She’s going to be the mother of my children. She belongs to me.
How is it possible that I know this already?
It doesn’t make sense.
And yet I feel the truth of it crashing into me without a hint of doubt.
I open my eyes and let out a sigh, staring at the darkened ceiling.
Tomorrow is going to be very interesting, I know that much. Because the idea of restraining myself for two full hours with this made-for-pleasure queen seems like a sick joke.All day it’s the same.
The city, the office, business, whatever I’m doing and wherever I am, my mind floods with images of Kat, and then the imagined sounds of her moaning, the wet furious sound her pussy would make as I push inside of her.
The way her breasts would bounce for me.
The fucking cream that would flow down my cock as she squirms and screams and unleashes her ecstasy.
Now I sit in my the garden next to the pool, the late-day sun shafting down and glittering on the water as Scrappy madly swims up and down, lost in a world of his own and loving every second of it.
I watch him, focusing on his movements so I don’t have to think about the task ahead of me.
Trying not to kiss her.
To grab her.
To own her.
But then a voice roars inside of me that she’s mine and she always will be, and even if it makes no damn sense I can’t beat it back, I can’t ignore it, because it fires into me with the warm sting of truth.
“Sir,” Maxwell says, standing at the patio door with the officious expression he uses when we have company.
Maxwell is a man of sixty-one, mustachioed and British, and one of the best butlers in the world. I also consider him a friend … not that his professionalism would let that fact slip when we’re not alone.
“She’s here?” I ask, a growl in my voice I can’t quite control, a savage tremor.
I need her.
How the fuck do you know that after a few minutes?
I just know.
“Yes, sir.”
“Send her through, please.”
“Quite right.”
He leaves and I stand up, stretching my arms and rolling my shoulders. I worked out like a devil when I got home, hoping the strain of my muscles might do something to blot this gripping obsession swelling inside of me, one that is probably inappropriate considering I’m hiring her for a job—not to paint her perfect flesh in sinful strokes.
But fuck, that’d feel so damn good.
Scrappy scrambles from the pool and stands at the patio door, his fur seeming almost black as he shakes himself. Droplets fly everywhere and then he starts pawing at the glass, eager to see Kat again.
“You and me both, buddy,” I murmur.
She appears like a goddamn dream, wearing shorts that cut off just above her knee, giving me a tasteful glimpse of her thick strong grab-me-now thighs. On top, she wears a loose tank top, but then she could be wearing a sack and nothing else and I’d still salivate at the thought of taking what rightfully belongs to me.
Her.
All of her.
Fuck, I’m getting hard just staring at her.
Her gaze flits to my manhood, and then I realize she must see it because I’m wearing swim shorts and a gym tank and nothing else. I notice her eyes moving over me and mine do the same to her, an answering call of primality, an ancient flare firing in both of us.
Now, now, now.
Take her now.
Fuck her raw and ragged and put a baby in her belly.
“So, shall we get started?” she says.
“Sure,” I reply, watching as she leans down and gives Scrappy a greeting with a tickle behind the ear.
As she does so, her tank top shifts, and Jesus Christ, I get the most ample and sweet view of her cleavage I ever could’ve dreamed of.
It’s enough to cause the base of my manhood to swell and ache with its hardness.
It’s all too easy to imagine my hand sliding between those fleshy mounds, squeezing, and toying with her flesh until she has goosebumps all over her skin and her nipples are sore and tingly, and when I suck and bite her pink hot nipples she’ll shiver with her orgiastic pleasure and—
“Do I need to be here?” I ask, my voice strangled.
“Um, not necessarily,” she says, looking strangely at me as she kneels down and strokes Scrappy behind the ears.
It’s a wonder to watch the way she interacts with Scrappy, as though she’s part animal herself, as though she can read his body language intuitively. While he is normally leaping all over anyone unfortunate enough to kneel near him, he sits somewhat patiently for Kat, though he does buck and writhe a little before she strokes him again, stilling him.
That hand …
I’m a fucking savage.
I stare at her hand and imagine it stroking my precome-wet cock instead of the scruff of Scrappy’s neck. I see her on her knees, big breasts pushed together, stroking and moaning and begging for my dick.