Page 105 of Married to the Scottish Player
My pulse quickens, excited.
“True, there isn’t,” she says in a velvety tone. “But I think I preferthislook instead.”
Then she moves—no rush but not hesitant.
Calculated.
The robe slides open as she climbs into my lap, one knee bracing on either side of me. Bare skin. Bare thighs. Thong underwear, no bra.
My hands roam instinctively to her hips before my brain completely short-circuits, unthinking and automatic.
“What’s going on?” My mouth has gone dry as my palms gently skim over her backside ... over her round ass. “Are you hitting on me?”
Her smile is wicked. Lethal. “You said you wanted to raise a weirdo.”
“Okay ...” I rasp, struggling to focus on anything beyond the curve of her waist and the press of her body against mine.
She leans in, mouth hovering near my ear. “Consider this a glimpse of the genetic chaos you’re signing up for.”
Her hips roll slowly above me, over the hard dick in my pants, enough to set every nerve ending in my body firing at full capacity.
“Jesus, Annabelle ...” I exhale like I’ve been punched in the gut. “Keep going—don’t stop.”
Her laugh is low and sinful as she sits back on my thighs, robe gaping open, every inch of her on full display in the glow of the TV, her gorgeous round tits in my face. Close enough to taste, to worship, to lose my goddamn mind over ...
“This isn’t educational content,” I manage, throat tight.
She drags her nails up my chest, over my shirt, slow enough to make me twitch.
“Oh, it’sabsolutelyeducational,” she whispers. “You’re learning about restraint.”
Her hips grind down, rolling slow, measured. I feel every inch of her—heat, rhythm, the unmistakable press of bare skin through thin layers of clothing—and my vision goes hazy.
Then her hands dip under my shirt, smooth palms gliding up my stomach, chest, ribs. The shirt’s off in a flash—tugged up and over my head and tossed to the cold marble floor.
She continues grinding on me. Her robe brushes my chest, gaping open—but not enough. Notnearlyenough. I reach for the lapels, but she swats my hand away.
“Nuh-uh. I’m in charge,” she says, voice syrupy and smug.
“Are you?” I challenge. “Lesson one—you shouldn’t wear anything you’re not ready to lose.” My fingers curl around the robe’s tie, and her breath catches, but she doesn’t stop me.
I tug. The knot gives way.
The robe slips from her shoulders like it waswaitingfor permission, pooling around her waist and baring her completely to me.
“My wife has the best boobs ever ...”
She freezes.
Then blinks.
Thengrins, slow and wicked, pupils blown wide.
“Oh my God,” she whispers. “You love that word, don’t you?”
I nod, mouth sucking on the side of her neck, trying to get her to moan.
She does. “You can’t just drop the w-word while I’m on top of you like this.”
