I count to ten. When she hasn’t appeared in the doorway or so much as laughed at me from the bed she’s torturing me from, I tap out another text.
Me: Millie.
Millie: Dean.
Me: Get your ass out here
Millie: You come in here.
Millie: Better hurry…
Another picture—this one of her fingers stroking her clit.
Fuck.
Me: My dick is so hard rn I can’t stand up. If you want me to fuck you, you’re going to have to be my good girl and come out here.
Now I can hear her laughing at me, the sound of it floating through the open sliders and across the deck.
Millie: Say please.
I said it a year ago, and it still holds true.
Millie Blackwell is going to be the goddamned death of me—and I wouldn’t want it any other way.
Me: Pretty please, Princess Millie—get your ass out here so I can make you come on my face.
Expecting another picture, this one certain to drive me over the edge, she appears in the open doorway, on the other side of the pool. Fuck, she’s beautiful, wearing nothing but my shirt and the ring I put on her finger. Sun bleached hair tousled from sleep. Skin tanned from running around naked for the past five days. The farthest we’ve gone is to the private beach attached to the bungalow. No pool. No Davino’s. No ziplining or horseback riding. That’s not what we’re here for. We aren’t here to pretend. We aren’t here to convince anyone of anything. We’re here for each other and neither one of us has had nearly enough.
“I should make you crawl,” she tells me, still standing in the doorway, her jaw tipped at a stubborn angle that makes my cock ache.
I would.
For this woman I’d crawl over a mountain of rusty razorblades. I’d crawl through hell. I’d follow her around on my hands and knees for the rest of my fucking life, if that’s what she wanted.
“Come, here, Mrs. Mercer,” I say, tossing my phone onto the table next to me. “Let me apologize.”
Giving me a satisfied little smirk, Millie leaves the doorway to pad barefoot across the deck, in my direction. Stopping next to my chaise, she crosses her arms over her chest and looksdown to give me one of her haughty little huffs. “Well… I’m waiting.”
The goddamned death of me.
Reaching out, I snag her by the hem of her shirt and drag her onto the chaise with me, quickly situating her to where she’s straddling my hips. Hands still tangled in her shirt hem, I yank it up over her head before tossing it aside. “You know…” Dropping my hands to her hips, I tilt them forward while pushing the stiff ridge of my cock into the juncture of her thighs. “You’re awful sassy for someone who’s addicted to my cock.” Fingers digging into her ass cheeks, I open her wider from behind before doing it again. “Matter of fact—” Dragging her pussy along the length of my shaft, I groan deep in my chest when she whimpers softly, her pussy so wet, it soaks the front of my sleep pants. “I think maybe it’s you, who should be apologizing to me.”
“Dean…” she whimpers again, the needy sound of it shaped around my name when I do it again, this time tilting her hips forward enough to reach her clit.
“Threatening divorce, five days in, is a pretty big infraction,” I tell her, one of my hands reaching up to cup itself around her sun warmed breast to tease its stiff, swollen nipple. “What do you propose we do about that, Mrs. Mercer.”
Mrs. Mercer.
My wife.
My good fucking girl.
All my favorite M words.
“So is leaving your wife… in your honeymoon bed,unfucked…” she counters, her tone ragged and whisper-thin while she grinds herself on the stiff length of my cock “So you can check your email.”
Not only is My Millie addicted to my cock, she’s also developed a dirty mouth.
