Total pages in book: 23
Estimated words: 22407 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 112(@200wpm)___ 90(@250wpm)___ 75(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 22407 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 112(@200wpm)___ 90(@250wpm)___ 75(@300wpm)
I just need a little more time.
Once the kids are completely out of earshot, I cross the hall to where my husband has been held up since breakfast, actively avoiding me.
His son.
General holiday festiveness.
The door is barely opened when I hear him grumbling, “What the hell do you mean the numbers for The Morgan Brand are lower than expected?!” He folds his hands frustratedly together on top of his desk, clearly speaking into his earpiece. “How. Low?!”
Ah, The Morgan Brand.
His first step into beer yet the most difficult one to steady.
Runt’s Beer – the one bought after it – effortlessly soared.
It’s now sold worldwide while The Morgan Brand typically struggles to perform domestically according to sales figures as much as the data on Puppet Boy’s bestselling app which also incorporates beer along with wine.
Continuing to expand that with new features is what he prefers to keep his focus on like Wes does legacy merch, but both are committed to the company’s persistent growth. That’s why they bought an import beer company in Doctenn, work closely to always be the number one whiskey included in commercial hotels – like The Frost Luxury Hotel – and are becoming equally devoted to acquiring and building businesses on the opposite end of the booze spectrum such as non-alcoholic beer, mocktails, and affordable rehab facilities for those that need help yet struggle with the cost.
Wes loved getting his Bat-themed, ten-year chip that the kids helped design.
We then celebrated with a second honeymoon that was spent almost identically to the first.
When you get it right the first time, there’s no need to change anything on the second.
“How is that possible?!” barks the man I married seconds before I shut the door behind me with the hand holding our shared word search. “How are they underperforming this deep into the holidays?!”
I take my time relocating to where he is, knowing my presence won’t necessarily speed up the conversation.
Some things really haven’t changed since the beginning.
And I doubt they ever will.
Upon my arrival beside his desk, I gently place our booklet down, flip it open to the page we’re on, and offer him the pen to take a turn.
“Are the campaigns being poorly received?” investigates Wes in tandem with clicking the object. “Did the marketing department miss their targeted demographic?”
Leaning against the edge of his desk is executed in such a way that the end of my long sleeve, slit round neck, dark green sweater dress inches up enough to give him a glimpse of the fact that I’m freshly waxed and not wearing any panties.
As predicted, the love of my life uses the tip of the pen to lift the material higher, exposing a view known for prematurely ending business calls. “I understand.” He encourages me to spread my thighs wider with gentle nudges from the writing utensil. “We’ll have to finish this discussion at another time, Schwartz.” I slide into the sitting position that he clearly wants. “There’s another pressing matter I need to tend to.” One click ends the conversation however my abrupt dangling of a plastic object successfully redirects his hungry stare to mine. “Is that mistletoe, Mrs. Wilcox?”
An overdramatic gasp precedes a mischievous grin. “I think so, Mr. Wilcox.” The bite of my glossed, bottom lip is brief. “Perhaps you should double check?”
He quirks a cautious eyebrow.
“You know while the kids are downstairs stuffing pastries and eggnog into their mouths preemptively solving the ‘I’m starving’ issue we face at these ‘family-oriented’ charity events that never serve something our minis wanna eat?”
Chortles are short-lived courtesy of his own starvation noticeably increasing. “Feet.”
My bare appendages plant themselves on the arms of his leather chair at the same time he carelessly tosses the pen back onto the nearby booklet.
“Legs.”
Spreading them further apart occurs next.
“Mouth.”
Reluctance to muzzle my pending moans with the decoration doesn’t exist.
“So perfect, Little Prey.” Wes folds his entire frame forward and yanks my figure towards his open mouth on a purred, “So fucking perfect.”
Mindlessly arching against his warm, wet tongue is instantly followed by my head falling forward, wavy locks creating a curtain that further conceals my muted, carnal cries of content.
Long, languorous, teasing licks are delivered the length of my clit.
Up and down.
Up and down.
Up and down until he abruptly slips the end of his tongue inside my pussy to repeat the tantalizing motion.
He then rolls the slick muscle around in a single circle.
Another.
Slides it deeper and begins the simple, titillating cycle again, nose lightly brushing my little swelling nub during each delicious stroke.
Needy moans crash into the deterrent while both sets of fingers clutch onto his thick strands, anxious for stability.
Eager for assistance as my hips begin to greedily rock in an attempt to match him thrust for thrust.
Swipe for swipe.
To force him to devour me harder and faster and faster and harsher, yet Wes steadily resists.