Twisted Marriage: Filthy Vows Sequel Page 4

  “Uh-uh.” I shook my head. “Break it down and put it in the blue can.”

  He dropped it on the floor and stepped on it, letting out a sigh of irritation. “Okay, so they’re attorneys. And Tim said he likes women?”

  “Yeah. Will you grab the chocolate?” I bit into another marshmallow, chewing through the gooey texture as I watched him open the pantry doors and stare at the contents. “Somewhere near the top.”

  “Got ’em.” He reached up, then tossed the package to me without turning. The two Hershey’s bars arched in perfect synchronization through the air and toward me.

  Cupping my hands against my chest, I caught them easily. “Nice throw.”

  He shrugged and shut the cabinet doors. “So… some rich attorney. Should I be worried?”

  “A married rich attorney,” I pointed out. Ripping open the first Hershey package with my teeth, I eyed him curiously. “But no, you shouldn’t be. Are you ever?”

  “Not about you.” He settled against the counter and crossed his arms over his chest. “But a man doesn’t marry a woman like you without being aware of the situation.”

  “What situation?” I bent off a piece of the chocolate and watched as he crossed the kitchen toward me.

  “The situation where every man who meets you wants to fuck you.”

  I tried hard not to smile, but I warmed to the compliment like a panhandler to rush-hour traffic. “You know that’s not true.”

  He stopped before me and pulled at the white tie of my drawstring pajama bottoms, then hooked his fingers in the sides of them. “It is. Every single man.”

  He crouched, dragging the pants down, my panties coming along for the ride as he slid them to my ankles.

  “E…” I resisted his attempts to spread my feet.

  “I need this.” He tilted his face up, his eyes meeting mine in the brief moment before his mouth settled between my legs, his chin working them open, his light beard tickling my thighs. “Sit on the counter.”

  The chocolate hit the floor somewhere near his feet as he gripped my waist and lifted, setting me on the cool granite. I parted my knees, my ankles held together by my pants. I was relatively smooth from my preparation for Aaron, still bare to his eyes, and he let out a low groan of appreciation. “I love you like this.” He pushed his fingers inside me and I gripped the edge of the counter tightly, letting out a soft moan as the tips of his fingers gently teased over my G-spot. “I want you to prepare for me like you prepared for him.”

  I wanted to argue, to say that I hadn’t done it all for Aaron, but I had. I had waxed and shaved and done extra Kegels and gotten a mani and pedicure… all in preparation for Aaron. When was the last time I’d done that for E? When was the last time he’d seen me so well groomed?

  “I want you to beg for me like you begged for him.”

  “I wasn’t begging for him.” I bit back another moan as his fingers quickened inside of me. Leaning back, my shoulders hit the cabinet and I tensed to stay in place. “I was begging for both of you.”

  His knees hit the kitchen floor and my pants were pulled off. He pushed my legs farther apart, his fingers wet against my thigh, and his warm mouth settled on me. I dug my hands into his hair, grinding against his mouth. He was greedy and unrelenting, fucking me with his tongue, journeying down to my taint, then back up through my folds, his touch softening as he circled my clit and then hummed over it. My hand fell slack on his head, my hips freezing in place as he focused in on the sensitive bud.

  “Yes,” I gasped. “Yes. Oh God, yes.”

  “The front curtains,” he grunted. “Are they open?”

  I turned my head, focusing on the formal living room to our right. Through the arched opening, I could see the plaid couch I’d rescued from my mom’s garage sale and a few random pieces we’d kept from our college apartments. Behind the plaid couch were the dark blue front curtains—a leftover from the prior owners. The panels were wide open, pushed as far to the left and right as their gold rod would allow.

  We never left them open at night. When they were, the interior was on full display to anyone who drove past. I always felt ashamed of the mishmash of furniture and the dated kitchen just behind it. I looked out the dark window and saw the glow of lights move down the street. A car. If they looked over, if they slowed, if they focused, they’d see me. Illuminated by eighties-style fluorescent lighting, my knees open, Easton’s head buried between them. I curved my hips deeper against his mouth. “Don’t stop.”

  “Slut,” he whispered. “My gorgeous, delicious fucking slut.”

  I pulsed my mound against the words, his hands tightening on my thighs, his mouth growing rougher as he ate me out as if he was starving. My clit swelled. My thighs trembled. I knocked the bag of marshmallows onto the floor as I struggled not to fall off the counter. Another set of headlights swept down the dark street and I pinched my eyes closed and imagined them slowing. The car would come to an abrupt stop. The man inside would stare, questioning what he was seeing.

  I grabbed the bottom of my shirt and pulled it over my head. Easton went to move and I dug my heels into his back, locking him in place. “Don’t stop!” I gasped out the words as I stared at our reflection in the front window, the pink cherries of my nipples catching the overhead light, the shadows accentuating my curves. Was there someone out there in the dark? Watching? Wanting? I gripped Easton’s head, burying it tighter between my legs.

  A knocking sounded against the lower cabinet and I looked down, trying to place it, then realized what it was. Easton, his hand furiously jacking his cock, his elbow rattling against the edge of the cabinet. He lifted his head, and I tightened my legs to prevent the motion. “Don’t stop—”

  “Move to the couch,” he gritted, pushing to his feet. “Put your knees on the cushion, palms on the window.”

  I pushed off the counter without complaint, my feet slapping against the tile, then silent on the carpet. I crawled onto the couch and it creaked in protest as my knees sunk into the faded plaid cushion. I gripped the back of it and stared out the window. There were no lights on in the living room, but still, we’d be outlines, framed by the kitchen’s illumination. I heard the rustle of fabric, then felt the insistent press of his dick.

  “Hands on the window,” he ordered gruffly.

  It was a good thing Aaron had moved out. Our house was back to being ours, every surface a potential fuck zone. Then again… I put my hands on the glass, each on a different pane, and closed my eyes, imagining Aaron in the guest room, his head lifting off his pillow, his attention caught by the sound of Easton’s voice.

  Not that I needed that visual. This was enough. My palms sweated against the glass as Easton thrust in and out of me in short mini strokes. I stared at our reflection, the glow from the kitchen illuminating the swing of my breasts as he pumped into me from behind. “More,” I begged. “Deeper.”

  “Not yet.” He tightened his grip on my waist, his left hand sliding around and cupping my breast, squeezing it firmly as he thrust a half-inch deeper. My need grew, ballooned, the sweet jab of his cock taking me closer, his thrusts growing quicker, and one hand slipped off the window as I started to pant.

  “Beg me,” he demanded.

  “Please.” I kept one hand on the glass, and gripped the back of the couch with the other, as it began to rattle against the window frame.

  “Please what?” he bit out.

  “Fuck me harder,” I cried, my legs tightening, my back stiffening as I rocked against him, finding a little of the depth I needed as I took it from his cock.

  “Deeper,” I begged, as his hand journeyed up my chest and wrapped around my neck.

  He squeezed just enough and I broke, my nipples aching, my body flexing as pleasure spiraled out from his cock in pounding, beautiful waves. I screamed out from his hand as I stiffened, keeping my body rigid as he finally buried himself inside with a dozen, fifty, a hundred deep and punishing strokes.

  I needed every one and once I came down
from the orgasm I bucked into each one, riding him back, my hand leaving the window so I could push against the top of the couch and fuck him harder.

  I took the second orgasm, pounding my hips against his in a furious rhythm that took me where I needed to go and then pushed him over the edge. He pulled away from me and flipped me over, kneeling before me and pushing back inside, cradling my chest to his as he came, his breath hard against my mouth, our kisses stolen between gasps as he delivered a half-dozen shots of Olympic-worthy cum deep inside of me.

  I don’t know if anyone was outside watching, and at that moment, I didn’t care. I wrapped my legs and arms around him and kissed my husband. I pulled my hips tighter against him, pulled him deeper into me, and tried not to think about the best positions for conception after sex, or the fact that my ovulation window had already passed. Maybe we were frantic and desperate for money, and I was hopelessly barren for children, and we had just put on a show for half of the neighborhood. It didn’t matter. Together, we were fucking dynamite and I was naive and in love enough to believe that trumped everything else.

  * * *

  The wedge of chocolate was gone, as was the box of graham crackers. I hunted them down and found both in Wayland’s crate, strips of the crackers’ blue box in tatters around him as he feigned the sleep of the innocent. I stood above his crate and watched as he opened one eye, then snapped it shut.

  “Bad!” I crouched and crawled into the crate, collecting the trash and putting it under his nose, then smacking the floor of the crate. He licked a layer of graham cracker crust off his nose in response.

  Working my way back out, I hefted to my feet, my knees cracking. “Bad!” I said again, in as stern of a voice as possible.

  Though, if I had to choose between a box of graham crackers or an uninterrupted sex session—Wayland had made the right choice. The last time we’d gone at it in the living room, he’d sat by the recliner and stared at us, panting loudly from his run through the yard. We’d had to move to the guest bedroom, just for privacy.

  In the kitchen, Easton was rummaging through the marshmallow bag.

  “So, s’mores are out.” I stepped on the garbage lid release and dropped the damage in the can. “Wayland ate the crackers.”

  “Here.” He turned, a chocolate and marshmallow stack in hand. “They’re almost better without the cracker.”

  I popped the combination in my mouth, then chewed, nodding in half-agreement. It felt less healthy, though—when working through the ingredients—losing the carbs and sugar of the graham cracker wasn’t a bad edit. Maybe. There was little to no point in trying to make a s’more less nutritionally devastating.

  We stood side by side in front of the sink and ate our way through two more in silence. I thought of the pros and cons list I’d made at the open house, the page still buried in my planner. I’d intended to bring it up tonight, but under the influence of sex and sugar, I really just wanted to curl up beside him and go to bed. I washed my hands and rose on my toes, kissing him on the cheek. “I’m gonna go get ready for bed. You coming?”

  “Yeah. Let me take out Wayland and clean this up. Don’t fall asleep without me.”

  “I won’t.”

  In the bathroom, I flossed, brushed my teeth, and removed my makeup. Studying my reflection in the mirror, I turned my head to one side, then the other, looking for the wrinkles that the women at today’s open house had so joyously removed. None yet though I could see the start of crow’s feet. Babies, according to my sister, would hasten the process. She didn’t understand my “rush” to get pregnant.

  I turned sideways and lifted up my shirt, running my hand over my flat stomach. It didn’t feel like we were rushing. Five years of trying felt interminable. The thought sparked a reminder and I crouched before the sink, opening the cabinet, and reached into the back for the yellow zippered pouch that contained my fertility medicine.

  I pulled out the foil package and counted off the days, thinking of my last period and ovulation window. I’d stopped taking the pills when my fantasies had bloomed out of control but now… was there any harm in starting again? It wasn’t as if the fantasies had stopped. It was as if this medicine had pushed a boulder off the top of a hill. Even without the continual push, the boulder had rolled. Gained speed. Knocked over a friendship and put me flat on my back, between Aaron and E.

  Flat on my back, without a baby. I popped an oval pill out of the foil and into my mouth, washing it down before I had time to think about it.

  Our relationship, in a small but potentially monumental way, had changed. The fantasies I’d run from were now possibilities. The risk of the medication was worth the reward. The reward of a baby. And, if I was being honest with myself, the reward of pleasure.

  I finished the rest of the water glass and flipped off the light, avoiding another look in the mirror.

  7

  A private messenger, clad in a sparkly purple G-string and matching cowboy hat, rang our doorbell just after ten on Saturday morning. I opened the door and flinched at the sight. Even Wayland shut his trap, both of us caught off guard by the overly tan man who straddled our front mat.

  “Mrs. North?” He gave a bright white smile and I fought the urge to ask what brand of toothpaste he used.

  “Yes?” I noticed an envelope in his hand, the item tied to a bouquet of black, white, and silver balloons. Even the giant Mylar penis balloons, which bobbed above the others, matched the color scheme. I watched as a giant glittery cock whipped in the wind and decided that this, whatever this was, was most definitely tied to Chelsea.

  “You are cordially invited to the Funeral of Chelsea Pedicant’s Slutdom. She requests your immediate reply.” He extended the card, which brought the mountain of balloons into my personal space. Wayland lunged up in an attempt to get one, and I blocked him with my knee.

  I took the card. “Thank you.” Pushing back Wayland, I began to close the door, then noticed the man waiting, his hands tucked behind his bare back as if he was a butler, patiently awaiting instructions. “Oh. Like, right now you want my reply?”

  He nodded, and a line of abs cut across the very tan canvas of his stomach. Wayland’s body slammed against me and I heard a balloon snap.

  “Wayland!” Easton appeared, a half-eaten breakfast biscuit in hand and pulled on Wayland’s collar. “What the fuc—” He battled past the balloons, then flinched at the sight of the purple Magic Mike double. “Hey man. What’s up?”

  “Good morning.” The man took off his hat and bowed forward, revealing a baby bald spot that would be a problem in a few years.

  “Chelsea’s having a party,” I explained to E, ripping open the envelope, which had been sealed with a blob of white wax stamped with Chelsea’s monogram. I raised my eyebrows at the extent she was taking this.

  “A funeral,” the messenger corrected.

  Easton looked over my shoulder at the invitation, which carried the somber look of an authentic funeral invitation. It announced that Chelsea Pedicant’s Slutdom had died, and a Celebration of Life was being held on Friday night at nine o’clock. Friday… six days away. A tight turnaround for a party, given the magnitude of a typical Chelsea Pedicant event.

  “Her slutdom has died?” Easton muttered. “What does that even mean? Did you know about this?”

  I shook my head. Knowing Chelsea, she probably came up with the idea over yesterday’s breakfast, called her father’s marketing team together for lunch, and spent last night getting the invites and stripper delivery squad set up. I glanced past the sequin cowboy and toward his Ford Focus, which was stuffed with more balloons. “How many of these are you delivering?”

  “I’ve got six more. There are about a dozen of us out on delivery.” He started to glance down at his wrist, then stopped when he realized he wasn’t wearing a watch. “Do you have a response?”

  “Oh, we’re coming,” Easton replied, tearing off a piece of the biscuit and catching Wayland’s attention with it. “Come on, bud. Let’s g
o outside.”

  The man cocked a pierced eyebrow at me, and I nodded.

  “Yeah, we’ll be there.”

  He smiled and spun on one white flip-flop, then sauntered along our sidewalk and toward his car. From across the street, Mrs. Vandecamp halted, her white poodle similarly entranced, and stared at the man, who tipped his purple cowboy hat in greeting.

  I closed the door with a groan. If our window antics from the night before hadn’t already ruined our reputation with the neighbors, this certainly wouldn’t help.

  I turned toward the kitchen and ran straight into a cluster of inflated penises. Battling through the pile, I found the invitation and ripped it free of the balloon bouquet.

  “Well, life is never boring,” Easton said wryly, retaking his place at the counter. Hunched over his plate, he took a bite out of the ham and cheese.

  “No,” I agreed, taking the stool next to him. “It’s not.” I flipped over the invitation, reading the neatly printed and gold-embossed details. “It says dress code is funeral-appropriate. What the hell is that?”

  “Let me call Aaron and see if he knows anything about this.” Easton reached for his cell phone and I followed suit,

  dialing Chelsea’s number and listening to it ring. It continued for a half dozen times before her voicemail came on. I hung up and watched as E did the same. “No answer?”

  “Nope. Voicemail. It’s what—Saturday morning? He’s probably at the gym.”

  “She’s probably riding one of the cowboy delivery team,” I said, only half in jest. “Who the hell could she be inviting to this thing?”

  E didn’t respond, his attention back on his food, and I picked up my keto-friendly wrap and took a bite. “I can’t believe she didn’t tell me about this.” The words came out muffled, and I forced myself to chew slowly and completely before I choked. Chelsea didn’t have an interesting bowel movement without calling to tell me. Why would she put all this together and keep me out of the loop? Where were the nonstop text messages, wanting opinions on calligraphy font and entertainment? Where was the constant phone calls to discuss the guest list and theme?