Page 35 of My One Week Husband
She licks her lips. “Can I fuck your mouth now?”
Holy hell. She’s sinful and delicious.
“Get up here.”
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Scarlett
I shed my shorts and my underwear. Damn panties are useless already, soaked all the way through.
I climb up his body, sitting on his face.
That’s exactly where he wants me. His hands fly to my hips, and he tugs me down tighter, and then he goes to town on my pussy.
I’m so aroused, so ready, so craving another orgasm.
This man is intent on giving it to me. He flicks his tongue across my clit. I cry out, urging him on.
Yes.
Just like that.
Don’t stop.
I rock against him, and he holds my hips, gripping them tighter as I find a rhythm, fucking his mouth. My hands trail up my body, gripping my breasts, squeezing them.
I meet his gaze for a hot, delirious second. His blue eyes are searing, glittering with filth and lust.
He lets go of my hips, runs his hands up my belly, then pushes mine away, grabbing my tits.
I shove my hands in my hair as I rock against his mouth while he squeezes my breasts, kneading them, pinching my nipples.
Like he promised he’d do.
I feel like his depraved wife.
Like his wild midnight lover.
Indulging. Relishing. Savoring.
And fucking his face as he grabs my breasts harder, twisting my nipples, sending pinpricks of pain through me.
Pain that’s pleasurable.
Sharp, hot pain that’s so delicious it goes straight to my clit.
As he licks me ferociously, I fly over the edge, my pretend husband coaxing a powerful orgasm from me.
The world goes blurry and beautiful. As I cry out, panting his name, he grabs hold of my hips so that I don’t fall as I come hard on his face.
I’m moaning and murmuring and so drugged out from my climax that I barely have time to process what’s happening next.
He scoops me up, carries me in his arms, and brings me to the king-size bed.
I half expect him to leave, but instead we slide under the covers together.
He wraps his strong biceps around me and kisses my neck, whispering, “You’re so beautiful when you come, darling. I want to do that to you over and over again.”
I am a woman unleashed.
I speak from the heart of both desire and trust in him when I say, “I want all that and more.”
Forget water lilies.
Monet’s blue kitchen is the artist’s true masterwork.
I discover it in its colorful glory the next day as we visit Giverny’s most famous spot—the artist’s garden where he drew so much inspiration. But I’m more lured by the artist’s house.
“Why didn’t anyone tell me about this slice of heaven?” I ask as I gawk.
Yes. Gawk.
There is no other way to describe what I’m doing in the spacious kitchen of the home of one of the greatest artists ever.
It’s a robin’s egg of a room, a dreamscape of this one sumptuous color, with sapphire-blue stone on the stove, shades of pastel blue splashed across the table, and colorful patterns of ocean blue, sea blue, and tropical blue on the mosaic tiles on the wall. I wheel around, turn to Daniel, flick my blonde hair off my shoulder—today I am platinum—and arch a brow sharply.
“You’re in trouble,” I say.
He smirks. “So it’s my fault that you didn’t know about Monet’s house before?”
I spin in a circle, gesturing to the pinwheel of blues before us. “Yes. Because a blue kitchen is magnificent, and since you’re the one who’s brought me here, you must have known about it previously.” I raise my chin defiantly, stepping closer to him, getting in his face. I poke his chest. “What kind of husband would keep this a secret from his wife?”
His smirk turns into a devilish grin. “Maybe I only kept it a secret because I’m just now getting to know what you like. I’m only now discovering all these sides to my brilliant, beautiful wife.”
I shiver at those words, at our games, because these roles with him are delicious. “Still, you should have brought me here sooner. Perhaps when you were courting me,” I say, like this is a version of naughty improv theater, and it’s his turn to decide where to take the flirty scene.
His eyes twinkle with mischief as he wraps an arm around my waist and yanks me close, my body flush to his. “I would have, if I could have gotten you out of bed,” he says, painting the details of our pretend romance.
“I could say the same of you,” I tease, gliding further into the parts we’re playing. “You were relentless, always wanting me.”
“I still always want you, Mrs. Rousseau,” he says, using my name for today. “But your amorous nature is precisely why I couldn’t bring you here when we were courting. Don’t you remember all you ever wanted to do was fuck and fuck and fuck?” he asks, whispering in my ear, heating me up until my skin is blazing.
