Chapter 3

Brynley

What’s worse than living with one Ebenezer Scrooge?

Living with two.

They’ve managed to turn spreading holiday cheer into a full-time fucking gig during my vacation from my regular one.

Honestly?

Had I known this was how I was going to be spending time off I saved up, I would’ve spent it more irresponsibly through the year.

Like going with Nae to that Empowered Women, Empower Women retreat in Fiji.

Sun, sand, and sharks sound so much better than snark, snipes, and shortbread.

Popping my head into the library across from Wes’s upstairs office, the same library I remember him pretending he wasn’t watching me in whenever I ventured this way to use the laptop I was borrowing, reveals to me one of my favorite sights.

Stretched out on the couch is Wy re-reading one of his many, many history of surfing books while the two cushioned chairs sandwiching it are occupied by the twins, Blakely doing a word search and Brae enthralled by a vampire themed comic book.

And cuddled together in the very middle of the space?

Our beautiful, fluffy, water-loving barbets, Board and Betty.

Wy wanted the dogs.

Wy demanded to the name dogs.

And considering when we got them, he was just easing into his hang ten lifestyle, their names – like their breed – made sense.

Getting your child a pet is always an ordeal; however, getting your child a pet that fit certain criteria is a lot fucking harder than people make it seem.

With us both being ocean lovers, an aquatic pet made sense, but he didn’t want another creature for the aquarium.

He wanted something he could hold.

And pet.

And that could follow him around or be taken on trips with us.

All that shit really limited our options, and thankfully, during the whole elimination process, Mom was doing her dog research – knowing that’s exactly where we were headed – and not only led us to the right breed – one that literally wants to swim whenever we do – but right breeders .

Barbets are ridiculously fucking rare.

They’re basically an endangered species, which really is my fucking shit.

We bought each one from a separate source, had them medically checked out by a veterinarian recommended by Calen from the veterinary organization he joined, and then created a plan that would ensure we added knowledge to those studying the breed.

Over the past five years, Betty has only been pregnant once – lucky heifer – and her pups went to my nephews, so they’re not really separated.

I will say that’s one of my favorite benefits of living on a sprawling estate.

There’s always room for everyone we love.

“Why aren’t there more Polynesian vampires?” inquires Brae during a page turn.

“Because vampires hate the sun,” her brother answers without bothering to look in her direction.

“That doesn’t mean they couldn’t come out at night ,” she swiftly argues, attention snapping to him. “It just means they couldn’t be surfers.”

“You can surf at night,” Wy announces. “Uncle C does it all the time.”

A dramatic gasp suddenly escapes Blakely. “I would totes watch a movie about cute boy vampire surfers!”

My glasses bearing child waves a victorious hand in the direction of her twin. “ See. ”

Regardless of how fucking strange I find their conversations, I’m simply thankful they have them.

I’ve heard too many battle stories from those I work with, Wes works with, and those we are forced to socialize with about their children barely being able to stomach one another.

I know I’ve fucked up a shit ton of things, but I’m glad I got that one right.

“Wilcox warriors,” I warmly interject before the debate can continue, “Maz just made fres h malassadas you might wanna grab before Gramps finds out.”

There’s no hesitation from them to scramble onto their feet and out of the room past me, prompting our jingle bell wearing dogs to hastily follow. However, before rounding the corner for the stairs, my son stops, shoots me a small smirk, and flashes me a tiny hang loose sign in gratitude.

Of course they were my idea for her to make today.

Why?

Because malassadas aren’t just a well-known Hawaiian dessert.

They’re the first treat he shared on the beach with Kendall.

And now?

Now, they’re my way of wordlessly letting him know that I’m working on his Christmas wish.

I just need a little more time.

Once the kids are completely out of earshot, I cross the hall to where my husband has been held up since breakfast, actively avoiding me.

His son.

General holiday festiveness.

The door is barely opened when I hear him grumbling, “What the hell do you mean the numbers for The Morgan Brand are lower than expected?!” He folds his hands frustratedly together on top of his desk, clearly speaking into his earpiece. “ How. Low?! ”

Ah, The Morgan Brand.

His first step into beer yet the most difficult one to steady.

Runt’s Beer – the one bought after it – effortlessly soared.

It’s now sold worldwide while The Morgan Brand typically struggles to perform domestically according to sales figures as much as the data on Puppet Boy’s bestselling app which also incorporates beer along with wine.

Continuing to expand that with new features is what he prefers to keep his focus on like Wes does legacy merch, but both are committed to the company’s persistent growth . That’s why they bought an import beer company in Doctenn, work closely to always be the number one whiskey included in commercial hotels – like The Frost Luxury Hotel – and are becoming equally devoted to acquiring and building businesses on the opposite end of the booze spectrum such as non-alcoholic beer, mocktails, and affordable rehab facilities for those that need help yet struggle with the cost.

Wes loved getting his Bat-themed, ten-year chip that the kids helped design.

We then celebrated with a second honeymoon that was spent almost identically to the first.

When you get it right the first time, there’s no need to change anything on the second.

“ How is that possible?!” barks the man I married seconds before I shut the door behind me with the hand holding our shared word search. “ How are they underperforming this deep into the holidays?!”

I take my time relocating to where he is, knowing my presence won’t necessarily speed up the conversation.

Some things really haven’t changed since the beginning.

And I doubt they ever will.

Upon my arrival beside his desk, I gently place our booklet down, flip it open to the page we’re on, and offer him the pen to take a turn.

“Are the campaigns being poorly received?” investigates Wes in tandem with clicking the object. “Did the marketing department miss their targeted demographic?”

Leaning against the edge of his desk is executed in such a way that the end of my long sleeve, slit round neck, dark green sweater dress inches up enough to give him a glimpse of the fact that I’m freshly waxed and not wearing any panties.

As predicted, the love of my life uses the tip of the pen to lift the material higher, exposing a view known for prematurely ending business calls. “I understand.” He encourages me to spread my thighs wider with gentle nudges from the writing utensil. “We’ll have to finish this discussion at another time, Schwartz.” I slide into the sitting position that he clearly wants. “There’s another pressing matter I need to tend to.” One click ends the conversation however my abrupt dangling of a plastic object successfully redirects his hungry stare to mine. “ Is that mistletoe, Mrs. Wilcox? ”

An overdramatic gasp precedes a mischievous grin. “ I think so, Mr. Wilcox. ” The bite of my glossed, bottom lip is brief. “Perhaps you should double check?”

He quirks a cautious eyebrow.

“You know while the kids are downstairs stuffing pastries and eggnog into their mouths preemptively solving the ‘I’m starving’ issue we face at these ‘family-oriented’ charity events that never serve something our minis wanna eat?”

Chortles are short-lived courtesy of his own starvation noticeably increasing. “ Feet. ”

My bare appendages plant themselves on the arms of his leather chair at the same time he carelessly tosses the pen back onto the nearby booklet.

“ Legs. ”

Spreading them further apart occurs next.

“ Mouth. ”

Reluctance to muzzle my pending moans with the decoration doesn’t exist.

“ So perfect, Little Prey. ” Wes folds his entire frame forward and yanks my figure towards his open mouth on a purred, “ So fucking perfect. ”

Mindlessly arching against his warm, wet tongue is instantly followed by my head falling forward, wavy locks creating a curtain that further conceals my muted, carnal cries of content.

Long, languorous, teasing licks are delivered the length of my clit.

Up and down.

Up and down.

Up and down until he abruptly slips the end of his tongue inside my pussy to repeat the tantalizing motion.

He then rolls the slick muscle around in a single circle.

Another.

Slides it deeper and begins the simple, titillating cycle again, nose lightly brushing my little swelling nub during each delicious stroke.

Needy moans crash into the deterrent while both sets of fingers clutch onto his thick strands, anxious for stability.

Eager for assistance as my hips begin to greedily rock in an attempt to match him thrust for thrust.

Swipe for swipe.

To force him to devour me harder and faster and faster and harsher, yet Wes steadily resists.

Feasts at his leisure.

Unhurriedly laps up the sticky, sweltering juices flowing so freely.

Sucks precede deliriously slow spins and those same agonizingly slow spins transpose into savagely stretched out licks that indicate this isn’t about pleasing me.

It’s about toying with me.

Playing with his food.

His prey.

His.

Little.

Prey.

“ Pleaseeeeee, ” squeezes my past gritted teeth, hooded eyes watching my green fabric dance across his shoulder blades. “ Pleaseeeee,Wes. ” Delighted grumbles add vibrations to the soaking wet situation causing my nails to clamp down harder. “ Makemecome. ”

Possessive grunts are attached to more ferocious motions.

“ Makemescream. ”

An even more pitiless push of his tongue is executed.

“ Makemeyours. ”

Animalistic growls reverberate between my thighs as he abandons the oscillation of playful pressures and teasing licks for crazed devouring.

Wes swiftly stiffens his tongue.

Shoves it inside.

Demands the slippery muscles welcome it.

Worship it.

Know that he is the one to obey.

To live for.

Break for.

Tiny hitches in my breath quickly grow into bigger gasps of desperation for air that my husband refuses to let me have.

Burning in my lungs becomes burning in my blood and nerves and bones until my entire body is not only fully engulfed in flames of ecstasy but shaking so uncontrollably that the very furniture underneath me threatens to collapse from the tempestuousness.

“ W…W… ” continuously gets caught against the plastic, makeshift gag. “ W… ”

Familiar huffs of disapproval hit my clit.

Get whipped around my sopping wet pussy.

Fucked into me deeper.

“ W… ”

His fingers barbarously claw at the sides of my ass as he yanks my trembling figure to his mouth again and again and again.

“ W…e… ”

Any lingering restraint is instantly severed from hearing me get closer to saying his name.

Giving him what it is he wants.

Earns.

I curl further inward towards the almost unbearable bliss, nails scratching my surrender into his scalp, toes Morse coding my submission against the chair, drips of spit spewing past the corners of my mouth, mere seconds from shattering, simply waiting for one final lick or flick to send me over the edge, yet rather than pick one of the obvious options, he chooses to pull his tongue completely out, skate his teeth along my clit, and end the thrashing with a single, ankle snapping, suck.

“ Wesssssssssssssss! ” The drenched object falls to my lap in defeat. “ Wessssss! ” Euphoric heat unforgivingly swallows me whole forcing my legs to snap shut around his head and shudder more. “ Wesssss! ” Pulsation on top of pulsation summons him to shove his tongue back inside to enjoy the white-hot quivers. “ Wessss! ”

How long I manage to stay melting against his mouth is unfortunately cut short by a familiar voice appearing on the other side of the door. “Of course.” Clark doesn’t bother knocking since it appears I left the door cracked versus entirely closed – the universal sign to knock first. “I’m just so grateful you were willing to keep the kids up this late to see their cousins.”

Wes slides from underneath my dress and presents me with an undeniably smug grin.

Fuckme.

I can’t even pretend like it’s not deserved.

The man still has an impeccable “can make me come in record timing” ability that I swear has only gotten better since we’ve added the complication of children into the mix.

“You’re sure they’re not busy?” Penny’s voice questions from the other end of the tablet. “We don’t have to interrupt them. We can always just email them later. I swear, it’s not a big deal, Dad.”

“We’re finished.” My husband devilishly beams while victoriously wiping his entire mouth with the palm of his hand. “ Isn’t that right, Little Prey? ”

This.

This is the bossy beast I’m happy I married, not the one who all but threw his oatmeal at the wall this morning when his son spitefully claimed Uncle Calen’s nerd t-shirt collection was better because it contains actual colors sparking the “black isn’t a color” debate that never ends well in this estate.

Smoothing my casual dress back down is followed promptly by Clark turning the device around to put us eye to eye with the woman I don’t love being related to.

I also don’t actively hate it.

Aside from the fact that her face looks similar to the Raggedy Ann bitch that was poisoning my mother – ultimately summoning me into a world I never wanna live without – she’s nothing like the manipulative twat banned from this country.

Her hair is shorter.

Skin slightly tanner.

Face and figure fuller from having two tooth achingly sweet daughters and one overly athletic son.

If I hadn’t personally dealt with her Poison Ivy ways, I’d be inclined to argue she was even capable of them considering how calm and collected and centered she constantly is.

Whatever mental health help she got – and still gets – has absolutely helped her change into a better person.

I just can’t completely forget – or entirely forgive – the other one.

And neither can Wes.

Hence why she’s still not allowed back into the states.

“Scott and I just wanted to express our sincerest thanks,” she sweetly coos at us. “Hockey is insanely expensive, and our son seems to be growing suspiciously fast.”

“Not that suspicious,” Scott lightly laughs, arm lovingly winding around his wife. “I know I don’t look like it, but I grew a lot like him when I was his age.”

Penny lets the corner of her lips kick upward. “Except instead of tall and wide you grew…”

“Tall and weird .”

“Which is much better,” she playfully flirts on a nudging of her elbow. “ At least for me. ”

See.

It’s fucking strange.

Yet kind of adorable.

Like Dr. Phlox Pyrithian bat in Star Trek: Enterprise .

“Get whatever gear he needs to get him through the season,” Wes informs at the same time he plants a firm palm on my thigh. “And if that balance transfer wasn’t enough, do not hesitate to let me know.”

“We’ll make it enough,” Scott declares upon Clark’s arrival at our desk. “Even if it means choosing a cheaper brand.”

“Our nephew should have the best whenever possible, so purchase that, and only that. Covering the cost is our gift to him.”

“He really does want that 3P blocker for Christmas,” Penny poorly whispers under her breath.

“Then get it,” I state, echoing Wes’s sentiment. “If you have the chance to make someone’s Christmas wish come true…” my attention falls to the stubborn man I married, “ you should definitely take it. ”