The Husband Sitter

By: Jessa Kane

Tension creeps into those humungous shoulders and he turns, running inscrutable eyes over me and letting the fridge ease shut. “Damn.” He runs a hand down his face. “A cheerleader, huh? That woman knows me too well.”

I want to question him about cheerleaders, but I’m too struck by his steady, comforting energy. Only good things to come with this man, the universe seems to whisper. And it’s not only his reassuring demeanor that calls me closer, it’s his ruggedness. His thick thighs and chest. I’m attracted to him. Very much so. There’s a kitchen island separating us, but my body is already responding to his rich scent, my fingers already itch to touch him. Because I want to, because Mrs. Blue needs it to happen…and finally because Mr. Blue is also interested in my appearance. It’s there in the way he swallows audibly, his body turning to face me—warily—as I approach.

“I’m Astrid,” I say, running my finger along the marble island and eliminating the space that separates us. “It’s nice to meet you.”

He blows out a breath. “Likewise.”

I tilt my head. “You’re nervous.”

Mr. Blue nods. “I haven’t been with anyone but my wife in thirty years. She told me I’ve got a free pass and shit, I sure didn’t expect…a sweet, young thing like you. Touching anyone but her feels unnatural, though.”

Finally reaching him, I run my palms up his barrel chest, then trail my nails back down over his nipples, instinct telling me he’ll like it. My gamble proves correct when an arrow of lust sails from Mr. Blue and lands square in my belly.

“Oh, goddamn,” he says on a shudder, the fly of his mesh track pants tenting. And tenting. I keep waiting for it to stop, but his size continues to swell and elongate. I tap into Mr. Blue’s emotions and find his reservations receding, being replaced by something hot and delicious. “I really can touch you, can’t I? This is happening.”

“Yes,” I whisper, trailing a hand down to his belly and stroking his erection through the mesh of pants. “It’s just you and me here, Mr. Blue. We can do whatever we want.”

A curse falls from his lips as he watches me fondle his straining manhood, rubbing it from root to tip. “I, uh…like I said, I haven’t been with anyone but my wife in a damn long time. I might not remember some of my old tricks.”

Here it is. The proof that Mrs. Blue was correct and her husband has lost some of his confidence. I can see where it used to exist in the vibration of his aura, the timbre of his voice. This is a man who was once cocky and victorious. Again, that sense of purpose thrums heavily, makes me yearn to restore this man, make him feel glorious once again.

I step back and shed my top, leaving my braless breasts exposed. With a toss of my hair, I rake hands up my ribcage and grasp my small globes, pinching the nipples between my fingers and thumbs. “Do you remember how to suck?”

“Hell yeah, I do,” he growls, hoisting me on to the kitchen counter. After a slight hesitation, his much larger hands replace mine and he massages my breasts, so much care going into the act that my back arches, a moan climbing my throat. “Son of a bitch, you are a sexy little thing, aren’t you?”

I’m saved from having to answer because Mr. Blue’s mouth closes over my right nipple and euphoria shoots through me, trapping my breath in my lungs.

Mr. Blue’s hands drop to the counter behind me and I feel a breeze where he presumably flips up my skirt. I’m already lost in the suction of his mouth, but when he adds the grip of his big hands on my bottom, yanking me closer on the counter, wetness gathers on my panties and I only want to get closer. Closer. I want to climb him and touch every part of his body to every part of mine.

When I force myself to focus, I realize I have indeed climbed Mr. Blue and he’s walking us out of the kitchen, back through the foyer and into a sunken living room. He’s breathing heavily as he sits with me in his lap and our mouths meet, tongues dragging together and tangling in a carnal kiss. It’s not a conscious decision to stop kissing this man and get on my knees—it’s impulse. I’ve never taken a man into my mouth before, but surely there is no greater method to make a man feel mighty. And that’s what I need. That’s what he needs. I’m powerless to do anything but obey when his emotions have melded with mine.

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