“I wish you’d tell me what you’re thinking.” Her voice was as calm and soft as it was when she told a story to his son. “I never know what you’re thinking. But I’m your wife. A real wife now, because we know each other, like in the Bible. I should know your thoughts, too, shouldn’t I?”
His innocent wife—yes, still innocent, despite the fact he had spent inside her last night—wanted to know his thoughts?
“Please, Oliver. Please tell me what you’re thinking. I want to know.”
She wanted to know.
And he had vowed to give her anything she wanted.
He threw the paper down, and he threw caution to the winds. He leaned forward, almost coming out of the chair, and spilled out the filth that befouled his mind.
“I’m thinking I want to rip every shred of clothing off you and ravish you right here. I’m thinking I want to suckle at your big, gorgeous breasts until you leak milk into my mouth. I’m thinking I want to wrap your thighs around my neck while I kneel at your feet and feast on your cunt and lick you and tongue you and bury my face in your sweetness as you pull my hair and scream my name. I’m thinking I want to plunge my hard prick into you over and over and over again like a savage animal until you’re delirious with ecstasy and your pussy squeezes around me and you come on my cock while I explode inside your womb.”
She trembled. No, she quaked. Large, jerky movements from her head all the way down to her slippered feet that beat out a stuttering tattoo on the carpet. Every bit of her exposed skin turned red, an even deeper shade than her hair. Her eyeswidened and her pupils became enormous, turning her pale-blue irises into mere rims surrounding inky pools.
“Well,” she gasped.
He gasped, too. He could not believe what he had just said to her. To the purest piece of sweetness and goodness in existence.
Violet had been right. Hewasvile. The things that had just come out of his mouth would embarrass a stevedore, let alone a barely deflowered maiden.
He threw himself back into the chair, wiping the spittle from his mouth. His own words had engorged his cock to the point of pain. And he deserved that pain.
She would flee now. Because she had asked what he was thinking and he had told her.
Maybe she would just flee figuratively, withdrawing her request for a child, for copulation, for his company in any guise.
Maybe she would flee literally, back to her parents, abandoning Nathaniel when she was the only mother he had ever known. And she would abandon Oliver, too.
A terrible error in judgment two years ago had brought him so much happiness. He had fallen into something good, for once. And now another error in judgment had destroyed it.
His old companions darkness and despondency were just beginning to settle over him when he heard her say something under her breath.
“Why don’t you?”
His eyes snapped to hers. “What did you say?”
“I said.” She blinked several times and then spoke loudly and clearly, enunciating every word carefully. “Why don’t you do what you’re thinking?”
“You don’t know what you’re asking,” he snarled, completely powerless to pretend at niceties any longer.
“I know,” she said, her voice now tremulous. “I know . . . your words, what you just said to me, the pictures you put in my head . . . I liked it.”
He swallowed.
“I more than liked it.” She licked her lips. “I ache for you. For your,” she hesitated, “cock.”
With the agility of youth, she was suddenly out of her chair and kneeling at his feet and undoing his fall that strained to hold his throbbing member in abeyance.
“What—“
She tore at his buttons until his groin was bared, his hard shaft springing out, fully erect.
Unerringly, her fingers wrapped around him. The first erotic touch ever on his cock from a hand that wasn’t his own.
“I’m going to do whatI’mthinking.” Now she was the one with spittle flying from her mouth, a feral gleam in her eye as she looked up at him and moved her hand over his shaft. “I’m thinking about how I saw you,” she moved her hand faster, “do this and I realized I had to have you. Have your prick.”
“You . . . you don’t want a baby?”
