Bewitching the Boss

Her body is wracked by a sob. “And you’re always going to be mine?”

“Forever and always,” I assure her fervently, tunneling my fingers into her hair and kissing her mouth hard. “Until the day I die.”

I stand up with her in my arms and she buries her face in my neck, wrapping her legs around my waist while we wait for oncoming traffic to pass.

“I’m taking my princess home now.” I drop my mouth to her ear. “Not my whore. Not my slut. The perfect princess I’m going to make my wife.”

The moon lights her face as she leans back, looks up at me. “There’s no rule that says I can’t be all of those things,” she whispers, her attention falling to my mouth. “Right?”

A sharp stab of arousal in my belly is following by the stiffening of my cock. Damn me to hell. “Jane,” I say thickly. “No more of that. Of what we’ve been doing.”

“Not even once in a while?” she whines, rolling her hips, delivering a stroke of friction to my erection. “Now that I know you’ll love me no matter what, it’s only for fun, Byron. It’s not bad for me. Right?” She touches her tongue to my earlobe, then bites down, nearly making me stumble in the middle of the road on our way back to the party. “There’s an alley behind the building,” she whispers, her thighs flexing around my hips, turning my muscles to stone. “The kind of place a man might get it cheap and fast.”

I’m shaking with the need to fuck now, no choice but to let my footsteps carry us behind the venue to the dark alley. “Tell me you know I love you,” I demand.

She breathes hard into my neck. “You love me. I love you. Forever.”

“Forever,” I agree, dropping Jane to her feet, spinning her toward the brick wall and yanking her panties down to her ankles. Silk skirt in hand, I spank those supple buns and watch them jiggle, her hips restless. “Now show me what you do best. Take this cock.”

“Yes.”

I thrust home and her girlish little whimper echoes down the alley.

Epilogue

Jane

Three Years Later

I glide out into the backyard in my short robe, purring in my throat as my husband shucks his pajama pants, preparing to swim his usual morning laps. Naked.

As requested by his wife.

Wow.

Over the last three years, our rigorous lovemaking has turned his big body into a pillar of strength, carving out muscle on his torso, his thighs, his arms. He was already a god to me, but now he looks like something from Mount Olympus. Rugged and thick and masculine all over, from his unshaven jaw to his riot of chest hair.

Byron starts toward the heated pool but pauses when he notices my approach.

And I definitely notice the way he turns erect, the fat male flesh swelling between his legs, his abdomen dipping with strain at the impact of hunger. It’s always present. The lust, the wild need. Our mutual stormy obsession is the third member of our marriage.

“Do you want me to come back to bed?” he breathes into the morning fog, reaching down to fondle the growing shaft between his legs. “It’s Saturday. I thought I’d let you sleep.”

I nod, the gathering emotion in my chest causing me to lose my breath. “I wanted to watch,” I whisper.

And Byron only nods, because he’s used to it.

Not only that, he loves it. The way I watch. The way I stalk him.

We might have gotten married three years ago in the south of France, but I’ve never lost my desire to admire him from a distance. Too feed my fixation from a parked car or behind a tree in the park. Just as often, however, I sense his presence, his eyes on me when I can’t see him—and I know he’s stalking me in return. I know he’s hard in his briefs, sweating, watching the wind lift up my short skirt. And I know he loves and hates it. Sometimes we argue over who is more fanatical over our spouse’s whereabouts and movements.

In the end, we always call it a tie. We both win.

Every moment of this life with Byron is a win.

I approach him now, one step at a time and he grits his teeth, closing his eyes. As if he can hardly bear the need expanding inside of him. Never failing to stoke the fire, I pull the sash on my robe and shrug the garment off my shoulders, letting it slither to the concrete behind me. And Byron pants and groans as moisture beads on the head of his shaft, dripping to the ground at his feet. “Need you, Jane,” he breathes.

“You’re going to have me,” I whisper, kissing his shoulder, circling around back of him to appreciate my husband’s hard, sculpted back, his thick buns crisscrossed with nail marks. “I was wondering, though…how do you reward yourself for swimming a hundred laps every day?”