The Bride (The Boss)

by Barnette, Abigail

  I changed the direction of the conversation. Considering the week I was having, I didn’t have the fortitude to overthink something so weird as living to be fifty years old without ever touching a vacuum.

  “I never said we couldn’t have a cleaning lady come in a few times a month,” I began reasonably. “Thirty-five-thousand square feet is a lot of house. We’re not going to use it all every single day. And like I said, you’re going to be retired. And you love to cook.”

  “I do love to cook,” he conceded.

  “And it will be awful nice to have super loud sex whenever we want.” I walked slowly toward him. “That was kind of what I was getting at when I told you Sue wasn’t here.”

  Emma was in England as of this morning, wrapping things up at Global Defense Fund’s London office. We were truly alone, a rare occasion that had to be savored.

  I straddled his lap and leaned in close. He hadn’t taken his tie off yet, so I gripped it and tugged. “What do you say? Wanna do rude things to each other?”

  “Always,” he said with a slight smile. “I only… I didn’t know when you’d be in the mood. After what happened.”

  It was true that I was still devastated by my fight with Holli. Six years of friendship didn’t magically disappear in two days. I’d spent most of the morning watching Bowfinger and crying, but by afternoon, I’d gotten bored with my sadness. Just because Holli hadn’t called me didn’t mean she wouldn’t; we needed cool off time. I wasn’t about to spend mine constantly moping, though. Not when Neil and I had a chance to be a normal couple.

  “Why don’t I change, and then I’ll start on dinner. We have all night,” he reminded me. “Besides, the sound of my empty stomach won’t make for a very sexy encounter. I worked through my lunch today.”

  I’d seen Neil’s “working lunches.” He usually just sat next to a plate of something until it was too cold and congealed to be eaten, then came home famished.

  “All right.” I climbed off his lap. “I could do with a shower first, anyway.”

  While Neil went about his plan, I set to mine. A quick, hot shower lifted me from my funk—both depressive and odor wise—enough that I wasn’t content to just throw on some sweats or pajamas. Working from home had severely enabled style-laziness.

  I blew out my hair, then took a curling iron to it, creating soft, romantic waves that fell around my shoulders. When I put on my makeup, I went with a thick, crisp cat’s eye in black liquid liner and put on MAC’s “Relentlessly Red” lipstick. It would match the dress I would wear.

  I’d recently acquired a truly amazing, bright red sheath dress, ruched from hem to very, very low neckline. It was possibly the tightest thing I’d ever purchased, and I hadn’t worn it for Neil yet. If he’d noticed it in the closet, he hadn’t said anything. I chose a red lace balconette push up bra and slid the extra thick padding into the pockets in the cups. Then I struggled into the dress, pulled up the zipper and checked myself out in the mirror.

  I looked like I should have been in a hair band music video in the 90’s. It was perfect. I slipped on black patent leather pumps and walked myself and my epic cleavage right on out to the kitchen.

  Neil’s back was turned when I entered. He was frowning at something in the refrigerator, holding the brushed steel door open, and he didn’t look at me as he asked, “I’ve put one of Sue’s lentil casseroles in the oven, but what would you like as a side? It seems our choices are kale, kale, and more…”

  His words died away as he looked up and took in the sight of me.

  I did a slow turn. “What do you think?”

  I knew what he thought. The dress fit me like a latex glove, and created the illusion of gorgeous, long legs on my five-foot-four body. And if there had been any doubt in my mind as to his opinion, they were entirely removed when he strode toward me and grabbed me, his hands sinking into my hair. He didn’t kiss my mouth—good, because I didn’t want him to smudge my lipstick quite yet—but tilted my head to the side to suck at my earlobe and whisper, “I think I’m going to rip that dress off you, throw you on the counter, and fuck you until you can’t walk tomorrow.”

  A few crude words spoken in his cultured accent was all it took to set the blood in my body pounding south. The ache of my desire was not gradual, but an immediate, intense need.

  “You’d better get a condom first,” I reminded him. We’d agreed we wouldn’t go unprotected for three months after we’d had sex with another partner. That provided time for a checkup to get a clean bill of sexual health.

  “Oh, yes, I’m sorry. You’re right.” He groaned against my ear. “The casserole will burn, won’t it?”

  “Probably.” I stepped back. “You’re not really going to rip it, are you, Sir?”

  “Have I ever destroyed anything I didn’t replace?”

  I thought of all the panties he’d shredded, the buttons he’d popped, and the underwire he’d twisted. But he was right. He had replaced all of them.

  “If you don’t want me to, I won’t,” he promised with a chuckle. “Get a stool and drag it over there, where I can see you.”

  I pulled one of the high backed stools from the island. It screeched on the tiles. Neil went back to the refrigerator, barely sparing me a look as I hopped up on my perch.

  He dropped a bundle of kale on the island, then turned to me, leaning on one hand on the counter. After a moment of consideration, he asked, “Are you wearing panties, Sophie?”

  I pressed my lips together and shook my head, swaying one knee just slightly open from the other.

  “Show me,” he ordered.

  With a hand on each knee, I slowly pushed my legs apart. I trailed my fingers up my thighs as I spread them wider, baring myself completely.

  He nodded his approval and went back to the island.

  I wasn’t sure if I should close my legs or not, so I tried to.

  “Don’t do that. Did I say you could close them?”

  “No, Sir. Forgive me, Sir,” I purred back at him.

  He glanced up briefly as he reached for a head of garlic. “How do you feel?”

  “Exposed, Sir.” I giggled at the wash of nervousness that always followed his first few commands. It was the giddy moment I realized that the game had started.

  “Good. Get your tits out.”

  A hot flush traveled up my neck. I loved how obscene he became in this role, saying things to me that he would never normally say. I slipped one strap off my shoulder then I decided I’d done far too much work getting into the dress to take it off already. I jerked the neckline down and lifted my breasts from the cups of my bra.

  “Touch them. However you like, as long as you don’t stop.” He slid a cutting board onto the island and began to mince some garlic.

  At his words, my skin tingled with gooseflesh. The blood rushing faster through my veins made the room seem colder, only intensifying the feeling of exposure and vulnerability. The uncertainty of what he had planned, what was going on in his devious mind, made me squirm in my chair.

  I started by trailing my fingers over the tops of my breasts, then down between them, skating up and around my hard nipples. Neil barely glanced at me. I knew he wasn’t so absorbed in cooking that he couldn’t spare a look at me pleasuring myself. His mind worked fast, so whatever it was he was carefully planning would be—

  “Nothing too intense tonight,” he said, as if he’d read my thoughts.

  My hands froze on my body. He looked up, his expression soft and sympathetic. “Darling, you’re not having the best week. We can still play, but I’d rather we keep it light, for your sake. There’s no reason to risk sub drop.”

  He had a point. I’d had sub drop twice before; once, because he’d moved too fast at the beginning of our relationship, and the second when we’d played again for the first time after he’d come home from the hospital for good. Both times, I’d been experiencing emotional upheaval in other parts of my life, and submission had opened the floodgates and poured all my stress out
, washing me away on a days-long depressive episode. He was totally right, two days after a huge fight with my best friend was not the time to let someone slap me and call me a whore, no matter how turned on it made me to think of it now.

  “You’re right, Sir. Should I keep doing this?” I brushed the backs of my fingers over one tight nipple and put a little catch in my breath so he could hear it.

  He smirked and turned to the stove to reach for one of the copper saucepans hanging against the backsplash. “Did I tell you to stop?”

  By the time Neil had braised the kale and garlic in vegetable stock, retrieved the casserole from the oven, and opened a bottle of white wine, I was a shivering, aroused mess. He’d made me come like this before, just stroking my breasts and rolling his fingers over my nipples. I’d been tied down and blindfolded, wondering when he’d hurry up and just get to my clit already, when a slow, shuddering orgasm had left me whimpering and writhing against the sheets.

  “I think we’ll eat in the dining room tonight,” he said cheerfully, as though he hadn’t been hearing my heavy breathing, my mewls and moans of frustration. “Why don’t you go out and wait. You’ll have time to edge at least once before I have the table set.”

  “Yes, Sir.” I hopped down from my seat. My cunt was slick and hot, my clit aching to be touched. Though I knew I would only be more frustrated when I denied myself at the very limit of my pleasure, I needed the contact badly. I pulled my top back up, and though he hadn’t asked me to, he didn’t object. This was different from our usual routine. Any other night, I would have likely found myself on my knees, getting roughly throat-fucked as a punishment, or spanked so hard I cried.

  Not that I would have minded. It was a good thing Neil paid more attention to my limits than I did.

  I sat at the table, in my usual place to the right of Neil’s chair, and spread my legs. Even though we were alone, I couldn’t help but worry that someone might walk in. That was probably why he was making me do this. The thrill of the fear of discovery—when it was highly unlikely we would be interrupted—would create greater intensity without needlessly endangering my mental health.

  Slowly, because I knew my Sir wouldn’t like it if I rushed, I slid my hand between my legs. The first touch of my fingertips skimming my labia was like an electric shock. I dipped my fingers between my folds and coated them with my wetness, so they glided effortlessly over my swollen clit. Already aroused to desperation, it took two swirls over my sensitive hood before I felt my orgasm tightening my cunt. I had to keep going, right up to the very edge, fighting back the urge to come. I tried to think of anything and everything possible to keep my mind off my inevitable orgasm, but it was all I could concentrate on. I had to hand it to guys; holding out was harder than I’d ever imagined it could be.

  When Neil came in with two plates balanced on his arm and silverware in his hands, I was panting, rocking in my chair, afraid to move my hand off my body, I was so close.

  “Don’t come,” he warned, sliding a plate in front of me and across from me. “You’re so close to your reward.”

  He hadn’t set his usual place. Something was up.

  It took him an unusually long time to return. When he did, he poured the wine into our glasses and set them out with more care than totally necessary. I breathed slowly, trying to ignore the throbbing between my legs. He didn’t take the seat across from me, but his usual place at the head of the table.

  “Come here.” He patted the tabletop.

  Oh, fuck yes. The fact that I could stand up and take the two steps to his side without climaxing was a testament to my self-control.

  His hands bracketed my waist, and he lifted me onto the perfectly smooth, lacquered wood. My skirt was still plastered around my hips, and I gasped when my bare vulva touched the cool surface.

  Neil gripped the top of my dress with one hand between my breasts. He used the red silk to pull me down and slanted my mouth across his. Now, smearing my makeup was the furthest thing from my mind, and I matched him for every passionate slide of lips and tongue. He kissed me until I whimpered in distress, desperate for air, then let me come up for oxygen.

  His mouth a millimeter from mine, he whispered, “Would you like to come, Sophie?”

  I almost did, just from his words.

  “Y-yes. Please, Sir.” I rubbed my thighs together and wriggled on the table.

  His big, warm hands fell on my bare thighs, coaxing them apart, and he laid me back gently on the wide table. With his hands beneath the small of my back, he lifted my hips and said, “Put your feet on me. Good girl. I want to devour this gorgeous cunt.”

  I moaned and twisted in his grasp. There was always a moment for me, right before my body let go, a split second of fear in which I wanted to escape the inevitability of my climax. Neil held me like some ripe, exotic fruit, and bent his head to my mound as my high heels dug into the hard muscles of his thighs.

  He caught my clitoris in his mouth and sucked as he flicked his tongue over me. That was all it took, and I was writhing, loudly groaning in blissful relief. I arched my back, raised my hips, and before I could realize my error, Neil slipped his arms beneath the bends of my knees and hauled my legs over his shoulders.

  I had no leverage to get away from his mouth. He didn’t let up, pushing me on through torturous post-orgasm sensitivity, until it felt good again, until I began to want another orgasm, to need one. I thrashed on the table, but he held my hips firm. His tongue dipped into me, tasting me, fucking me, then he replaced it with his finger. He tapped and sucked my clit and roughly pumped his fingers against my g-spot, building pressure in me that was too much to fight. I came again, spilling over him, my thighs quaking on either side of his head.

  He looked up and grabbed the napkin beside his plate to wipe his face. Then he shrugged my limp legs off his shoulders, stood, unzipped his fly, and pulled a condom from his pocket.

  So that’s what had taken so long to get the wine. He’d been taking his pill and getting safe sex supplies. Very sneaky.

  Not that I was complaining; I wanted him so badly, with such painful emptiness, that the thought of walking to our bedroom seemed like a journey of hundreds of unsatisfied miles. “Please, Sir,” I begged him, though his intentions were clear. “Please fuck me.”

  He gripped my waist and roughly slid me farther up the table, to the ominous sound of something fragile clinking. I tried to remember if we’d ever fucked in a position that actively imperiled our dinner before.

  With one hand, he pinned my wrists together above my head, and with the other, he guided one of my legs around his back. He filled me with a rough thrust that almost knocked the wind out of me. I was so swollen, and he was so hard, that I knew I would feel this in the morning, but I was helpless. My body was no longer under the control of logic, common sense, or reason, and I ground against him, savoring the deep, sore burn as I stretched around his huge cock.

  “You’re so wet,” he groaned against my ear, and when I rose up to meet his next thrust, I felt moisture on my back. Holy shit, is that from me? Should I go to the doctor? Then I noticed the overturned wine bottle beside us, slowly chugging its contents on the table.

  I laughed so suddenly and so sharply that Neil startled and released my wrists. Through my hysterical giggling, I flung my pointed hand in the direction of the bottle. “I thought it was me, I thought I was having a medical squirting emergency.”

  He took my face in his hands and kissed me through our laughter, until the kissing became more important, and he moved slowly inside me again. I sighed and wrapped my arms around his shoulders, holding him tight to me, soft vocalizations purring from my throat with every one of his deep strokes.

  When he withdrew from me without warning, I mewled in disappointment. He gave my vulva a light slap and growled, “On your knees.”

  I flipped over, and he boosted me up so that I was on my hands and knees atop the table. In the change of position, my foot struck a dinner plate. The crash was deafenin
g in the otherwise silent room, and the casual destruction set my heart racing. Neil climbed up behind me, slid his hand into my hair and grabbed a fistful, then gently pushed my head to the table. He hauled my hips up and pushed into me slowly, just an inch or two. When I tried to move back, he slapped my ass. “You stay still.”

  He rocked back and forth, nearly pulling out of me entirely, then pushing back in that maddening, delicious few inches. I wanted him to fuck me harder, to take him in all the way, but I didn’t want him to stop teasing that sensitive opening.

  He adjusted his angle, and I caught my groan, too used to silencing myself so we wouldn’t be overheard.

  “We’re all alone tonight, Sophie,” he reminded me. “Let it go.”

  Then he drove in deep, and I shouted, “Oh, fuck yes!” and slapped my hand against the table.

  “There’s my girl,” he growled, and grasped my hips to pull me faster and harder.

  Okay, maybe I was slightly exaggerating my screams and moans, but damn it, it felt so good to show my unfettered appreciation for the awesomeness that was fucking my fiancé. Especially in the middle of our dining room table. It felt so naughty and exposed.

  He pushed my dress up farther and licked the spilled wine off my back, as much as his tongue could reach. Curving his body over mine, he groaned, “You’ll have to give me a hand here, Sophie.”

  “My pleasure, Sir,” I agreed breathlessly and reached down to rub my clit in furious circles. My climax curled my toes, tensed my shoulders and clenched my thighs before it burst over me in a wave of pleasure so intense, it left me boneless in its wake. I collapsed on the table, my cheek pressed to the cold lacquer. Neil still held my hips, and he thrust one last time with a loud, “Oh, fuck!” before he fell on top of me. The other plate crashed to the floor.

  I raised my head, and he kissed my cheek, his cock still throbbing inside of me.

  “So,” I gasped, wine dripping onto my face from the ends of my mussed hair. “We’re ordering pizza, then?”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN