Space Between (Smart Girl Mafia Series: Book 3)

by Amiee Smith

  “Was I the guy in the fantasy?”

  “Yes, but you had a beard and hipster glasses,” she says with a wink.

  I watch my wife squat in her tall metallic heels, lowering the front of my briefs with her long dark nails. Her red tongue circles my shaft before taking all of it into her mouth. My knees tremble. The tip of my dick hits the back of her tight throat, and I moan an octave louder than I speak.

  “God, Brittney,” I whisper, latching both hands to the back of her head to stay upright. Her thick curly hair is soft against my palms.

  She grips my calves with both hands and pounds my cock into her mouth. With each thrust, her tongue strokes the underside of my length. I love my wife for loving the art of a messy blowjob. Saliva drips from the corners of her mouth, down her chin, and over the top of my tight balls and thighs.

  “I’m going to bust soon. Stand up, sweetheart.”

  Rising, Brit lifts her ruffled skirt and sits on the edge of the desk. Her long smooth legs, toned thighs, and all-natural pussy on parade. She never tries to be sexy. She just is.

  “Let’s do the bed,” I say, stroking my cock.

  “It’s office hours, Alex. There is no bed. I just gave you a private lecture on the history of women in jazz. Now you’re going to suck my clit to thank me.”

  She leans back on her elbows.

  I grunt, lowering to my knees.

  I’ve fantasized about fucking my wife in her office many times. Sometimes she’s bent over her desk. Sometimes I’m lying on the floor and her juicy entrance is all up in my face. Sometimes I’m sitting in her chair, letting her ride me. Each fantasy ends with her creaming all over my dick.

  Who says dreams don’t come true?

  I run my nose over her thick dark curls, inhaling and exhaling my love for her.

  “I appreciate your devotion. But there are other students waiting to speak with me, Alex. Get to it.”

  I do as I am told. Using the tip of my tongue, I caress, massage, and tease her nub. Brit moans, gliding her nails over the back of my neck. She pushes her pelvis into my mouth. She tastes better than my favorite fantasy. I flick my tongue over her again and again.

  “Use your fingers.”

  “Yes, Professor Palmer.”

  I meet my wife’s cognac eyes. She brings my hand to her mouth. The hand where my wedding band should be. Brit licks my two middle fingers. Her warm tongue lubes and prepares them.

  “Make me come, Alex.”

  “Yes, Professor Palmer.”

  I slide my fingers inside her. I know what she likes. I know how to make her come. Locating the soft, fleshy spot, I apply pressure and stimulate her sex. At the same time, I spread my tongue over her clit again and again. Brit moans deeply.

  “You are doing such a good job.”

  “Thank you, Professor Palmer.”

  She sighs and rocks her hips against my hand. I insert a third finger and pick up speed, milking her spot. Her thighs shake and tremble. Lifting the skirt of her dress higher, Brit rapidly grinds my hand.

  Nearing orgasm, she cries out.

  I drag my mouth away from her clit, so I can watch my wife squirt all over me. Wetness covers my hand, dripping down my wrist. Clear fluid pours from her sex, soaking my undershirt. I know she could come more, but I want her to do it with my dick pounding her from behind. Removing my fingers, I stand.

  “Thank you, Professor Palmer,” I say, taking off my shirt.

  Brit sits up and plants kisses on my chest.

  “You’re welcome. Please always respect the power of the pussy,” she says, smiling.

  “Always. Turn around.”

  She does what she’s told, her peachy ass calling me home. If we had more time, I’d love to bury my face between her cheeks. I spread my shirt on the floor at her feet and retrieve the condom she laid out on the bed. Using my wet hand, I stroke my dick several times before rolling the condom into place.

  “Can those Jimmy Choos be replaced?”

  “Oh, no, husband. These are from the now defunct bridal line he did with Vera Wang in the early 2000s. I bought them from a woman on shoetrade.com who had them made-to-order. She made me promise to take excellent care of them.”

  My wife’s voice is as innocent and sincere as a child protecting their most prized possession.

  “Take them off. I would hate for you to break your promise. I don’t plan to stop until there is a puddle at your feet.”

  Brit slips off her shoes and places them next to the bed. Balling the edge of her skirt in her hands, she bends over the desk. While I wouldn’t mind spending the rest of the party in squirt-soaked jeans, I know she would care. I slip off my shoes, socks, jeans, and underwear, tossing them on the bed.

  “Puddles are extra credit, Alex. You are quite the overachiever.”

  “Only for you, Professor Palmer. Only for you,” I mumble, positioning myself behind her.

  I skate the tip of my dick over her sex several times, before entering her yoni. Stretching out. Filling her up. Taking refuge in the center of creation. I pause in reverence and let the history of Brit + Alex surge through me.

  First, she was my teacher. Then I was her boss. Then we became friends. And even before we said, “I do,” a marriage formed. An alliance. A bond. A commitment. Yes, there were missteps on both sides. In the end, we always came back to each other.

  Our relationship... the space between us, weaved with golden strains of unconditional, unbreakable love.

  Bowing my head in her curly hair, I grab a fist of her skirt and move in and out of her pussy. Slowly. Feeling my way through her. Expressing my love with each thrust.

  “Oh, Alex. You are really trying to get an A,” Brit moans, lowly.

  “Only for you, Professor Palmer,” I whisper, kissing her bare shoulder.

  Brit grinds her ass into my pelvis and lifts a knee onto the desk. The shift in position causes my dick to slip deeper inside. I groan as her core squeezes my shaft.

  “Earn your A, Alex. Make me come like your GPA depends on it. Puddles. I’m expecting puddles.”

  “Yes, Professor Palmer.”

  It took years for us to get here and I aim to please. Wrapping my hand around her toned calf, I pound in and out of my wife at an enthusiastic pace. Overachieving. Smashing. Proving my worth. Smashing. Honoring the pussy. Smashing.

  Heavy breathing, my balls tapping her ass, and my wife’s deliciously wet sex mixes with the sound of Childish Gambino’s “Redbone” streaming through the speakers, reminds me we are in the middle of a party.

  I’m so close to climax, I don’t think I can hold out much longer. Releasing Brit’s calf, I reach around and press my wife’s mound, just above her pubic bone. Hitting this pressure point causes my wife’s g-spot to protrude so my shaft can coax her to orgasm.

  Brit shudders in my arms and meets each of my thrusts with the same enthusiasm. My glasses bounce on my face. My muscles burn with exertion. Her soft bottom presses into my hard physique. Sweat beads on my forehead. We rock this way. Over and over.

  “Alex, I’m not going to get there. Please come.”

  Like, hell. I promised Professor Palmer puddles. I promised myself puddles.

  I know my wife.

  “Pretty Professor Palmer, come for daddy,” I whisper, applying more pressure to her mound.

  Brit gasps sharply. “Yes! Yes! Say it again, Dragon,” she says through ragged breath.

  “Come for daddy, Brittney.”

  She offers a lustful moan, tilting her hips forward. Wetness streams down our legs, pooling on my undershirt and the hardwood floor below. Pumping slowly in and out of my wife, my balls tighten and jerk.

  Brit calls my name, a sultry melodic tone in the key of love. I orgasm hard, groaning in the key of forever.

  CHAPTER 24

  BRIT PALMER

  Sublime’s “Doin’ Time/Summertime” plays throughout the house.

  Jen’s sound system is fantastic. Alex will definitely need to invest in a system f
or our Oakland home.

  “I’ll increase your spending budget to $10,000 next month if you break girl code and come home with me. Pep will want her mommy to kiss her good night,” Alex says.

  “No, Dragon. I can’t spend the night in Downtown L.A. I have to go back to the Airbnb with Emma. Just Facetime me when you get home so I can say good night to Miz Pepper.”

  Squatting in heels, the ruffles of my dress graze my chin. I run another Clorox wipe over the floor in the guest room. After washing up in the en-suite bathroom, I found a Costco-sized supply of Clorox wipes under the sink. According to Jen, all activities are fair game at her parties... just as long as everyone cleans up after themselves. (I love her.)

  Rising, I toss the wipe in the trash can on top of Alex’s soaked undershirt.

  “Fine. Ready to go back to the party?” he asks.

  “Yes. The fireworks will start soon.”

  All cleaned up, no one would know Alex just used his cock to lower his wife’s IQ several points. Leaving the top three buttons of his dress shirt undone, the nose of the dragon tattooed on his chest is visible. An amalgam of conservative and edgy, he’s breathtakingly handsome.

  Why did I ever believe he needed a beard and hipster glasses to be attractive?

  I feel so lucky to be by his side tonight.

  “I’m amazed Jen can convince the Pasadena City Council to let her have a firework show at every party.”

  “Only the big parties. And have you seen her smile? She could convince a Hasidic Jew to eat pork and like it.”

  “Yes, so I’ve heard she’s rather persuasive,” he mumbles, opening the door and handing me my purse.

  Walking hand in hand to the stairway, we run into two other couples doing time in Jen + Jon guest rooms.

  Before I can register what I just saw, Alex whirls me against the wall, laying a passionate kiss on my lips for the first time tonight.

  Happy we no longer need to sneak around (like other people), I angle my mouth over his as the footsteps on the stairs fades away. Our tongues meet for a moment before Alex ends the kiss.

  “You were right! He’s definitely the guy from the Twitter photo.”

  “Told you. And it’s none of our business, Brit. Don’t say anything to the other girls.”

  “I won’t. Besides, she’d just politely bite my head off and deflect like the politician she is.”

  “Yes, politics makes that a messy hook-up on both sides. I don’t understand why they’d do it in the middle of a party.”

  “Jen and Lynn have always said hooking up in public might be her thing.”

  “Oh, the thrill of getting caught gets her wet.”

  “Alex!”

  “I’m not judging. Everyone has their thing,” he says, walking down the stairs.

  Following behind, my attention turns toward the other couple.

  “Dragon, you know that could potentially be an HR nightmare.”

  “Yeah, hopefully I won’t have to deal with it until we get back from tour.”

  “Tour?”

  “Yeah, the manager I met today said he can get you on the summer jazz festival circuit. You wouldn’t be on the main stage, but he’s certain he can book ten dates up and down the Eastern Seaboard. I promised him Willingham Wealth Management would handle his son’s college savings with no fees for the first year.”

  We reach the bottom of the stairs as the boom of fireworks echoes outside. Cradling his hand in mine, I fight back tears.

  “I can’t believe, in a week, all my dreams have come true. Thank you, Alex. Thank you.”

  “No. It took almost nine years for us to get here. Now all you need to do is convince Roy to leave California.”

  “Ah, no. That’s your job, Manager,” I say with a wink.

  We stroll through the backyard, joining the Mafia and the rest of the party guests. Everyone’s heads are turned up to the sky for the flashes of colorful lights.

  While I’m an avid fan of fireworks, I spend most of the show staring at my husband’s clean-shaven face. The lit-up night sky reflects on the lenses of his conservative silver glasses. So handsome. So right.

  And better than any fantasy.

  ***

  “I get to go! Lynn just texted me. She added me to the Champagne Mani-Pedi party today!” Emma says, bouncing on the foot of the bed.

  I awake the next morning, shrouded in plush white bedding, to Emma crashing into my room. A music junkie like myself, she’s playing a Yo-Yo Ma recording in the living room.

  Opening my eyes, I feel the glass of my phone smashed against my face.

  After returning from the party last night, I ate tacos I ordered on Postmates with Emma in the kitchen and rehashed all the happenings from the party. (She conveniently left out a few pertinent details.)

  Once I finished grubbing and gabbing, I went to my bedroom to Facetime with Alex and Miz Pepper.

  We spent the whole party together but could still find over an hour of stuff to talk about... the tour, my new job, the future of Willingham Wealth Management, Roy, moving into our new home in Oakland, a little Mafia gossip, and of course cooing about how we have the cutest, most perfect dog in the world.

  Exhausted, my husband traded English for Italian halfway through the conversation. And I didn’t skip a beat.

  Bored and hungover one weekend, while still living in the Silver Lake mansion, I used Alex’s credit card to purchase three months of Rosetta Stone for Italian. I binge-learned every lesson over two days.

  Thanks to my bionic brain, I followed along with everything Alex said with ease. Because I grew up speaking French with my mom, I responded in English, French, and Italian.

  “That’s great, Em. It’ll be fun.”

  Getting up, I slip my green kimono over Alex’s gray sweatpants and a vintage light blue Mills College T-shirt Emma gave me for my birthday. I drop by the bathroom to splash water on my face and brush my teeth. The smell of coffee leads me to the kitchen with my tiny teaching-assistant-turned-friend trailing behind.

  Upon arriving in Pasadena yesterday, we walked to the Natural Foods a few blocks away and bought enough food to feed three families. Now with my new culinary skills, I’m eager to do more cooking in preparation for officially living with my husband.

  “I’m so excited to hang out with the girls again! They are such strong, talented, fun women. Do you think there’s a chance they’ll induct me into the Mafia?”

  Wicked smart. Gifted. Only child. A musical prodigy. Perfect score on the verbal section of the SAT. Working on an advanced degree. A minority. And she can drink her body weight in booze. Emma definitely meets all the criteria to be a member of the Smart Girl Mafia.

  I pour steaming coffee into a large white mug and add copious amounts of sugar and half & half to the dark liquid.

  “All signs point to yes. I’ll talk to the girls after wedding weekend.”

  Returning the cream to the refrigerator, I retrieve eggs, bacon, and milk.

  “I really hope they like me. Growing up, all I did was play music. While I got to travel the world, I never made any real friends. My only connections outside of music were loser boyfriends.”

  Lining a sheet pan with foil, I spread out strips of bacon. This week, the Barefoot Contessa taught me how to prepare bacon in the oven and make scrambled eggs.

  “I never had a real boyfriend,” I share.

  Setting the pan to the side, I preheat the oven and pull out a mixing bowl.

  “What about Alex?”

  “We never dated.”

  “From everything you’ve told me, that’s exactly what you and Alex have been doing.”

  “I guess. A part of me wishes we had been a little more traditional with a real courtship, a real engagement, and a real wedding. My parents never had a real relationship, so in retrospect, it would have been interesting to have something more normal with Alex. Pancakes?”

  “Yes! Wow. Brit, you really did learn how to cook this week.”

  “Alex taug
ht me Nick’s pancake recipe,” I say, retrieving dry ingredients from the cabinet.

  “Alex and Nick cook?! Gorgeous, successful, and good in the kitchen. No family should have that much hotness in it! Are their parents attractive too?”

  “For the record, the only things Alex knows how to make are pancakes and lasagna. And yes, both his parents are attractive. Alan, their dad, is tall, an average white man with gray blue eyes. Sophia, their mom, is my idol. She used to model. And her clothes, needless to say, are fabulous.”

  “She must love having a daughter-in-law who loves fashion as much as you do,” Emma says, pouring more coffee into her cup and sitting at the small four-chair table in the center of the space.

  “Ah, I’ve met her several times, and I worked at Sophia in Old Town Pasadena for a summer, but we’ve never really spoken. Last year, I flew up to San Francisco with them when Nick bought his house, but she spent the plane ride talking to Lynn’s parents. She did say she liked my shoes. I wore these fierce Manolo Blahnik Multi-Color Canvas with a super high heel.”

  “I haven’t seen those,” Emma says.

  “Girl, there are only so many days in a school semester. I’ve got enough shoes that I could wear a different pair every day for at least 18 months and that’s not including my collection of TOMS,” I share, mixing together the dry and wet ingredients with a green silicone spoon.

  “You’re so cool.”

  “In a twisted part of my mind, I’d like to think I am finally the girl with cool clothes and shoes. But that same part of me is a compulsive little whore.”

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself, Brit. Everyone’s got their issues. You know I do.”

  “Thanks, Em.”

  I pull out a wide skillet for pancakes and a deep skillet for eggs. I’m amazed at the quality of the pots and pans in our Airbnb. Lynn + Nick only stay in Airbnbs when they visit Pasadena. Lynn says Nick needs a kitchen. Now that I cook, I completely understand. They booked a townhouse three blocks away on Marengo.

  The doorbell chimes.

  “Were you expecting someone?” Emma asks.

  “No. It could be Lynn. She said if she got bored on her run this morning, she’d be tempted to stop by. Will you go check?”