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It’s the first time I’ve been able to look at Reese since earlier this morning when she had my cock in her hands and my cum on her lips.
“Am I acting weird?” I arch my brows, finding her body relaxed in the passenger seat and her eyes all too playful. We certainly can’t have that. “Don’t get cocky, love. Your mediocre blow job didn’t buy you any leeway. You’re still my prisoner.”
The tiniest flinch pinches her cheeks. If I didn’t hate her so much, I’d be proud that she didn’t drop her smile.
“Well, I didn’t ask if having your cock in my mouth changed anything, now did I? I thought someone of your caliber—being the assistant district attorney and all—could understand a simple question.”
It’s been a long time since somebody pushed back at me. Honestly, I don’t hate it.
“You asked me if I was going to act weird all day,” I repeat. “And my answer is that I am not acting weird.”
“All you had to say was it was your first time. I would’ve gone easy on you.”
I slam on the brakes, halting the car, likely making us late to Enoch’s.
“Be careful, love. While you may have distracted me this morning, you didn’t do enough to put me in a better mood.”
She holds my eyes defiantly, making my thickening cock strain against my suit pants. “The world burning wouldn’t put you in a better mood.”
“You would be correct there, Mrs. Cain.”
I don’t know why I am being such an asshole. Well, that’s not true. I’m being an asshole because I am an asshole, but more so when I’m pissed off. I couldn’t control myself this morning. Even now, when I should be thinking about my court case, all I can think about is her delicate hand squeezing tightly as she worked my cock and my head to a state of oblivion.
No matter how hard I try to hate her, I can’t. Reese Carmichael is my weakness.
I want to hate the way her golden hair falls along her shoulders, teasing the tops of her breasts, and the way her shorts squeeze the innermost delicate parts of her thighs. And the way her toes fit into her sandals, and the chipped paint on her fingernails showing how much she types and doesn’t give a damn about her appearance.
Several seconds tick by as we sit there staring at one another, waiting for the other to break. She used to be more talkative. I knew what she was thinking because she overshared all the time, but now she’s locked me out of her thoughts, and I’d be lying if I said it didn’t bother me.
While I’d love to say that I don’t want to know what she’s thinking or even her opinions about the weather, that would be a lie. Reese Carmichael wanted to share her life with me once upon a time, but now, with my ring on her finger, the last thing she wants to do is share more than my last name.
After a moment, she blinks.
“Do you always have breakfast with your family?”
I roll my eyes. “Do you always ask a million questions in the morning?”
“Do you always avoid questions in the morning?” she counters.
I can see that this is going nowhere. One of us must be the adult in the conversation. “No,” I answer her original question. “I don’t always eat breakfast with my family.”
“Why not? Seems like you all are close.”
“Seems like you’re trying to get on my nerves.”
Her eyes go wide, and she clutches her chest. “I am just trying to make conversation with my husband. Can I not talk to you?”
“No.”
“Are you saying that you never plan to tell me about your family?”
“Yes.” There’s no need to elaborate on my decision. The last time I confided in her, she betrayed me. I won’t make that mistake again.
“So, you still don’t trust me?”
She sighs, like I’m being absolutely ridiculous, and I did not spend six years in prison because of her tattling.
“But you obviously trust me enough to sleep in the same bed.”
