Chapter 4

4

Jolie

My favorite time of the day is when Christopher walks through the door. He’s always rumpled from sitting at his desk, tugging at the knot in his tie, briefcase in the opposite hand. But the fatigue always flees from his blue eyes when he sees me. More often than not, he boosts me onto the entryway table and whatever I had cooking burns while he takes out his stress on my body, bucking into me savagely, my hair wrapped in his fist.

Tonight when he walks through the front door, there’s something different about him. I can’t quite put my finger on it. He’s watchful and calm. Intense as always. But there’s a new thoughtfulness to his expression that somehow sets my pulse thrumming.

He kisses me on the back of the neck where I stand at the stove.

In the reflection of the microwave, I watch him slowly remove his jacket and tie, his eyes tracking down over my butt and thighs. I’m always wet when he’s this close to me, but I swear I can feel my sex pulsing now, his measured breathing filling me with anticipation. It’s probably due to the conversation I had with Elmira today. One I’ve been meaning to broach for a couple of weeks. Wonder how long it’ll take to actually act on my decision to tell Christopher about it?

I stir the simmering tomato sauce, my eyes closing when I hear my husband remove his belt. Looking down and to the right, I can see the long strip of leather dangling from his fist.

“How was therapy today?”

This is your opening. Take it.

“Good.” I smile at him over my shoulder, but it fades when I find him looking positively wolfish, his hair even more finger tousled than usual. “We’re making progress.”

“That’s great.”

“Yes.” God, I feel so breathless. Probably because he’s usually inside me by now. The anticipation is turning me hotter, another degree for every second that passes. “Combined with kicking and punching another human being, I’m like a new woman.”

Christopher huffs a sound. “A woman?” His open mouth comes within an inch of my neck. “And yet you’re dressed like a teenager.”

“I am?”

I look down at my outfit. A pink tank top tied up between my breasts, no bra, itty bitty jean shorts that don’t even cover my backside. And it dawns on me what I’ve done. I’ve dressed younger. Probably as a way of forcing myself to tell Christopher about the fantasies I’ve been having. The fact that he’s noticed and that his voice is like gravel makes my nipples peak painfully.

“Yes, you are.” Slowly, he hooks the leather belt between my legs, one end fisted at my belly button, the other at the small of my back—and he pulls upward, bringing me onto my toes with a whimper. “It’s almost like walking in and finding a little girl instead of my wife.”

A sob scratches from my throat and I drop the spoon I was using to stir the sauce. “Christopher…”

This is not the first time my husband has seemed to read my mind. When we’re in bed, he knows what I want before I do. He knows when I want to change the channel of the television or drop a subject. He knows when I’m nervous or happy or annoyed. So I’m not surprised that he walked in here, took a look at my outfit, and knew there was something afoot. I’m grateful for his intuition now. It’s going to be so much easier to talk about what’s on my mind, because he’s pushing me there. Giving me no choice.

“Which is it?” He tugs the belt harder, pushing the seam of my shorts against my clit, and I heave a sob. “Are you my wife or my little girl?”

I squeeze my eyes shut. “I could be both. A-at different times.”

“Interesting.” He gathers more of the leather in his fists and I have to grip the stove for balance, my thighs starting to tremble violently from the arousing pressure between my legs. The belt isn’t even moving and I’m sure to climax. It’s inevitable. God oh God oh God. “Let’s say you’re my little girl right now. What does that make me?”

My heart is going to beat out of my chest. “I…I don’t know.”

He clucks his tongue. “You don’t?”

“No.” The belt is yanked. Hard. I scream. “Daddy! You’re my Daddy!”

“Good girl. Now you get a reward.” He starts to saw the belt between my legs, up and back, dragging the denim seam over my clit, creating friction everywhere. Everywhere. Even on my back entrance, which shouldn’t feel so perfectly good, but it does. So good, I can barely maintain my position on my tiptoes. “One more question.” His mouth is right up against my ear. “If I’m your Daddy and you’re my little girl, where does that leave your mother? Is she in the picture?” The belt. The belt. It moves faster, making me moan. “Do I have a very short window of time to exercise my rights?”

“Yes,” I gasp, groping blindly to turn off the stove burner.

He knows. He knows every naughty thought in my head without me having to say a word.

Accepts even the parts of me that are a little wrong. A little twisted.

“I see,” Christopher says, dropping the belt.

I whine over the loss of friction, the promise of an imminent orgasm, but the sound gets caught in my throat when I’m spun around, picked up by the waist and tossed onto the edge of the kitchen table. And oh my God, his eyes are pitch black, sweat dotting his upper lip, which is curled up in a snarl. His shaft is thick, filling out one leg of his pants. And his fingers, they undo his shirt buttons quickly, jerking the garment open and treating me to mouthwatering muscles, tattoos layered above flushed skin.

“How long do we have?” he pants, stripping off his shirt completely, dropping it.

“Fifteen minutes,” I whisper.

He growls, as if frustrated by having so little time, and goes to work unfastening my shorts, lifting me up against his chest to get them down my hips, then jerking them further, past my ankles and away. “We’ll leave on the shirt and panties, so you can get dressed fast.”

“Okay.”

I’m hypnotized by the sight of his thick fingers lowering the zipper of his pants, the bulky ridge that comes into view, hidden only by thin white cotton. It’s the first time. He’s my Daddy and we’ve been tempted too far. “I can’t take it anymore. Having you so close and not being able to touch,” he rasps, pulling me to the edge of the table, fastening his mouth over mine in a forbidden kiss. “You’re the only thing that makes me hard.”

Our mouths devour, tasting hungrily, his hands lifting my tank top to my neck so he can fondle my bare breasts, groaning brokenly as he does it.

“So supple,” he says, dipping his head to suck a nipple into his mouth. “So sweet.”

My fingers twist in his hair, holding his skilled mouth to my breasts, but I drop one now, sliding it into the V of his pants, exploring his erection, gasping excitedly over his size. “You’re so big, Daddy.”

He groans at my praise, tugs the silk strip of my thong underwear to the right. “Oh Christ. We shouldn’t be doing this.”

“I won’t ever tell.”

I open my legs wider, bite my lip, and he loses the battle between right and wrong.

In one rough move, he stuffs me full, capturing my shocked mewl with his mouth. “Fuck,” he grits, pumping into me crudely, his hands going to my buttocks and clutching, yanking me into his thrusts, causing the table to bump wildly on the floor. “Not going to be able to get off any other way now, am I? Now that I know what this tight cunt feels like.”

“No.” I pout. “Only with me.”

Roaring a curse, he pulls me off the table and pins me against the fridge, driving into me with powerful, greedy hips, his breath frenzied in my ear. “I put a roof over your head. Food in your little belly. Now show some gratitude and get those knees up around my hips, girl.”

My knees fly up and hug his muscular body.

“Good girl.” He licks his lips. “Look at those little titties bounce.”

I gasp at the violent constriction of my loins.

I’m not sure I knew how deep this fantasy ran. Or how potent it would be. How much it would arouse me, score me with lust. But it does. My nails are buried in his shoulders and I’m holding on for dear life, my mouth in a permanent O, receiving rough thrusts of his huge sex and feeling my own pleasure dam begin to give way, even though I want more of the game. More of the depravity and pull between good and evil. More Christopher.

“You have to come, Daddy,” I whisper in his ear. “Or we’re going to get caught.”

He makes a hoarse sound and rails into me harder, his erection thickening inside of me, signaling the end. “God help me, I didn’t use a rubber and I’m not pulling out.”

“You’ll take care of me.” I kiss his neck, his shoulder. “You always do.”

“That’s right.” He latches onto my mouth. “Every day of your life.”

It’s that tender promise of care that sends me sailing. I’m being pleasured without mercy or gentleness, but I’m also being comforted, treasured, loved, as well. This man is the best of both worlds and he rocks into me just right when the climax hits, holding himself deep inside me and growling as I shake, making sure I’m well over the finish line before he hits me with a series of savage pumps, looking me straight in the eye, and finally his seed geysers up inside of me, reaching every corner of my womanhood and dripping down my thighs, onto the floor, soaking into my thong.

“Go ahead and get pregnant, then.” He grinds out into my neck. “No one will blame me. The pussy was just too ripe.”

A second orgasm crests, catching me off guard, and I scream his name, my flesh squeezing, squeezing so intensely that I can barely stand it. And he watches me, my husband. He watches this second peak hit me with blatant satisfaction in his eyes, almost like he’s triumphant and fascinated, the corner of his mouth edged up into a smile.

“That’s a good girl,” he murmurs, still rocking his hips. “Let it all out.”

I’ve never been more spent in my life. I collapse forward over his shoulder, desperately trying to fill my lungs, and while his breathing is shallow as well, his shoulders covered in a sheen of perspiration, Christopher is sturdy as ever, carrying me to the bedroom and laying me down on the cool sheets.

Right before I drift into unconsciousness, he kisses my forehead.

“You have no secrets from me, angel eyes.”