“You are terrible,” she whispers, but she’s grinning as she says it.
“So that’s a yes, you will meet me in the bathroom in fifteen minutes?” I whisper back, one eyebrow arched, a grin fixed on my mouth.
She rolls her eyes. “You don’t want to even watch the play that we just spent months preparing?”
“We’ve seen the dress rehearsals approximately a hundred times,” I point out.
“But this is different. It’s opening night.”
“Which means the actors will all be nervous, and it will, frankly, be worse than the first rehearsal,” I fire back, and she laughs, but rolls her eyes in that way that tells me she knows I’m right. Even if she doesn’t want to admit it.
I expect her to resist, but her lips purse, and she studies the balconies. Then, to my surprise, she shoots me a sly smile. “I have a better idea.”
It doesn’t take us long to give the reporters the slip. After all, they aren’t allowed past the main lobby—except for the ones who have tickets in the orchestra section, down on the first floor. Mara and I climb up to the top together, and she slips a key out of her pocket. The key to the rear projector room—one with glass windows, and a view of the stage. But we put the sound board for this show one level down. The only things in this room are spare parts, extra bulbs for the huge spotlights… And a nice view of the stage, with our own private lock and key.
“Good thinking,” I murmur, grinning as she pushes the door open. I don’t wait, but drag her through it, one arm around her waist, and pin her against the windows, my lips going to her neck, tracing down the line of her dress toward her cleavage. “I knew I married you for your brains.”
“I thought you married me because I was the sexiest bad dancer you ever met,” she counters, wriggling her hips against mine to demonstrate. Between the bulge of her belly and the sexy shimmer of those hips, it’s enough to drive me wild. I trace my hands over her stomach, following the wide curve over and down, until my hand slides between her thighs to cup her pussy.
She gasps a little, shifting against me as her desire builds.
“That too,” I reply, grinning. “And for how fucking sexy you look in this dress… do you know how hard it’s been to keep my hands off of you tonight?” I murmur, my hands sliding around to grip her ass, pulling her against me quickly.
She can already feel the hard bulge in my suit pants, I’m sure. I’ve been hard as a rock since the moment we stepped into this enclosed space. “Probably as hard as it’s been to stop myself from getting too wet,” she replies, shimmying against me. “After all, I’m not wearing any panties under this thing…”
“I also married you for your dirty mind, you know.” I smirk.
“Dirty, or practical?” She arches an eyebrow with a grin, as down below us, the house lights dim, and the stage begins to brighten. “At least from here we have a view.”
Gently, I turn her around so she’s facing the window too. And then I draw her dress up, inching it higher and higher, my hands tracing along the hem as I do, fingertips trailing up the back of her thighs until I reach the crease where they meet her hips. I run my hands over her firm, tight ass, squeezing hard, drawing her back against me, grinding my hips against hers, before I dip one hand between her thighs.
She wasn’t lying. No panties whatsoever. And clearly the wet factor really was becoming a problem. I stroke a finger along her soaking wet slit, coating my fingertip in her juices, swirling it against her entrance.
“My wife really is impressively dirty,” I murmur against the back of her neck, my lips moving against her skin.
She shivers and arches her back against me. “My husband sure knows how to tease and toy with me,” she replies, her breath so hot it fogs the glass she’s leaning against.
Down below, the curtains part to reveal the stage she worked so hard on. The play that’s a culmination of my long dream.
Our dream, now. Like everything else in our life, we share it. And we work best together. United.
“You are incredibly talented, you know that, Mara?” I nod toward the stage. “Look at what you built.”
“What we built,” she corrects softly, leaning back to kiss my cheek, even as I continue to stroke her slit faster, feeling her growing even wetter beneath my touch. “We did this together.” Her hips arch beneath me, and I suck in a sharp breath as her ass grinds against my rock-hard cock.
“It’s sexy, how well we work together,” I reply.
In the foggy glass, I catch the reflection of her grin. “I couldn’t agree more.”
Below us, unaware, the play begins. The actors recite their lines—lines that, like I told Mara, the two of us have already heard at least a hundred times. But she’s right, too. There’s something different about tonight. About this being the real thing, the true first performance—even if there have already been reviewers sitting in on rehearsals for the bigger newspapers. Tonight is the night that will determine the play’s real performance. How the LA theater crowd—and the world’s bigger crowd on the whole—views it.
The anticipation and the adrenaline just make everything hotter, as I spread Mara’s legs gently, my fingers pressing inside her, one at a time, until I have three deep in her pussy and she’s breathing so hard half the glass is fog now.
“Fuck me, John,” she gasps, and I grin.
“That’s the idea.” I kiss the back of her neck, draw a stray strand of her hair up out of the way. “But first, I want you to come for me, wife.”
Her hips buck as she starts to rock against me. Her pussy still feels as tight as ever, but combined with the sight of her big, pregnant belly, it’s hotter than ever to watch her. To know that I put that baby in her belly. That she’s mine, as the ring glinting on her finger declares to the whole world.
Her head falls back against my chest and she lets out a long, moaning gasp as her first orgasm hits. I pin her against me, hold her body as she trembles, and keep moving my fingers inside her, loving the way her pussy contracts and releases around my fingers, grasping, convulsing with pleasure.
“God, you are fucking perfect,” I whisper.
Then I undo my belt buckle, and push down my pants, bringing the head of my cock to rest against her soaking wet entrance. I swirl the tip back and forth along her slit, coating myself in her juices, teasing, until she’s rocking back against me, one of her hands reaching back to grip the back of my neck, holding herself up.
“Fuck me, John,” she begs. “Please, please fuck me.”
I can never resist. Not when she asks me like that.
I push inside her, going slow, an inch at a time. Letting her feel every inch of my cock, and savoring the way her tight pussy clenches around me, her muscles tightening and relaxing as I go, each inch more delicious than the last. Finally, I’m buried all the way inside her, up to the hilt. For a moment, I don’t move. I stay there, savoring the feel of her.
I’ll never get tired of this. I can’t imagine ever having enough of my sexy, gorgeous wife.
“You’re mine,” I whisper, my hands sliding around her hips. One resting along her hip bone, and the other cupping her belly.
“I’m yours,” she agrees, tilting her head back until her lips find mine. “And this baby is yours.”
“I put our baby inside you,” I murmur. Her pussy tenses around me, her muscles clenching with the shiver that passes through her body at those words.
“Fuck yes you did,” she breathes, in a way that makes me grin, undoes something in me.
I draw out of her, just a little, and drive back in, hard enough to draw a gasp from her lips. Then I shift my hips, doing it again, again. Before long, we find a rhythm, my cock driving into her, our hips colliding with each thrust.
Far below us, on the stage, the play goes on. The actors recite their lines. The stage hands move in the background, unseen, trained by Mara to do their jobs at the exact right times. To be the people behind the curtain, invisibly creating a fantasy world for the audience
to lose themselves in.
Just like the world we’re losing ourselves in here. Only the two of us, savoring the fruits of our labor, in every sense.
When she finally comes again, it makes her whole body shake, and her knees go weak. I have to pin her against me, holding her up until I finish, coming deep inside her with a guttural groan that draws an answering moan from her lips.
We wind up staying in the booth for the whole first act. Neither of us want to leave each other’s sides. And my hands don’t want to leave her body. It doesn’t take long for us to get hot and bothered again, just by one another’s proximity. I already know, as I pull her into my arms once more, kissing her until I can feel her heartbeat against my lips, pounding in her throat—I will never be able to get enough of her.
But that won’t ever stop me trying.
By the time the lights come on at intermission, we’re a mess, but neither of us care. She straightens her hair as best she can and draws me out of the booth, back into the noise and bright lights of the theater with a huge grin on her face.
“Who’d have thought?” she calls over her shoulder as we head toward the main part of the theater, catching claps and nods of approval the whole way as we go. “That blowing off steam in Las Vegas could turn into such a productive move for both our careers.” She winks and I laugh, pulling her back to my side to steal another kiss from her.
“Not to mention a productive move for our whole lives.” I bring my palm to rest against her belly. “It might have been a crazy move for both of us, Mara, but I have to say… I chose the right woman to elope with that night.”
She laughs and leans up to tweak my nose. “Hope you don’t have any regrets lingering, because it’s way too late to apply for that annulment.”
“Believe me, Mara.” I cup her cheek in my hand. “Marrying you is the best decision I’ve ever made.”
She sinks into my kiss again, and just then, as we’re pressed together, I feel it. A gentle little kick, as our son pushes between us. It makes us both laugh, and I bring my palms to rest against her belly. My parents might have been assholes to Mara, but they were right about one thing—family is everything.
And this little family, the three of us? They’re the most important thing in my whole world.
* * *
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He never wanted a wife. Until he met her.
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* * *
Chapter One
Jasper
60 miles per hour.
70.
80.
85.
I floor the gas pedal, a wild grin on my face as I careen toward the corner of the track.
“Jasper…” warns a voice in my ear.
“I’ve got this,” I murmur, in response to my usual test track monitor, safely above in a booth, watching me and this brand new gem of a car speed around the test track.
“We haven’t tested the tires on curves yet. Slow down to a more reasonable—”
I reach up and tap the headset attached to the crash helmet. The voice fades away. My smile widens.
The turn approaches. I swing the wheel hard. I feel the tires skid under the car, and for a pulse-stopping, heart-in-my-throat instant, I worry if the voice in my helmet was right. If I’ve taken the curve too fast, put too much stress on this new model, a car that hasn’t even been unveiled to the public yet, let alone tested by the scientists and engineers who oversee the production of all new car regulations in the country.
If the car skids, flips, this could be it…
But then I feel the rubber screech, catch purchase again, and I rev the engine, accelerating with the turn instead of against it, so the car flows around the sharp turn of the track smooth as a knife through butter.
Safely onto the straightaway once more, I let out a loud whoop and gun it. I watch the speedometer leap up to 100, 120, 140… Higher. Faster.
I love this. I love getting to drive cars like this, and really put them through their paces. Drive them the way they’re built to be driven—with abandon, and without road laws getting in the way. Germany has it right, I think briefly. If only the United States had its own autobahn. One road, one spot where people could let loose.
But, of course, that’s a pipe dream for another time. For now, I’ll have to settle for this closed test track, and the chance to pacify my inner speed demon from time to time—and earn a paycheck for it, no less.
I reach the makeshift finish line, really just a little dugout where we modify and prep the cars for the track, and squint through the visor of my crash helmet at my assistant, Greg.
Greg’s enormous arms are crossed, his brow lowered in the thunderous expression he gets when he doesn’t approve of something I’ve been doing. Of course, I’m his boss, so Greg can’t really protest too much when I do things like this. But that doesn’t mean he can’t allow his disapproval to show on his face.
I skid to a halt outside the engineer shelter, and climb from the car while several test engineers flood the area, bending to take measurements of the axels, the tires, and one popping the hood to study how the engine held up, as another inspects the fuel gauges.
“How about that turning radius, huh?” I shout over the clank and clatter of tools and measuring devices. I sidestep a pair of engineers to reach Greg, and he removes his own earpiece.
“You shut off your radio,” complains Greg, the voice in my ear, who has now become the constant voice in the back of my head. My conscience, one might even say. He’s constantly watching me, overseeing things, warning me to slow down, take it easy, be more careful. I know my father puts him up to half of these disapproving glares and lectures, but even so, it can wear on a man. Especially when I know what I’m doing.
You might say I have a lot of practice ignoring the conscience in the back of my head. “Your talking was distracting me,” I say. “It was a finicky turn.”
“Because you were driving at least twenty miles per hour faster than we’d run the car even in simulations,” Greg mutters.
“And look how well it turned out!” I clap my assistant on the back. “Now we can all skip a few of the intermediate stress tests and put this model straight into pre-production status.”
Greg rolls his eyes. “It was still an unnecessary risk—”
“But you say that about every risk,” I point out, jamming a single finger into Greg’s bicep. It barely makes a dent.
I take after my father’s side of the family—all lean, slim, sculpted muscle. We’re built for running. Descended from the first marathon runners of ancient Greece, Dad always claims. Me, I mention that a fair amount too, albeit for different reasons. I blame those ancestors for my need for speed. “My speed demon was inherited,” I always say. “Nothing I can do about it.”
But Greg, he’s a distant cousin, part of my dad’s grandmother’s vast clan. The line Greg comes from isn’t built like marathoners so much as like walls.
Greg narrows his eyes at me.
I smirk and stride toward the main building. “Come on, worry wart. Lunch is on me to make up for your stress-induced high cholesterol levels.”
“I would love to take you up on that, Jasper, but you have a lunch appointment.” Greg flips open his tablet and squints down at the screen, scrolling through it with a finger.
“With who?” I frown. I don’t remember any new clients planning to stop in and check out the factory today, and it’s far too early in the production schedule for any fellow manufacturers to be poking around. Maybe early buyers? Wholesalers we invited to view the pre-public models…?
“Your father,” Greg replies, and my stomach sinks. In an instant, the happy mood I manage to whip myself into on the test track evaporates, like a bubble popping in midair.
Not that my old man and I don’t get along. Quite to the contrary. I work for him, I spend every day helping build the family busines
s—testing our latest models of cars, suggesting improvements or modifications to the designs, marketing and selling them on the front end… I have a hand in every part of our company, and Dad’s been grooming me to take over for him since I was about sixteen years old. I love this job, love my life, and I love my dad too. There’s nothing I’d change about my life right now.
Well. Except for one tiny thing…
Dad’s current mood. Because even without seeing his face, I can already guess what he’s going to be on about today. The same thing he’s been on about for the last several years. The same thing he railed at me over when I broke up with Karen, a friend-with-benefits who lasted a grand total of a month. The same thing he freaked out about again when I stopped seeing Meghan. Then Brooke. Then… who was that girl with the horses?
I can’t even remember her name, truth be told.
What can I say? I’ve never been the dating type. Or the relationship type. Or the anything more than casual sex type. And who cares? Certainly not the girls I hook up with—I make it clear up front that things will only ever be casual between us, and none of them have complained. Well, except Stacey, who smashed the taillights of my car when I broke things off. But, well, you can see why I had to break off our casual arrangement, given her temper and possessive streak.
No, that one anomaly aside, nobody cares that I’m not the settling down type… Nobody except my father.
And with our family reunion looming on the horizon, an enormous affair he hosts every five years, he has grandbabies on the mind worse than ever. This reunion will be the biggest of all, because at this reunion, Dad’s announcing his retirement. His retirement and the appointment of the new company CEO. The future heir apparent to Quint Motors. Me.
But with all the reflecting Dad has been doing on the company’s history, it just makes him more sentimental than ever about what’s still missing in his life. Namely, grandchildren.
“I’m suddenly feeling really dizzy,” I tell Greg. “Think I’m coming down with something. Head cold, maybe? Flu? Isn’t it still flu season?”
Overnight Wife Page 15
