet pant of her breath against my lips, and I can imagine that desperate gasp feeling ever so good as I hold her tight and fuck into her lush body.

But my dirty thoughts are interrupted by a well-timed yawn from her.

And then she ducks her head as if she’ssorry.

I frown. “When was the last time you had a good sleep?”

She tenses up, a guilty admission that last night she didn’t sleep so badly, stretched out on my bed.

I’d have her there again tonight if I thought it was appropriate on any level.

But it couldn’t have been a quality sleep, if she’d been on edge the whole night, knowing she was trespassing. Tonight she won’t have that worry.

“I made up the bottom bunk in the spare room for you. Maybe not quite as comfortable as the big bed, but…”

She flushes. “It’ll be fine. Thank you.”

Holding her tight to my chest, I stand up.

She protests, her hands tightening in fists at first—fight me, little girl, do it, if it’ll make you feel better—but then relaxing as she gives in to the fatigue that must feel so heavy.

I shoulder my way into the second bedroom and set her down on the lower bunk. It creaks as she rolls over.

Get some sleep, baby girl.

But an hour later, as I’m trying my damn best to fall asleep on the other side of the wall, I hear something that tells me she’s wide awake.

Creak. Creak creak. The rhythmic rocking of my childhood bed is undeniable.

My exceptionally good hearing is going to be the death of me. On the bunk bed in the next room, my little mystery is furiously rubbing herself to a frantic pleasure.

My cock surges against my palm. My ragged breath and racing pulse demand I fist myself, using the leaking pre-come as the only lube I need and join her in desperate release.

Oh, fuck, I want to. My balls ache as I picture her hand between her thighs. But I cannot bring myself to fish my dick out and pull on it. It won’t take much, I’m already on the edge. But there’s something else stopping me, something intense.

My seed isn’t for me. It’s not to be wasted on my belly like I’ve done for almost twenty years.

Tomorrow. I’ll find some relief tomorrow.

CHAPTER6

ABIGAIL

After a restless night of confusing dreams and unsatisfying attempts to get myself off—my go-to strategy to trick my body into being relaxed enough to nod off—I finally get a few hours of really deep sleep.

And when I wake up, with a start, I realize it’s almost ten.

If Justin is anything like my father was, he’ll have been up for hours. I throw off the thin blanket tangled around my legs and hop out of bed.

I immediately notice that my feet feel better. Like, almost fine.

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