His Little Secret
I had to learn to give my wife some freedom so she could attend school before she graduated. So she could see her friends. But I never stop checking the clock. I follow her on my bike, I make demands on her time and body, I’m every inch the possessive motherfucker I told her I would be—and she loves me anyway, thank Christ.
Ripley shakes her hair back over her shoulders and it happens in slow motion, the light kissing her throat, her tits swaying in the tight neckline of her mint-green dress, her bare toes flexing. The perfection of her makes my hands shake and I have to set the tool down before I do more harm than good to the bike I’m building.
After we got married, we lived in her house off campus for a while, but not long. Alana moved in with her own husband, who happens to be the good friend of mine she met that fateful night in the brothel…and then me and Ripley found a place of our own—a secluded, modern cabin with a connected studio. We share the space, my bike shop on one side, her ceramics area on the other. The ideal setup for a husband who prefers to keep both eyes on his wife every second of the day. She’s right where I can see her. Although I probably only get half of the work done I should since her beauty has the ability to distract me for hours.
More often than not, we end up fucking in one of the storage rooms before lunchtime even rolls around, Ripley’s sweet ass pinned to the wall, my jeans around my ankles. I swear to God, the need for her gets stronger every hour, every day, every second. As my love for her grows, so does my hunger to be inside of her.
Our gazes meet across the studio and her foot stills on the pedal that turns the wheel, familiar mischief making her eyes sparkle. Slowly, deliberately, she wipes the wet clay off her hands and comes to her feet. Still humming a light, airy tune that I can barely hear over my heartbeat, she strips her dress off over her head, leaving her in nothing but a royal-blue thong. She struts toward me, all wild red hair and jiggling tits and naughty intentions. My cock presses insistently to the fly of my jeans, sweat sliding down my spine.
I’m rendered immobile by the sight of my incredible wife as she leans over the seat of the bike I’m working on and pouts her pretty lips. “It’s lunchtime and we haven’t taken a break yet.”
Fuck. I’m so hard for her, the lack of blood upstairs is making me almost dizzy. “The kids had a half day at school today,” I rasp, staring at her perky nipples and licking my lips. “Did you forget?”
Some of the color leaves her face as, right on cue, the sound of squealing pipes up outside. A laugh rumbles in my chest when she dives behind me to hide from the two ragamuffins, one boy and one girl, that come barreling through the studio, backpacks flopping around on their shoulders. “Mom, I’m hungry!” they say in unison, tossing their bags on the floor.
“Tell me about it,” I mutter. Looking back over my shoulder at Ripley, we share a laugh and I strip off my shirt, handing it to her so she can put it on. “Hey kids,” I call out. “How was school?”
“Bor-ing,” sings my daughter.
My son points a finger at his sibling. “She got in trouble again.”
A laugh builds in my chest, along with so much love, I’m worried I’ll burst like a balloon one day. “Of course she got in trouble. She’s her mother’s daughter.”
Ripley pokes me in the back and stands. “Sometimes a little trouble can lead to the best things.”
“Damn right.” I pull her down into my lap and blow a raspberry into her neck, making her yelp while our kids look on in amusement. Immediately, I realize my error when Ripley’s butt wiggles around in my lap and my dick starts to beg for relief. No matter, though.
I planned for this.
“Kids, there are ice-cream bars in the freezer upstairs,” I say, referring to our connected house. They’re already scrambling for the door. “One each!”