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But I can’t see that.
And I know that my queen has her face of ice on, not allowing anything to pass through. Instead, both elbows go to the table and she leans her chin into her hands, eager to listen to whatever Teresa tells her.
“Oh, you know, I thought that might be better for the bridal shower in a few weeks.” Lilah’s legs open wider, her hips tilting almost unnoticeably before she speaks once more, and I slide a second finger in.
“That makes sense. When is that, again?”
I don’t hear the answer because Lilah’s cunt is clamping down on me as I move out, pressing her clit once again, then slide in.
But even though I know my girl is on the edge, when she answers, not a single quaver is in her voice.
“That’s going to be such a wonderful time. I might invite some of the girls from the club.”
“Strippers?” Paulie asks, finally speaking up. My eyes move to him and he has a look of disgust, like he can’t believe someone would invite dancers at a gentlemen’s club to anything.
“Dancers. But yes. I was a dancer once, remember?” Lilah says, and this time, I do look over at her.
She’s raising an eyebrow in her Do you really wanna place this game? way, and I sink my fingers in, grinding the heel of my hand on her clit as she starts to quiver around my fingers.
Her only tell is a tiny flush on her cheeks which could be interpreted as embarrassment or irritation.
Not lust.
Surely not the edge of orgasm.
“Well, you’re not anymore, so don’t invite them.”
Wrong answer, nephew of mine, I think, knowing how close Lilah has grown to the women of Jerzy Girls.
“You never seem to have much of an issue with them, Paulie,” she says, tipping her head to the side like she’s confused. “I mean, you’ve been fucking Fancy for at least a month, right?”
My nephew’s face goes fire red and, to my shock, his mother scoffs out a laugh.
“I don’t—"
“It’s fine. That’s not part of the deal anyway, right, fiancé?” she asks with that same cutthroat, sugar-sweet tone in her voice.
I fucking adore this woman.
And even more, I love how when I grind down on her clit harder, her hips buck almost infinitesimally because she’s so fucking close, but not a moment of it shows on her face.
And right then, when I know she’s on the cusp of shattering on my hand, I pull out.
I move my hand from under the table to my glass, rubbing the edge with my wet finger casually before dipping it into the brown liquor and then into my mouth.
I don’t look at my wife, but I know her eyes are burning on me.
The fire furls in my gut, the need for her almost painful.
“You just started war, Dante,” she whispers under her breath, not looking at me as conversation continues around us, shifting in her chair like she’s uncomfortable.
Good.
Me too.
“Give me your worst, baby,” I say back in the same whisper, but then I wonder if I might have made a critical error.
Because I can see without even looking right at her that my wife smiles big before taking a large sip of wine.
