Bewitching the Boss by Jessa Kane
Epilogue
Jane
Three Years Later
I glide out into the backyard in my short robe, purring in my throat as my husband shucks his pajama pants, preparing to swim his usual morning laps. Naked.
As requested by his wife.
Wow.
Over the last three years, our rigorous lovemaking has turned his big body into a pillar of strength, carving out muscle on his torso, his thighs, his arms. He was already a god to me, but now he looks like something from Mount Olympus. Rugged and thick and masculine all over, from his unshaven jaw to his riot of chest hair.
Byron starts toward the heated pool but pauses when he notices my approach.
And I definitely notice the way he turns erect, the fat male flesh swelling between his legs, his abdomen dipping with strain at the impact of hunger. It’s always present. The lust, the wild need. Our mutual stormy obsession is the third member of our marriage.
“Do you want me to come back to bed?” he breathes into the morning fog, reaching down to fondle the growing shaft between his legs. “It’s Saturday. I thought I’d let you sleep.”
I nod, the gathering emotion in my chest causing me to lose my breath. “I wanted to watch,” I whisper.
And Byron only nods, because he’s used to it.
Not only that, he loves it. The way I watch. The way I stalk him.
We might have gotten married three years ago in the south of France, but I’ve never lost my desire to admire him from a distance. Too feed my fixation from a parked car or behind a tree in the park. Just as often, however, I sense his presence, his eyes on me when I can’t see him—and I know he’s stalking me in return. I know he’s hard in his briefs, sweating, watching the wind lift up my short skirt. And I know he loves and hates it. Sometimes we argue over who is more fanatical over our spouse’s whereabouts and movements.
In the end, we always call it a tie. We both win.
Everymoment of this life with Byron is a win.
I approach him now, one step at a time and he grits his teeth, closing his eyes. As if he can hardly bear the need expanding inside of him. Never failing to stoke the fire, I pull the sash on my robe and shrug the garment off my shoulders, letting it slither to the concrete behind me. And Byron pants and groans as moisture beads on the head of his shaft, dripping to the ground at his feet. “Need you, Jane,” he breathes.
“You’re going to have me,” I whisper, kissing his shoulder, circling around back of him to appreciate my husband’s hard, sculpted back, his thick buns crisscrossed with nail marks. “I was wondering, though…how do you reward yourself for swimming a hundred laps every day?”
His laughter sounds almost pained. “My whole life is a reward since you came into it.”
My heart booms in my ribcage. “Mine, too.” I kiss the center of his broad back. “But I’m talking about a more…selfish reward. Like cookie dough for breakfast.”
“I’m selfish with you.” His voice is hoarse now. “All the time.”
“Are you forgetting last night? You’re generous just as often.”
When I’ve completed my circle around him, I begin another one, but Byron reaches out and snags my hair, wrapping it around his fist. Pulling me sideways up against his bare chest. “You’re strutting around naked reminding me how long you let me lick your pussy last night?” He gives a closed-mouth groan. “Stop teasing me.”
“I will. As soon as you’re done swimming.” Shaking my hair free of his grip, I turn and back my bottom into his lap, rubbing it side to side. “This is going to be your reward for swimming a hundred laps.”
His breath comes in short, shallow pants. “Your ass?”
I bite my lip and nod at him innocently over my shoulder.
“Oh my God,” he heaves, his sex turning to hot steel against my buns. “Please, Jane. Please don’t make me wait.”
“It’ll be easier on me if you’re a little tired.” I turn in his arms and plant a kiss on his jawline. “Remember last time?”
My husband makes a miserable sound, gathering me close. Squeezing me. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m not.” I grip his shaft in my hand and stroke it comfortingly, loving the way his mouth opens on a silent groan, eyes rolling back in his head like he’s been struck by magic. “I like that my body sends you spinning out of control sometimes.”
The first and last time Byron and I tried anal sex was a few months ago. He’d just gotten back from a three-day business trip and walked in the door already unzipping his pants, bellowing my name. I had my first experience with that type of sex while face down on the living room floor, my panties in tatters, my husband roaring like an animal while delivering frenzied thrust after frenzied thrust, using his spit to lubricate my back entrance.
I received roses to my office three times a day for the next month.
Thing was, I enjoyed what he did to me. A lot. Loved gratifying him so much. Loved having my body used and abused for his pleasure. But I didn’t like his guilt afterwards, so we’re going to try this again when he’s a little less desperate for relief and can take his time.
Although…not sure that’s ever the case.
Even now, he appears to be restraining himself from throwing me down on the closest deck chair that surrounds our pool.
I give him one final pump of my fist, leaving a lingering kiss on his mouth. “Better get swimming, baby. I’ll be waiting.”
He watches me go with gritted teeth.
Raking a hand through his dark hair, he moves to the pool and slips in gingerly, in deference to his erection, and begins swimming laps. On my way to watch him from the comfort of a padded deck chair, I pick up my robe and fish the small bottle of lubricant from the pocket, setting it down beside me on the side table. And I wait.
I wait for him while thinking about everything that has happened in the last three years. I’ve become a wife. I’ve made partner at my event planning company, which is now located downstairs in Firestarter headquarters. At first, me and Byron were across the street from each other, but that wasn’t close enough for Byron and he moved us three floors away. My husband and I now have our own private elevator and break room connected to his office and rarely make it through a day without meeting there, working each other into a delirious sweat.
We discussed having children and we were both initially interested in the idea, but over time, we realized our extreme fixations on one another are too intense, too extreme, to bring a child into. It’s just the two of us and we’re happy this way. So incredibly happy that I still have to pinch myself. Still have to convince myself every morning that I’m Jane DeWitt and not the girl hiding in the pool house, wishing he simply knew my name. I’m married to my best friend, my obsession, my love. It’s real. And it’s forever.
A while later, I lose my breath at the sight of Byron climbing out of the heated pool, water sluicing down his naked body. He has the expression of a man possessed and it only turns hungrier, more predatory when he spots the little bottle of lube.
I squeak as I’m flipped over onto my belly and the cap is spat into the bushes.
I love when he’s like this. When he manhandles me.
There are still times when I love being treated like a cheap tramp. Love being taken roughly, obscenely, while he mutters filthy names into my ear. But it’s because that little tingle of shame makes me feel sexy, not because it appeases guilt over what happened in the past. And that makes it good for both of us.
Really, truly, incomparably good.
Byron squirts lube between the cheeks of my backside and uses his fingers to spread it over my entrance, rubbing gently, then rougher until my sex begins to dampen, my fingers curling into the edge of the chair. “Byron,” I whimper. “Please.”
He growls, settling his lap against the curve of my backside. “Bet there aren’t a lot of girls begging to get their assholes plowed,” he says into my neck, now using the head of his shaft to stroke over my opening, up and back. Up and back. “What does that make you?”
Unimaginable heat steals through me. “I don’t know,” I whine, wanting to hear him say the words. Craving the syllables in his deep, masculine tone. “You tell me.”
Baring his teeth against my neck, his tucks a finger into my back entrance, drawing it in and out, the lube making a wet sound. “It means you’re a horny girl with tight, slippery holes under her short-ass skirt. Means you’re a hot slutty little thing that a man can’t turn down.” As if he can’t wait another second, he tugs out his finger and replaces it with several inches of his cock, his body shuddering on top of me. “Oh. Fuck.”
His pleasure makes me wetter. Wilder. Needier.
I spread my thighs open until my knees are hanging off the sides of the chair. “More, baby. Please.”
“Jane,” he heaves, kissing the side of my face, panting. “Please. No. I’ll hurt you.”
“You won’t.” I clench up around him and his roar raises goosebumps all over my body. “I was made for you. For your pleasure. Tell me. Show me.”
Byron’s hand slaps down on top of mine, both of us holding on to the edge of the chair while he begins to pump, riding my backside with guttural grunts. “You’re built for cock. You exist for this fucking cock.”
“Yes,” I moan, my teeth clacking from the force of how he pumps into me, deeper, deeper until I’m fully mounted. Claimed. There is an immense pressure where our bodies join but the proof of how aroused he is only makes me want that pressure more. Crave it. “Hurt me. Come inside me. Please.”
“Yes,” he growls, his lap slapping up against my buttocks now in a frenzy. “Mine!”
I could have an orgasm just like this, but I want to make it even fuller, even more satisfying, so I slide my digits down between my thighs and pet my clit, making my sex convulse with a twisting, turning orgasm that robs me of eyesight, and in turn, tighten up my back entrance, pushing Byron over the edge. He climaxes while chanting my name, his huge body wracked by shudders until he finally collapses.
As always, after we make love like this, he pulls me into his arms and gives me the care we both need, whispering how incredible I am, how sweet and treasured, kissing my cheeks, stroking my hair and we fall into a deep sleep together beside the lapping pool, our entire Saturday—our entire lives—stretched out in front of us, waiting to be lived.
Just before I drift off, I hear him say, “I love you to the point of madness.”
And then he spends decade after decade proving it.
THE END
Want more Jessa Kane?
Coaxing the Roughneck
is available now!
Cindy just inherited an oil rig in the middle of the Gulf. Selling it will give her enough money to move into an apartment without leaks or loud parties downstairs—not to mention, some cash will help jump start her landscaping business. There's one king sized problem, however. His name is Butch. He hasn't left the engine room of the oil rig in years. And he's not about to vacate now. Luckily, Cindy has a plan for coaxing big, bad Butch up to the surface of the rig. Temptation. But they don't call Butch a roughneck for nothing—and she's about to get a lot more than she bargained for.
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