Chapter 30
Chapter Thirty
WYATT
Ilean against the kitchen doorway as I watch Whitney run around and get ready for the day. I’d missed her and Brinley like crazy this past weekend and was more than relieved when I finally pulled back into the ranch. Brinley and I spent the morning making pancakes before my mom picked her up.
I have some work I want to get done, and Whitney’s been talking about this yoga session with her new friend Amaya nonstop.
I’m still reeling over the sight of Whitney on the back of Maggie yesterday.
She’s made so much progress in such little time.
It makes me happy to see her so excited to do something as simple as start the day—something I know she struggled with just a mere month ago.
She’s wearing a red workout set this morning.
And not just any red—but a deep, burgundy color.
It makes her tan skin pop and brightens her mossy-green eyes.
The yoga pants look like a second skin–hugging her thighs just right and flaring out slightly at the bottom.
My self-control hangs by a thread, because I want nothing more than to mess up the perfectly slicked back ponytail she now wears, too.
She slips on an athletic jacket in that same burgundy color, oblivious to the way my eyes trail her.
And when she zips it halfway—the movement jerking her tits slightly–I start envisioning what it would feel like to peel off the soft and sleek material, how it would sound when I licked—“What are you staring at?” Her no-bullshit tone cuts through my inappropriate thoughts.
She’s cocking her hip, coffee in one hand, and a bag slung over her opposite shoulder.
I blink, taken aback by the sudden sass. “I can’t just look at you?”
“If you’re thinking about fucking me right now? No. I don’t want to be late.” She takes a sip of her coffee, eyeing me over the mug. The way she says fucking really, really makes me want to make her late. And fuck me, that little smirk she’s got going on isn’t helping.
I’m obsessed with my wife—and not in the healthy sort of way. In the look-at-her-and-die kind of way.
Maybe I need to try some meditation. Otherwise, I’ll start looking less like a husband and more like a caveman.
“If you think I can’t have you coming in less than five minutes, you’re underestimating my abilities.” She places her mug down gently, crossing her arms. “I think you're overestimating your abilities.”
“Come here,” I demand, pushing off the wall. Playful tone and patience gone. I’d fuck that attitude right out of her mouth. “No,” She lifts her chin. I take a step forward. She takes one back. “Make me ask again, Whitney.”
I see it before she moves—the slight glance she makes toward the front door. When she goes to bolt, I cut her off. My arm wraps around her middle, and I’m quickly hauling her off the floor and throwing her over my shoulder like a rag doll. “Wyatt!” She shrieks.
I ignore her, only putting her down when I settle on the couch and press her body over my knees.
I yank down her leggings and thong in one swift motion.
The sight of her bare sex makes me hiss, and I can’t refrain from leaning down to playfully bite her ass.
She squeals, trying to wiggle out of my grip, but she doesn’t get far.
I don’t give her time to protest before I draw my hand back.
“This is for that little outfit you have on.” Smack.
“That’s for running your mouth.” Smack. “And that’s for driving me fucking crazy all of the time. ” Smack.
The last blow earns me a deep, guttural moan.
She’s enjoying this—just like I knew she would.
It’s not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to shock her, jolting her body forward with each slap.
I run a hand down her back, and over the curve of her ass.
She squirms in my hold, like she’s seeking friction where she needs it most. When I finally get there, I brush my knuckles over her cunt, teasing her with slow, soft strokes.
Satisfaction curls around my insides at the wetness dripping down her thighs and coating my hand.
“You’re fucking soaked,” I mutter. “This all for me?”
When she doesn’t respond, I bend down. I grab her cheeks, squishing them as I force her to meet my eyes. They’re full of lust—eyes bright and face red. “Whose pussy is this, Whitney?” I ask, planting a light kiss to her parted mouth.
“Mine,” She bites out, narrowing her eyes on mine. But I feel her thighs squeeze together, so I let go of her face and focus back on her tight little body resting over mine. “Sorry,” I tsk, “I don’t think I heard you.” I draw my hand back, landing a light smack to her cunt in retaliation.
“Yours!” she cries when her body jerks forward again. “Yours, Wyatt. Just- just, please.”
“Please, what?” I ask, tugging her ponytail so her head tilts up a fraction. It’s like a leash—and fuck do I love to use it. “Make you finish all over my lap? Is that what you need, baby?”
“Yes.” The word barely leaves her lips before I plunge two fingers into her pussy. She’s so wet it takes little to no effort—her sweet lips are squeezing my fingers like a vice.
I’m twisting, teasing, and fucking her with my hand until she’s weeping and begging for more. When her breathing turns shallow, I work my fingers in and out faster—harder. The slick sound of her arousal is almost enough to make me finish in my jeans, and she hasn’t even touched me.
The orgasm that takes over her body is violent and quick–Whitney’s legs shake and her thighs squeeze together as she cries out my name one last time.
The bulge in my jeans has turned borderline painful, but I ignore it as I soothe a palm over the handprints I left on her skin, and gently pull her leggings back over her ass.
When she’s sitting upright in my lap, Whitney nuzzles her bright-red face into my neck, “Your mouth is filthy,” she mutters against my skin.
I huff a laugh, pulling her face back. I brush my lips across her mouth, “You love it.” A gentle kiss. “Now,” I say, clearing my throat, “I wanted to run an idea by you.”
“Er-” She reels back, eyes bouncing between mine. “Why are you nervous?”
“I am not nervous.” I add quickly. Okay, maybe I'm a little nervous. But I sure as fuck was not going to admit that out loud. “Do you need to poop?” She shoots back, scanning me head to toe.
“What?” I laugh, “No.” Only Whitney would say something like that after someone just spanked her. “You look constipated.” She says, cocking her head. I pinch my nose, “I am not-”
I stop talking when a smirk lights up her face.
I shake my head in silent amusement. “Go on a date with me, tonight,” I finally blurt.
The pace at which her eyebrows rise is comical.
All thoughts about the orgasm she just had, my bowel habits, or running late for yoga are gone.
She stares at me in disbelief. “A… date?”
“Yes. You do know what a date is, right?” I ask sarcastically. She rolls her eyes, standing up. The loss of heat from her body leaves me with a slight chill.
She crosses her arms, “You gonna feed me?”
“Something like that,” I nod, running my tongue across my teeth. She smiles, really smiles, and it’s so beautiful it makes me want to reach up and rub my chest to make sure I’m still breathing. “Then you’ve got a date, Conway.”