Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 89238 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89238 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
“Yes,” I say darkly, but then I try to shake off that cloud. I drop a kiss to her nose. I don’t want to linger on the end. Some topics are best avoided. “Let me show you the rest of the house.”
The herd of elephants known as teenage girls race back downstairs on their way to the popcorn machine, with a bowl of, presumably, cinnamon and sugar in hand, and Amanda shouting, “Want some, Mr. Archer?”
Before I answer, I lift a brow Elodie’s way. “What should she call me?”
With a you’re so cute smile, she pats me on the arm. “Your name, Gage. Your name.”
Well, duh.
“Call me Gage,” I call out. “And maybe later.”
“Okay, Gage,” she says, and we head upstairs where I show Elodie the pinball room, the rooftop pool, then the bedrooms on the third floor.
Except…
Shit.
As we’re standing in front of two guest rooms, I’m kicking myself. This basic detail slipped by me.
Elodie shoots me a curious look. “Are we…sharing a room?”
“That’s the question, isn’t it?”
We’re not lying to the girls about our relationship ruse…but they don’t need to know we’re actually sleeping together.
I drag a hand through my hair, thinking, messing it up. “We should have separate rooms,” I say, turning to her. “Since they don’t need to know I’m a little addicted to my wife.”
She slides into my arms and kisses me. And later that night, when the kids are asleep, I slip into her bed.
We’re both quiet as I cover her soft body, kissing her till she’s writhing and moaning, arching and gasping, then pushing my head down. “Please,” she whispers.
“Please what?”
“Please…go down on me,” she says, desperate and needy.
I palm her breasts, teasing at the peaks of her nipples. “I will under one condition.”
“Anything,” she whimpers.
“Be quiet,” I say, even though the house is big and we’re not on the same floor as the girls.
“I will.”
I settle between her thighs, my hands on her soft flesh, and I lick a long, lingering line up her sweet, hot pussy.
She shudders. Then lets out the neediest little moan as I flick my tongue on her clit, then suck on it.
“Shh, baby.”
She nods, then obeys.
Her desperate little noises guide me on, and under the covers, I worship her pussy, kissing her like I’ll go crazy if I don’t, then stopping right when she’s getting close.
“Gage,” she urges, tugging my head back.
But I’m a tease tonight, here in the dark as we play house in San Francisco, and I drive my wife a little wild under the covers over and over as I bring her to the brink, then stop. Then do it again.
No, make that a lot wild judging from the way she grips my head with her thighs when I finally let her come quietly on my mouth.
In seconds, I flop to my back. She climbs over me, sitting on my dick, and riding me like I’m her bucking bronco.
I think I’m going to enjoy the next several weeks very much.
The next night, a couple of friends amble up to the bar at Sticks and Stones. Before I can even say a proper hello to the pair of hockey players, the guy with the beard blinks at my wedding band.
“Wait. Let me see that.” Hayes Armstrong is a longtime friend of mine and a star winger on one of the city’s two hockey teams. He’s at the bar with the team captain, Stefan Christiansen. They’re both married to the same woman—the team mascot. That makes the three of them one of the city’s handful of hockey throuples. Something is definitely in the water there in the arenas. Or the ice.
“Oh. This?” I deadpan, showing off my ring, raising my hand for the whole world to see.
“When the fuck did you get married?” Hayes asks.
Stefan rolls his eyes and pats his teammate on the shoulder. “Do you seriously never look at social media?”
Hayes jerks his head to his buddy. “Do I look like I enjoy pointless arguments with strangers along with photos of lunch?”
“Kind of,” I joke.
“Also, what does social media have to do with it?” Hayes asks, grabbing a stool and parking his burly frame on it.
Stefan, who is known as The Viking, thanks to his Scandinavian looks, takes the seat next to him then tips his forehead to me. “Gage and Elodie posted their wedding pics on social. Our friend and his bride said I do in Vegas last week. And the groom wore…velvet,” he adds, in a gossipy TV announcer voice.
“Correction: it was velour,” I say, having too much fun with the tale. Well, it was a damn good day in Vegas. Best day I’ve had with a woman in a good, long time.
“Nothing but top-shelf for our friend,” Stefan says.
Hayes is a dog with a bone though. “Can we back it up to you being married? What’s up with that?”