by Madison Faye
And then I’d pulled out, spun her face down on the mattress, made her bite the pillow, and fucked her like I knew she wanted to be fucked. With her parents sleeping right down the hall and her screams drowning in her pillow, I’d fucked that sweet pussy until she’d begged me to come — slamming her into the mattress on every thrust, her hair in my fist as she came like like a girl possessed.
And finally, I’d groaned, sliding in deep and gasping into the skin of her back as I’d pumped every single drop of my cum deep inside her.
After that, we slept like the dead, my arms wrapped around her and her breath on my chest.
Just like I’d wanted.
The perfect Christmas gift.
Epilogue
Isabella
When we’d woken up the next morning, the storm had died down. And in it’s wake, we all woke to a perfect winter scene of stillness and fresh snow. We had coffee in the kitchen I’d grown up in, before Colin invited all of us — my parents included — back to his home for Christmas Eve brunch.
He flew us.
Over the gorgeous, fresh winter snow, Colin flew me and my stunned parents back to the helipad at one of his buildings back in Boston. A waiting car took us to his townhouse, where his kids ran out the front door to wrap their arms around him, and then me. Andrew made us brunch, my parents tried to swallow the shock of where they were, and Colin went out of his way to promise them he had every best intention for me.
That night, in front of the Christmas tree, he proved it even further, when he got down on one knee and asked me to marry him.
I don’t think any Christmas Eve will ever top that one.
After that, we just drifted into our very own happy ever after. I moved in permanently immediately, and married Colin the following summer.
Needless to say, we got a new nanny for Beckham and Lillian.
The kids were a big part of me coming into his life, and he told me later that their warming to me the way they did was one of the biggest reasons he’d asked me to be his wife. I had a special kind of relationship with them, and I carried the responsibility of that relationship with the highest regard. I wasn’t their mother — that I made clear. Stepmom, yes, but as broken as she was, they did have a mother. I loved the two of them as if they were my own kids, of course, but it was never my place to replace Helen, only to act as a better caregiver to them than she could be.
There was a sweet spot I found, somewhere between “friend” and “mom,” and it worked out wonderfully for all of us for a time.
Well, until the incident.
Helen had broken the terms of her parole by flying to Paris to intimidate Colin and I. A more vindictive man would have come after her for everything, and made sure she never saw her kids again. But while he was firm, and viciously protective of those he loved, the man I married wasn’t cruel.
Colin did eventually — eventually — grant supervised, in-home visitation of the kids with Helen. It was for Beckham and Lillian, of course, not for her, and for a time, it worked.
That is, until she’d shown up drunk to one of the visits and tried to attack Colin with a taser she’d smuggled into the house. After that, and after they found evidence of her planning another lawsuit against Colin — a breach of the terms of her visitation — Colin shut that door for good.
Cruel? No. Fiercely protective? You bet.
The thing is, Helen hadn’t ever actually been after her children, just a way back to Colin and his bankroll. After the incident at the house, when it was quite clear to her that she was never getting her hooks into him again, she quite readily and willingly signed away all parental rights to her kids. After that, she’d flown off to Europe somewhere with the disgraced Dr. Peters.
Her just giving up Beckham and Lillian like that sickened me though, and after that, the dynamic of our relationship changed.
Because after that, I formally adopted them as my own.
I finished school at Harvard, moved on to the Business School graduate program at the same college, and eventually moved into a leadership position with one of Colin’s acquisition firms. I loved the work and the challenges, and I loved that I’d been afforded a chance to do the work I’d always wanted to do.
I also really loved that my boss would occasionally drop by my office, lock the door, bend me over my desk with my hands tied behind my back, and fuck me until I was a puddle.
Separation of work and play?
No thanks.
Bridgette was born three years after we married — a beautiful baby girl and an anchor that just tied our little family all together.
Colin was nothing I was ever looking for, and yet everything I hadn’t even known I wanted. The kind, loving husband that centered me, the warm, doting father to our children.
And yet, he never stopped being the other things I loved about him.
Dominant.
Wickedly dirty and toe-curlingly demanding and controlling when I needed him to be.
We had both the sugar and the spice — the warm fuzzy love and the down and dirty steam that kept me moaning for more and begging for it harder. And he never disappointed on either front.
We still sometimes would go back to that club, where it all began. We’d approach each other as strangers, he’d buy me a drink, he’d let his hand trail over my skin. And just like that first time, I’d be dripping wet for him in seconds.
He’d take me through the crowds, pull us into the bathroom, tear my panties away from me and fuck me hard and dirty — rough and controlling just like I craved and just how he loved.
But unlike the first time, those times, we’d leave together, and go back the the life and the family we’d created together. And maybe that wasn’t everyone’s idea of love. Maybe to some people, my husband fucking me against the tiled wall of a nightclub bathroom with my torn panties binding my hands behind my back and my hair wrapped around his fist until I came like a banshee was something to look down on. Maybe to some people, him pulling me back through the club afterwards with our clothes disheveled, the sweet bruises from our roughness already rising, and his cum dripping down my thigh wasn’t love at all.
Those people didn’t bother us one bit, because it was for us.
We had it all, and that’s what mattered. We had the family, the love, and the sweet and the hot.
Sugar and spice, as they say, makes everything nice.
The End.
Flirting With The Law
Flirting With The Law
She’s been tempting us for longer than she knows. Now it’s time to find out what happens when you cross the law.
Samantha
Getting pulled over is the last thing I need after I find out my scumbag of a fiancé is cheating on me.
But that’s before I see the cops who step out of that squad car.
They’re dangerously gorgeous - rough looking and tattooed, not to mention demanding and dominant. Even more, the way they look at me stirs something dark inside of me that’s just dying to get out.
And I know I should be scared, or furious at their rough, hands-on treatment when they make me bend over the hood of the car and submit. I know I definitely shouldn’t be turned on when they cuff my hands behind my back and put their filthy hands on me.
And I definitely shouldn’t want them to keep going. I definitely shouldn’t want more…
Blake/Dustin
We’ve had our eyes on her for longer than she knows. It was our job to watch her - seeing her at her most vulnerable, at her most intimate.
And now we’re obsessed.
Now we’re consumed with the primal need to have her and make her ours.
She might not be the criminal we’re after, but she’s wrapped up in this now, and there’ll be no denying us the sweet, innocent prize we’ve been dying to put our dirty hands on.
Come hell or high water, Samantha Caraway will submit to us.
Both of us.
And not even the law we uphold will stand in our way.
> Flirting With The Law is a quick and filthy book involving two utterly obsessed alpha heroes, one sassy heroine, and enough insta-love, steam, and sugary-sweetness to make your Kindles melt. This mfm romance is all about her – no m/m. If you love over-the-top, slightly unrealistic, and wildly dirty stories, this one’s for you! HEA with NO CHEATING!
Author’s Note:
Warning: Flirting With The Law is a quick MFM romance involving two completely obsessed alpha men in (and out!) of uniform, a sassy heroine, handcuffs, insta-love, and a frankly obscene amount of steam. It does involve mild D/s themes and scenes involving restraint that may be triggering to some readers, though engine-revving for others. Like all my books though, the HEA is guaranteed (and in this case, extra sugary-sweet), so I promise it’ll be worth it at the end!
Please know that this book is a MFM romance, which is to say, it's all about her - no MM action.
Happy Valentine’s Day, from me to you. Because who needs roses and chocolate when you’ve got handcuffs and two rugged, dominant cops? :P
-Madison
Copyright © 2017 Madison Faye
All rights reserved.
Editing: Sennah Tate
Cover: White Rabbit Creative
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations used for review purposes.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, organizations, actual events or locales is entirely coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademark status of products referred to in this book and acknowledges that trademarks have been used without permission.
This book is intended for mature, adult audiences only. It contains extremely sexually explicit and graphic scenes and language which may be considered offensive by some readers. This book is strictly intended for those over the age of 18.
All sexually active characters in this work are 18 years of age or older. All acts of a sexual nature are completely consensual.
1
Samantha
I groaned as my eyes opened in the darkness.
Making a face and feeling the shroud of sleep lifting from me, I glanced at the clock and cursed under my breath. It was way too early to be up, but I’d been having the hardest time sleeping in these days.
I swung my long legs out of the bed and stretched in the early-morning darkness. Behind me, Tim snorted groggily and turned heavily in his sleep, a rattling snore tumbling from his mouth. I wrinkled my nose as the smell of alcohol drifted over to me from his sleeping, grumbling form. I let out a deep sigh.
I didn't remember him coming home last night, but apparently, he'd had another late one — a “networking event” he called it. “Getting drunk with his pals,” was probably a more apt title for my fiancé’s recent nighttime excursions, I thought with a frown.
The layoff had been tough for him, I knew that. And at first, I’d been as sympathetic as I could be. I played the dutiful fiancée and the supportive partner when the law firm had let him go not long after his promotion. But as weeks, then months, went by without so much as a peep about even looking for another job, it seemed more and more that Tim was liking his new-found freedom from the work-week grind.
Really, it wasn't that he was unemployed that bugged me, it was the bullshit from him that came along with that.
I stewed over this as I scooped grounds into the coffee machine. It was much too early to be worrying about big-picture stuff like this, I decided, groaning at the smell of the coffee beans wafting out of the can.
It was quiet as I sat at the kitchen counter, silent but for my thoughts and the low gurgle of the coffee machine.
I sat there, sighing and sliding my fingers through my long dark hair. I had my writing, not that it payed much, and after the layoff, I’d suggested that I could always go back to teaching. I’d enjoyed teaching, however brief it was before we got engaged and moved to the west coast for Tim’s new job. And after that, I didn’t really have to work anymore since he was bringing in so much.
But Tim thought that was “below” us now, now that we lived in a higher tax bracket, a better neighborhood, with higher bills. None of which we could afford for much longer without work. But he also refused to look at anything that was less than the position he'd had before, which was looking more and more unrealistic. I sighed again into the darkness of the kitchen and reached for the coffee.
My thoughts were interrupted by a loud ping from across the counter. With a frown, I glanced at the origin of the sound as it went off again.
Tim's phone, left downstairs next to his half-drunk beer from his late-night arrival. Blinking in the semi-darkness, I reached for it to find the volume switch, and then went totally still has my blood chilled in my veins.
There, lit up across the screen of his phone, was a photo of a pair of nude, perky tits.
Tits that were decidedly not mine.
The room went silent around me as I felt my pulse pound in my ears.
The phone pinged again, this time a text popping up on the screen:
Hey honny, thought u were cuming ovr last nite.
What. The. Fuck.
My face went leaden and hard, coldly emotionless, and I felt as though the wind was slowly going out of my sails. There was a tightening, like a knot, in the pit of my stomach, and for a minute I almost felt like I was going to throw up.
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
My face felt numb as I hissed it into the empty kitchen.
The real shitty part was, I wasn’t even surprised. Part of me could have almost guessed this was going to happen. I didn’t think Tim stepping out had started until after the job loss, and since then, it’s almost like he hadn't even been trying too hard to hide it. That and the fact that he’d barely touched me at all in months had made it something I was almost expecting to happen.
It hurt — a lot — the first time I’d smelled perfume on his shirt, or found a phone number scrawled on a bar napkin in his pocket. But it was always something passing, something that could probably just be explained away, even if I knew deep down what was going on. So instead, I guess I’d just internalized it, as if never talking about it made it something that was just in my head.
But, this text message — yeah, there wasn’t really any denying this.
I glanced back at the phone on the counter, paused, and then reached down to unlock his screen, bringing up his messages. I looked at text again — at her tits — and felt the rage searing up inside. I tried to picture the little tramp attached to those breasts who was texting my fiancé at this hour.
I frowned at the message:
thought u were cuming over.
Were. So, he'd planned to, but hadn't? I furrowed my brow at the message.
Goddammit, I was so tired of being such a fucking pushover about everything! I knew — I knew — I should confront Tim about this, but something kept stopping me. Even now, I was figuring out how to push it to the back of my mind, with evidence right in my face!
The phone dinged again and I looked down and gasped.
The view was wider now, and clearly a selfie being taken in a bathroom mirror. The girl was topless, her tits pushed out as she struck a sexy pose for the camera in her hand. I could see the lips puckering on her face, though nothing above except for long tendrils of blond hair. She had her thumb hooked into the waistband of her panties, and had them pulled down enough to almost see her trampy little pussy.
It was the message that followed next that hit me in the gut.
dont u wanna fuck me like last time ;) ;) ;) ??
The anger welled fast inside of me. I felt betrayal, dismissal, shame. There was no denying it to myself anymore, it was right there staring me in the face. My fiancé was fucking somebody else.
I put my face in my hands, elbows on the count
er, as I exhaled slowly. In a way, I felt relieved. No more second guessing myself, no more bullshit, no more thinking I was just being that woman; paranoid and accusing.
I looked down at the picture on Tim’s phone again and shook my head, shaking.
I wondered briefly where they’d met.
The phone went off again. This time I didn’t even look at it before I snatched it up and slammed it back face down on the counter.
I needed to get out of the house and clear my head.
2
Samantha
Twenty minutes later, I was racing towards the beach — the one place where I could just escape it all and clear my head of all this.
After throwing Tim’s phone down and gritting my teeth, I’d pretty much just gone upstairs, tossed on my bikini and stomped out the door, slamming it behind me. We lived barely a mile from the beach, but right then, I wanted to feel the wind in my hair and the power of acceleration. So, I’d also snagged the keys to the Tim’s new convertible on the way out — the new, ridiculously expensive car that he’d insisted on getting, despite his total lack of job. “It’s part of the image, babe,” he’d said. “Gotta look the part.”
Right.
I squealed the tires loudly as I ripped out of our driveway.
I felt better out on the road, but I was still screaming inside about the skank my fiancé was very apparently cheating on me with. I wanted to think of her as this little home-wrecking slut, but then, who knew what story Tim had told her. In my mind though, she totally knew he was taken. In the terrible daydream in my head, the fact that he was stepping out on me was even part of their illicit affair; something they joked about or incorporated into their romps in cheap motel rooms, or wherever it was he was fucking her.
