The Boss's Runaway

I trail a finger down the center of his chest and it starts to heave, his focus drawn to my mouth. “But you’re the only one I need attention from.”

Those words drip with truth, because there is nothing more honest in this world. I crave this man twenty-four hours a day. I adore him. Adulate him. Love him. I hunger for the taste of him when too many hours have passed without touching. He’s not only the man who plies me with pleasure, he’s also an encouraging and supportive husband (even when he’s cranky about it). He’s a doting father to our son and even coaches our daughter’s soccer team on the weekends.

That whistle around his neck makes me wild, to say nothing of the clipboard which he has used to spank me more times than I can count and it never stops being exciting. On the contrary. Every day with Locke is a little shinier and brighter than the last, because our love never stops growing.

Now, I rub my hip subtly against his groin and press my lips to the underside of his chin. “Take me to the room upstairs. I’m starved for you.”

A shudder goes through him. “No. You’re going to make me cave.”

I pull back with a wide-eyed sniffle. “No?”

He swallows loudly, visibly distressed. “Don’t do that. Don’t give me those eyes. I refuse to let a million people look at your tits, Sissy.”

“There wouldn’t even be cleavage,” I respond in a furious whisper. “It’s the second button from the top!”

“Mine.” He fists my hair, right there in front of everyone, his teeth bared against my throat. “Mine.”

“Yours,” I agree, my panties turning damper by the second, loving the way he can’t turn off the possessiveness. It’s part of him. Us. “Take me upstairs and I’ll show you.”

He’s a breath away from giving in.

But before he can say yes and drag me to the elevator, the director walks up beside us. “So…” He coughs uncomfortably, although he’s openly fascinated by the dynamic between me and Locke. That’s not unusual. Most people are. “I had a little brainstorm. I hope you don’t mind me being blunt…”

Locke pulls me closer and grunts for the man to continue.

“It’s obvious that your wife is…well, she’s incredibly beautiful. That’s why we chose her for this campaign—”

“You better make your point fast,” Locke says through his teeth.

“Right.” The director adjusts the badge around his neck, pink creeping up to his hairline. “And you, well you’re the everyman, right? Vegas sells fantasy. Single men come here hoping to meet a girl who looks like—”

“Get to the point,” Locke thunders, wrapping his arms around me, crushing me to his chest. “Now.”

“Yes, sir. We were wondering if you wouldn’t mind taking a few pictures together. To help sell the sort of…unrealistic fantasy of…”

Now I’m getting angry. “There is nothing unrealistic about me and Locke being together.”

“No, of course not,” the director hurries to say. “It’s just that, well there is a noticeable contrast. In looks and age. We think it could work to our advantage.” He laughs. “Let’s set the expectations of American men way too high together, shall we?”

I look up at Locke and his jaw is brittle. But he appears to be considering the idea.

“I want her wedding ring back on in the pictures,” Locke says, finally. “And the button stays closed. Don’t ask again.”

“Yes, sir.”

A few minutes later, Locke is sitting at the blackjack table. I lean across the green felt and take hold of his tie, tugging his face close to mine while the flashbulbs go off. “Amazing. Amazing!” crows the director. “Keep going.”

I touch my tongue to the seam of my husband’s mouth and he moans in his throat.

“Another winner!” More flashes.

I saunter out from behind the table and park myself between Locke’s big, meaty thighs, noticing that he’s rock hard, a wet spot decorating his tented fly. “Christ, what you do to me, little girl,” he rasps for my ears alone. “Five years later, still can’t believe you’re mine.”

“I could say the same about you,” I say, sliding my fingers into his hair, purposefully flashing my wedding ring at the camera. “You make me so happy.” I press my belly to his bulge, shifting side to side. Slowly. Drawing an unsteady breath from Locke’s mouth. “And satisfied.”

He leans down to capture my mouth, but I turn at the last second and press my backside into his lap, throwing my head back against his shoulder. Whimpering when his hands slide up my ribcage, stopping just below my breasts.

“That’s right,” calls the director. “Let them believe they have a chance in hell with a girl like yours.”

“I’m about two seconds from stuffing a camera down your throat,” Locke shouts.

O-kay. I need to get my husband out of here. But first, I’m going to show everyone in the room just how much I belong to him. How much I adore him. Turning back around, I climb onto Locke’s lap, my legs dangling down on either side of him. I grind my sex in a slow circle on top of his erection and lick a long path up the center of his throat. “Mine,” I say, loud enough for everyone to hear, while looking Locke straight in the eye. “All. Mine.”