I let out a whine of protest when Griffin takes his hard dick away, but the whine turns into a squeak when he rips my jersey off, followed by my thermal, then my bra.
“Take off your pants and underwear,” he rasps, stroking his hard shaft.
It’s not graceful, but I hurry to comply, and soon I’m kneeling, completely naked, at Griffin’s feet while he stands above me, fully clothed, save for his pants and boxer briefs which pool at his ankles. He strokes his cock faster.
“Spread your knees and touch your pussy, wife.”
I’m so turned on, I’m aching for release, so he doesn’t need to tell me twice. I widen my knees so he can see my fingers as they circle my clit. This won’t take long. My body is already tightening in anticipation of my orgasm.
“Damn, baby. That’s so fucking hot.” Griffin groans, stroking himself harder, faster. His head falls back with a moan and his hips buck. The sight of him spurs me on, and I move my fingers faster. Little gasps and mewls spill from my lips. “Yes, Mira. Just like that.”
“Griffin,” I whine, looking up at him, desperate to come but unsure what I’m asking for.
“I know, babe. You want this cock.”
I nod. I do. I really want his cock.
His hand moves faster now, his hips thrusting. “Are you close?”
All I can do is nod.
“Good.” He grunts. “Fucking come, Mira. Come while I paint those perfect tits.”
I’m already teetering on the edge, and Griffin’s words push me over, my orgasm screaming through my body. I cry out his name, gasping for air as he grips his dick hard, and, murmuring curses and praise, does exactly as he said he would. He paints my breasts with ropes of hot cum.
We’re both breathing hard as we come down from our orgasms, Griffin staring at the way he’s marked me. His eyes flare when I run a finger through his release, pop it into my mouth, and suck it clean.
“Perfect,” he says, almost reverently. “Absolutely perfect.”
He swipes some of his cum off my nipple with his thumb before pressing it into my mouth. I suck hard, reveling in how different his demeanor is now compared to when we got home.
I did that. I had that effect on him.
“Come on, Mrs. Wright. Let’s get you cleaned up. It’s been a long day, and I just want to hold you.” Before I can rise to my feet, Griffin bends down and scoops me up, pressing me to his chest. He kisses the side of my head and whispers, “Thank you.”
The thing is? I’d do just about anything for this man, but if I tell him that, he’ll run with it and demand we announce our marriage to the world or something. And while I’d doalmostanything for Griffin Wright, I’m not ready to do that. So I keep quiet, snuggle closer to him, and press a kiss to the scruff of his chin.
I try not to think about how right it feels to be held in his arms.
fifteen
GRIFFIN
The other nightwas a wake-up call. I thought the people who loved me reallygotme, but maybe they don’t. Despite Mira’s reassuring words, there was no hiding the look on her face when she tried to convince me I’m not a joke.
Some part of her has never fully taken me seriously. I can’t say I’m surprised, but it sure as hell burns. The worst part is that I don’t have anyone to blame but myself. I’m the one who donned the good-time persona back in high school to differentiate myself. My grades were just okay, and while hockey was my life, I grew up in a football town where my classmates and neighbors bled Wildcat navy and white. I spent so much time playing and training that it was difficult to make real friends at my school. I didn’t give a shit about football, and I was at the rink too often to join any clubs. So I became the guy you wanted to invite to parties. The guy who’d make you laugh. The guy who could charm his way into almost any girl’s panties with flirtatious banter and a few well-timed flashes of washboard abs.
Girls love washboard abs.
It made friendships easier, even if they were shallow, and I kept the act going through college. The guys on my college team—including Maddox—became true friends, but the good-time persona was a hit with the ladies, so it stuck. Which was probably part of the reason my college girlfriend never took our relationship as seriously as I did.
Maybe it’s time for a change. Time to beseriousandresponsible. The kind of man Madds is so convinced his sister needs.
The real shit part? I am responsible. I own my home and car and I’m not in any debt. I save more than I spend, and I don’t take my salary for granted. Hockey is a brutal mistress, and no one plays forever. One day, the money will stop flowing in, and when that happens, I won’t be taken by surprise. Plenty of guys act like they’ll always be rolling in cash, spending it as quickly as they make it. Those guys are irresponsible.
And serious? I’m one of the best wingers in the league for a reason, and it’s not because I treat my career like a joke.
But I don’t wear polos and loafers and walk around with my ass cheeks clenched like I’m trying to use them to squeeze juice out of a lemon. There’s a certain mental picture people have when they hear the wordserious, and I don’t fit it. It’s narrow-minded, but it’s undeniable. If you stood me next to a stuck-up looking asshole in a chambray button-down, khakis, and boat shoes, you’d assume that guy has his life together. It doesn’t matter that he could be living in his mom’s basement, snorting coke at clubs, and walking around calling womenfemales. He’d look the part.
