Eager Housewife: a smutty free-use romance (Filthy Scottish Kingpins Book 2)

7. Duncan

I have been insatiable. It has been a week since we married, and the hunger is just getting worse, unlike anything I’ve ever felt. Knowing I can have Blythe whenever I want should make it easier, there shouldn’t be any desperation. But sex with my wife is more and more addictive. It’s sweeter every time we join, and understand each other better. She lifts her knee before I grab it to deepen my penetration, or threads her fingers into my hair and tilts her chin to indicate she wants a kiss. I get her to a second or third orgasm before I shoot my load into her now.

I want her day and night. I’ve been waking in the dark and rolling her under me to fit us together, lubricated by my come from the late evening, before she’s even awake. Sometimes a part of me hopes she won’t wake up, so she doesn’t understand how much I need her.

She always does.

And, bonnie lass that she is, every time—alright it’s every night—she reaches for me. Either finding my hand and linking our fingers, or wrapping her legs around my waist.

I couldn’t ask for a more convenient wife.

I’m looking forward to her weekend off in some masochistic way. It’s almost too much, having her anytime I want. I’ve been a kid in a sweetshop. But equally, there’s a sick feeling of dread when I drive from the Blackstone headquarters to my private house on Friday.

She’s waiting for me in the hall, and we both stop, uncertain. Wearing a floaty skirt that makes me want to get to my knees before her, she looks as fresh and sweet as a daisy.

“Mr Blackstone.” She sounds nervous. “When does the weekend begin?”

I cannae read her expression. I should say now. If she worked a normal job, Friday night would be her own. I’m an idiot for insisting on this. What’s the right response?

“Do you have plans for this evening?”

She’s already shaking her head before I can finish the question.

“There’s a new show on in the West End.” That may not be true, but I’ll find something plausible. “It would be good to be seen there.”

Blythe’s pale blue eyes brighten. “Oh, so you need me to accompany you.”

I need her always.

“We could start my days off at midnight?” she suggests.

“Aye.” That’s fair.

“Or on Saturday morning?—”

“Midnight.” Much as I want those extra hours, I don’t compromise.

Her mouth sets in a mulish line. “Okay…” She strokes her hand self-consciously over her thigh. “I’ll have to change into something suitable for going out.” Then she peeks up at me from beneath her lashes in a come-hither that’s half-hope, half-expectation.

“Me too.” Who am I to deny my willing lassie? I close the gap between us in a few strides and wrap my arms around her waist, dragging her up my body until her face is level with mine and her feet dangle in the air. I kiss her lips gently. “Let’s get changed. You might need a shower.”

* * *

I toy with her wee hand as we watch the show from seats in the middle of the stalls, running my thumb over her soft skin. In the interval, I keep my palm at the small of her back, treat her to champagne and chocolates, and introduce her to some of my mafia connections who thankfully are at this opening night. That at least worked out, but the Laurent kingpin notices when I’m possessive of Blythe and pull her close as we discuss our legitimate businesses. He doesn’t call me on the fact that at a moderately-bloody London Mafia Syndicate get together earlier in the week I claimed Blythe was just a convenient wife, and nothing was happening between us sexually because she’s my daughter’s best friend. Not my finest moment. Though Laurent exchanges a wry look with his wife, who was also present, and she hides a knowing smile as she chats with Blythe.

I wish I hadn’t told them this wasn’t real. There are enough reminders already.

While we’re snug in the dark of the theatre seats, my arm behind Blythe’s shoulders as we watch the second half of the show, and during a late tapas dinner afterwards, I wonder how I’m going to survive a night sleeping apart from her. If she wants that? We haven’t discussed whether she needs more space.

We’ve chatted like old friends all week when I’m not fucking her brains out, but there’s a lull and perhaps she’s as unsure about this temporary alteration in our relationship as I am.

Two days of not being able to connect with sex.

Will I even see her over the weekend?

“How many kids do you want?” I tell myself I’m waiting for my after-dinner coffee to cool sufficiently that I can drink it, but honestly, I’m hyperaware of the ticking of my watch as it gets closer to midnight. I haven’t had her since we went upstairs to dress hours ago, but I could, until twelve. The days when I can’t have become a straightjacket in my mind. A conversation about the fiction that we can keep this up forever is the perfect distraction.

She blinks. “I didn’t think that choice was in my vows?”

“I’ll take your wishes into account,” I say, with faux gravitas, and she giggles. It’s the best sound in the world. “How many?”

“Two-point-four?” she suggests, not meeting my gaze and toying with her teacup. “Isn’t that the average?”

“The point four could be tricky. How about we round up to the nearest ten?”

“Ten!” Her gaze flies to mine and I cannae tell if it’s delight or disbelief. “You don’t want ten children.”

I shrug. “I’ll compromise on nine-point-five.”

“Half a child is fine, but point four isn’t enough?”

“Aye. Half is enough. Just a wee one. Half a pint’s worth. Will be nae bother.”

Blythe laughs at my poor joke and my heart expands.

“Go on. You said you wanted kids. Have you got names picked out?” She blushes and it’s my turn to grin. “You have, haven’t you?”

“I may have some ideas,” she mutters.

“Are we going to have enough that we should name them alphabetically? There’s Ainsley. Our first could be Blair and we could work our way to Zane.”

She splutters. “I cannot have twenty-five children!”

“Slacker,” I tease. “That’s poor dedication, but I guess we can start with one, and see how we go. We might already have done that.”

There’s a glow of happiness from her as she bites her lip and nods and I wonder if she’s remembering how I told her I was breeding her as we had sex on the bed before she got dressed.

“What about five?” she says, tentatively.

I nod and let the question of whether she’s pregnant yet slide. There’s plenty of time. For now. “Five is a good number. Three girls and two boys.”

“We might have five boys,” she points out.

“Then we keep going until we have girls too.”

“You want girls? Even though…” Her gaze slips to my hand on the coffee cup and the scars that cover my knuckles from where I beat the men who tried to hurt Ainsley. They tingle under her observation.

It’s only been a week with Blythe, and some conversations over dinner with my daughter over the year before that. But already I know what she’s thinking.

Admittedly, I sense her thoughts more when we’re having sex, as though the physical connection intensifies all the feelings of closeness I’ve been repressing since I met this girl who is far too young and pure for a grizzled old mafia boss like me. When I’m inside her it’s like we’re so in sync, a trivial thing like an age difference couldn’t get between us.

“There’s always risk in any life, Blythe. But nothing I do for the Blackstone mafia will ever touch our bairns. I learned my lesson on that with Ainsley.”

“Those scars…” She frowns. “They must ache.”

I swallow and look down at my knuckles. The memory of the anger I felt at those bastards trying to take my wee daughter echoes, as it always does. Along with that other feeling. Knowledge that I sent a message to the whole of London about what happens to people who touch what is mine.

“They don’t hurt.” It’s not entirely the truth. They’re sensitive, and uncomfortable sometimes.

Blythe reaches across the table and takes my hand in hers. Our fingers slide together, her slim digits dwarfed by my big, scarred paws.

“I’m glad,” she murmurs.

“Does seeing them bother you? I could get them covered with tattoos if?—”

“No.” And the honesty in her eyes when I look up leaves me in no doubt.

I’m proud of what I did, and she sees that. Those scars are a reminder not only to my rivals and enemies, but to myself.

Blackstones care for their own.

I stroke her knuckles and we shift easily so her palm is up against mine, emphasising the difference in our size. She’s delicate. Young and vulnerable.

“You’re so little.” The memory of protecting my daughter mingles with the certainty that I’d do the same for Blythe or any of the children I hope we’ll have.

“You’re a giant.”

“Your Scottish giant.” I love the feel of her palm on mine. She might be small, but as I link our fingers together again, I don’t think she knows how much influence she has over me. How she’s my world.

She glances away, her expression clouded by something I said, and I could bite my tongue out for messing this up. My last evening with her as my free use wife, to touch as I like, before her weekend off.

“What will Ainsley say?” she murmurs, withdrawing her hand from mine. Suddenly we’re both staring at the elephant in the room.

I think of some of the comforting lies I’ve been telling myself. Lines like, Ainsley will accept it in the end, or she’ll be happy for us. And I know that’s not the problem. It’s the lies of omission that we’re both saying to Ainsley whenever she calls. It’s the way I said to my daughter that my new partner was beautiful but not around for a photo while I stood in the lounge and looked at Blythe curled on the sofa reading a book.

I’m lying to Ainsley, and that cuts me up, even as the illicit nature of what I’m doing with Blythe heightens my desire.

Our relationship is the ultimate contradiction. Blythe is my free use forbidden wife. I can have her whenever I want, if it isn’t during her weekend off that is about to start, and as long as my daughter doesn’t find out. If only I could compartmentalise my affection for her as neatly as these two days. I can restrain myself physically, but my heart longs more for Blythe with every minute we spend together.

“We have a year,” I reply instead. “And it’s nearly midnight, Cinderella. I should get you home.”