Page 27 of Beauty and the Bosshole
She lifts the soft strip of salty meat toward her lips as it lounges lazily over the front of her fingers, and then she does thisthing.
This thing where she sticks her tongue out like it’s on a seek and destroy mission.
It wiggles and loops around the bacon, drawing it up and then sucking it into her mouth, before snapping her teeth like a feral cat to rip off the bite.
It’s the sexiest thing I think I’ve ever seen. And looking at the glimmering rock I put on her finger while she does it?
Stick a fork in me, I’ve died and gone to limp bacon heaven.
“I love watching you eat,” I offer, sitting in the chair across from her at the long dining table in our suite. My legs are in full manspread, trying to give my dripping cock some breathing room as I battle back the animalistic need to destroy my wife’s pussy for the first time.
I shift in my seat, my pulse banging against my eardrums as she sneaks happy little looks at the dime-sized diamond I put on her finger last night.
I’ve never thought about what my wedding would look like before. The only thoughts I’d ever had on the subject were that I didn’t want one.
But as she toddled down that little aisle last night, holding the ten-pound white rose bouquet I paid an all-night florist to deliver in record time, my fucking heart was about to come right out of my chest and fall at her feet in reverence.
“So,” she starts, setting her little hands on the tabletop on either side of her empty plate, fingers splayed as she finally meets my eyes, “since I have no memory of marrying you, you’re going to have to break down for me how this happened. Imissed my own wedding, for God’s sake. My mother would be so proud.”
I bite back the rough chuckle because she’s right. I want her to have the world, and having a memory devoid of the ceremony that bound her to me for the rest of her life is a damn shame.
“You remember blackjack?”
She nods as I play back the events of the night in my head, fighting off my need to defile her soft body in a thousand ways.
“You remember the two men standing next to you?”
This time, she shakes her head, and I realize that’s where her memories stop. I consider leaving this part out, but she needs to know what sort of man I’ve become because of her.
“I stepped away for a few seconds, to tip the waitress that brought our drinks, and those two fucks were flanking you, holding on to your arms as you wobbled, thinking it was their lucky night. I heard them tell you they were from the hotel, and you should come with them.”
“I don’t remember any of that.”
Good, I think, because I don’t want the image in her head of me trying to push my thumbs into the fat one’s eye sockets after I flipped him onto the floor. “It’s okay. I dealt with them.”
After that happened, I knew you needed to be my wife, so no other swinging dick in the place would mistake you for an available woman.
“After blackjack, you wanted to shop. So, shop we did. You used your winnings at the Tiffany store to buy a keychain, for God’s sake. With a sterling silver cat on it. It was the least expensive thing there, and you wanted so much to buy something with your own winnings, so I indulged you.”
“A keychain?” she repeats with wonder as I crook my finger, calling her to me. “A three-hundred-dollar keychain. How… practical.”
“Come here. You need to be closer for me to finish the story.”
She swallows, trepidation in her eyes, but the way she nibbles her bottom lip between her teeth, she just needs someone to push her.
“Stop thinking so much and just get your sweet, peachy ass over here and sit on your husband’s lap so he can tell you all about our wedding.” My voice thickens as I consider the possibility that she will find a way to undo our union and get away from me.
That thought rockets my need to get inside her into the stratosphere. She could annul the marriage, but securing her to me with my child growing inside her will put my permanent stamp of ownership on my wife.
The crystals on the chandelier over the table send tiny, fractured rainbows across her fresh face as she glides her chair back on the sleek marble floor, following the table around, tracing the tips of her fingers on the edge as she goes, as though she needs to steady herself with each tiny step.
I’m operating on instinct. Not thinking things through. Which isn’t my usual style, but this girl… Jesus, this fucking girl has turned me into a jealous, sweating monster who can think of nothing other than getting my dick deep inside her and spilling into her soft warmth before she can get away.
“Okay, here I am, bosshole.” Her cheeks are flushed pink, and I tell myself to be gentle. But having her this close, wearing only that fluffy oversized hotel robe that makes her look like a little doll, has me reaching out, digging into her hips until her ass is tucked up against my needy dick.
A primal roar gathers in my chest as I catch our reflection in the floor-to-ceiling, gilded mirror leaning against the wall directly across from where we sit.
“Good girl,” I rumble into her neck, slipping my hands down to the terrycloth belt, seeking out the little knot that’s keeping it secured. “Then we went to the Alexander McQueen store, andI told you to pick out a dress. Something special. You twirled around like a princess, trying on this one and that as I sat there watching, wondering how anything so beautiful and perfect had not been claimed yet.”