34. Graham
34
GRAHAM
I should be working. Sunday nights are for getting ahead. Reviewing reports, tracking cyber threats, tightening vulnerabilities in client systems.
I should be building the web. What started as a possible copycat case has grown into something much larger. Instead of one or two hackers, cousins by their code similarity, it’s a group. A collective of hackers known as Blackwire.
There’s chatter about them in some of the dark web forums, but it’s mostly rumors. But the profile fits. A long string of ransomware attacks on school districts, mostly along the East Coast. Some are small-scale, barely making headlines. Others are coordinated, efficient, destructive.
And now, for the first time, I can see the shape of it.
A network. A pattern. A signature.
I lean forward, eyes scanning lines of code, forcing my brain to stay on topic when all I really want to do is watch my wife. I wouldn’t say no to another kiss either.
My gaze betrays me, sliding over to the monitor on the left side, where the split screen camera feeds of Francesca’s bedroom and bathroom remains.
I lean back in my chair, crossing my arms as I watch Francesca through the security camera feed. My gaze lingers on the way she worries her bottom lip between her teeth, the way her fingers flex around the edges of her Kindle. I recognize that look on her face. The pinched brow, the slightly glazed eyes. She’s completely lost in whatever story she’s reading, so absorbed that the world around her has fallen away.
I wonder what fictional world has captured her attention so thoroughly. What kind of story makes her breath hitch and her cheeks flush that pretty shade of pink. The urge to go to her, to pull her into my lap and kiss her until she’s breathless, is a physical ache in my chest. But I force myself to stay in my chair, my fingers digging into my biceps as I watch her.
She shifts on the bed, drawing her knees up as she leans back against the pillows. The movement causes her sleep shorts to ride up, revealing another tantalizing inch of smooth, golden skin. My mouth goes dry, desire simmering low in my gut.
God, the things I want to do to her. The ways I want to unravel her.
I exhale slowly through my nose, trying to drag my focus back to the monitors in front of me. The lines of code blur, my concentration shot. It’s useless. She consumes me, even from across the hall.
Curiosity gnaws at me, persistent and relentless. What’s she reading tonight?
Before I can second guess myself, my fingers are flying across the keyboard. It takes me less than a minute to access her kindle account through a backdoor in the app's code.
Her current book looks like some kind of werewolf romance.
My eyes skim over the highlighted passages, curiosity burning hotter with each one. I scroll to the chapter she’s currently reading.
She could hear him behind her, his footsteps heavy and purposeful. The alpha. Chasing her. Hunting her.
A shiver raced down her spine, equal parts fear and exhilaration. She knew she should be terrified, running for her life from the most dangerous predator in these woods. But a dark, primal part of her wanted to be caught.
Another howl rents the air, closer this time. A warning. A promise.
Heat pooled low in her belly despite the chill of the night. She should be afraid. She was, in a distant, muted way. But more than that, she was excited. She wanted him to take her, to pin her down against the forest floor and bury his face between her thighs.
I exhale slowly and sit back. Okay. So my wife might like the idea of being chased or maybe she just likes werewolves. A new highlight appears on the screen, and I lean forward to read it. It’s the moment the hero pins her down and eats her out.
“Hm.” A slow exhale leaves my chest, measured. My pulse beats harder in my throat.
Francesca wants this?
I stare at the screen, my grip on the desk tightening. My wife, with her sunny smiles and soft laughter, who sings show tunes to help her plants grow highlights pages like this? Like she’s cataloging things she wants? Things she’s waiting to be given? Is this a wish list she’s planning to send Santa Claus at the end of the year? I’m sure I have a red sweater tucked away somewhere.
I let my gaze unfocus and picture my wife running through the house, looking over her shoulder for me, slowing down so she’ll get caught quicker.
I lean forward, scrolling back up. What else has she highlighted? I should stop, close the window, and get my ass back to work.
But I don’t. I keep reading.
Just call me jolly fucking Saint Nick, I guess. Because I’m going to give my wife every single thing she wants.
I scroll up, devouring every highlighted passage, every comment Francesca left. Each one is a window into her mind, her desires. It’s intoxicating, addictive. I can’t look away.
I’m so absorbed in this book and imagining her reading it, that I startle when there’s a knock at the door. My head snaps up, my heart kicking against my ribs.
“Come in,” I grunt out, willing my heart to chill the fuck out.
The door opens and Francesca stands in the doorway, hip cocked, oversized sweatshirt slipping off one shoulder. “Am I interrupting?”
“Never.”
“Can I come in?” She tilts her head, letting her hair spill over her shoulder.
“It’s your house too, remember?”
She smiles at that, a slow, sweet thing that makes my chest ache. She steps into my office, padding across the floor on bare feet. I track her movements, my gaze drinking her in like a man dying of thirst.
She perches on the edge of my desk, long legs dangling. “What are you working on?” Her gaze flicks to my monitors.
I lean back in my chair, keeping my gaze on her. “Just some security protocols for a client.” It’s not a lie exactly.
She arches a brow and glances from the monitor to my face. “So strange that your security protocols look a lot like the kindle app.”
Her bare legs distract me, and it takes five seconds for her words to sink in. My gaze flicks to the screen she’s staring at, and I know I’ve made a mistake. I should’ve closed down the kindle app.
I look at her, clocking the moment she realizes what she’s looking at. And I brace.
“Graham?” she asks, her tone curious and bright.
“Hm?”
“Did you hack into my kindle account?” She looks at me now, a slow grin spreading across her lips. Pure, unfiltered delight.
I settle back into my chair. “I wouldn’t call it hacking.”
She plants her palm on my desk, leaning in, pressing this moment like she knows exactly how far she can push. “What would you call it then?”
“A loophole.”
Her eyes sparkle with mischief as she leans closer, her face inches from mine. “A loophole, hm? So you just happened to stumble upon my kindle highlights?”
I shrug, feigning nonchalance even as my pulse kicks up a notch. “Something like that.”
She hums, her gaze dropping to my mouth before flicking back up to meet my eyes. “And what did you think of this book?” Her voice is a purr, low and teasing.
I wet my lips, watching the way her eyes track the movement. “What did you think of it?”
She pushes off the desk, letting her legs drag against mine as she settles stands. “I think I want to do something different tonight. Something more interactive.” She tips her head toward the monitor with the security feeds up.
My dick twitches in my sweatpants at the promise in her voice. “More interactive.”
She slowly walks backward, her hands clenched in the hem of her sweatshirt. “More hands-on.”
I swivel around in my chair, my gaze locked onto hers. “Okay, wife.”
She pauses in the doorway as she takes her time dragging her sweatshirt off her head and letting it fall to the floor with a muted thud. Standing in a lace cami and matching sleep shorts, she grins at me. There’s something different about it this time. A new edge to it, sharp and knowing.
A challenge.
She waits a beat, watching me, drinking in the way I tense, the way my hands flex where they rest on my thighs.
Then she tips up onto her toes and whispers, “Play with me, husband.”
And then she’s gone.
For a single heartbeat, I sit frozen. Stunned. Francesca’s words echo in my head, bouncing around my skull like a pinball. Play with me, husband.
And then it clicks. The chase. The hunt. She wants me to catch her.
A slow, feral grin spreads across my face as I launch out of my chair. My heart pounds against my ribs, adrenaline surging through my veins as I stalk out of my office and into the hallway.
I pause, head cocked, listening for any sign of her. The house is quiet, but I can feel her presence like a physical thing, electric and alive. My pulse thrums in my ears as I move down the hallway, every sense heightened, attuned to any hint of movement or sound.
I check her bedroom first, but it’s empty, the sheets rumpled from where she was lying earlier. The attached bathroom is dark, silent. Romeo snores softly from his kennel in the closet, a low white noise machine his sound buffer.
I inhale deeply, catching a whiff of her scent lingering in the air. Vanilla and sugared lemons. Fucking delicious.
I stalk out of her room, moving silently through the upstairs hallway. Anticipation coils tight in my gut, every muscle tensed and ready. She’s here, somewhere in our house, waiting for me to find her. To catch her.
The thought sends a dark thrill racing down my spine.
“Do you like this game, wife?”
I pause at the top of the stairs, my hand curling around the banister. I close my eyes and just listen, letting my other senses take over. The faint hum of the air conditioner. The distant ticking of the grandfather clock in the living room.
And then I hear it. The softest creak of a floorboard downstairs. My eyes snap open, zeroing in on the direction of the sound. The kitchen.
A slow smile spreads across my face as I descend the stairs, each step deliberate but not silent. I’m not sure, but I think part of the fun is her hearing me coming for her. Building up her anticipation and excitement.
I prowl into the kitchen, the scent of vanilla and lemon growing stronger. She’s close now.
“In the book, this is the part where the heroine was thinking about how good it will feel once he catches her, how hard she’s going to come when he buries his face in her pussy. Is that what you’re thinking about, sunshine? Are you dreaming of the way my tongue will feel inside your cunt when I find you?”
My words hang heavy in the air, the only sound my measured footsteps as I stalk further into the kitchen. The lights are off, but moonlight filters in through the windows, casting everything in a silvery glow.
I pause, head cocked, listening intently. That’s when I hear it. The hitch of her breath, the rustle of fabric. She’s close, so close. I can practically taste her anticipation, feel the thrumming of her pulse in the charged space between us.
“All those nights of watching you play with your toys. Wishing it was my cock instead.” I stalk through the living room. “Do you know how many times I replayed those images in my mind?”
I pause at the entrance to the dining room, my eyes scanning the shadows. “How many times I imagined the sounds you’d make with my head between your thighs, my tongue buried inside you?”
A soft whimper echoes from the far corner, muffled like she’s trying to stifle it. But I hear it all the same.
“Is that what you want, wife? You want to see how many times I can make you come on my tongue?”
My lips curve in a wicked grin as I zero in on the sound. I prowl across the dining room, lust soaring through my veins. She’s tucked against the wall, partially hidden behind the couch. Her chest rises and falls rapidly, golden eyes wide and bright in the moonlight. I drink in the sight of her, all tousled hair and flushed cheeks, looking like every fantasy come to life.
“Hello, wife.”