Page 7 of Eager Housewife

I crave being his favourite, cherished, treasured toy.

“Why don’t we try a test of whether you can be obedient enough?” he suggests with dangerous softness.

I nod. I will pass with top marks. I’ll do anything to satisfy him.

Mr Blackstone beckons me with two fingers slowly curled and I make my way around the kitchen island. I think I expect him to—okay, I don’t know what to expect. I am Bambi in this situation. Newborn, shy, gawky, spindly legs, fur. Not that last one.

He pushes off from the marble, making a gap between his body and the countertop. I take the hint, and slip into the space before he closes it with slow deliberateness, hands on either side of me, bracketing me in.

There’s no hesitation as he leans in to kiss me, because he doesn’t know it’s my first kiss. He thinks I’ve been partying at university like a normal girl. How could he know how shy I am with everyone who isn’t Ainsley or him? So when I tilt up my chin it’s a firm, sexy kiss that deepens immediately, his lips opening mine and muffling my gasp of surprise as his tongue sweeps into my mouth. It’s carnal and possessive, and he’s not even touching me but my nipples tingle with need.

“Blythe,” he groans, and before I know what’s happening he’s wrapped his arms around me. I have maybe two seconds to feel his body pressed to me—the firm muscles of his chest and abdomen, his thighs, those flexing muscles beneath his pristine white shirt, and the shockingly hot and hard length of his erection—before he’s lifted me and sat me onto the edge of the smooth, cool marble.

“Lie down.”

Gingerly, I ease myself back, glancing over behind me for anything in the way, but of course Mr Blackstone has already thought of that and moved the coffee cups. My elbows, then my shoulder blades touch the stone, and with my legs draped over the counter, and Mr Blackstone standing over me, I’m bared.

His gaze bores into me as I look up at him, my mouth open. I’m his meal and he’s a hungry hunter, about to cut me into slivers of his choosing and devour me bit by bit. I quake.

I want him.

My best friend’s dad is going to take my virginity on a kitchen countertop. I cannot wait.

But instead of releasing his erection then pushing the solid length into me, he leans over me, bringing his head down to press a kiss first to my knee, then a bit higher. He repeats the action, each open-mouthed kiss zinging into me.

“Oh fuck, this skirt…” He drags the soft fabric up my thighs to reveal my underwear and my cheeks heat as I remember what it is.

Not because it’s sexy-embarrassing. Nope. It’s plain white cotton with a little pink bow. I bought it in a practical pack of three. Could I be any more boring?

Mr Blackstone is a sophisticated older man, and I am a girl in plain panties.

“I’m sorry about…” I can’t finish that sentence when he straightens and frowns at me.

There’s a beat of silence while he waits, unblinking.

“Sorry about what, Blythe?” he asks eventually.

“My knickers.”

“That’s okay. You didn’t know about my rule when you dressed this morning.” He snags the waistband and I’m so nonplussed all I do is lift my hips to enable him to slide my knickers down my thighs and over my calves in a whisper of soft fabric, then off altogether. He stashes them into his pocket without lifting his gaze from the flesh he’s revealed.

I’m naked to the waist.

“I meant that they’re so?—”

“Shh.” Taking both my knees in his hands, he slowly but uncompromisingly pushes my thighs open, revealing my pussy.

Ohhh… His rule about not wearing knickers as his wife. My brain catches up and my cheeks heat. No knickers.

“You’re soaked,” he says with evident satisfaction. Then he leans over me again and breathes in a greedy lungful of air, closing his eyes and savouring it as though I’m a sample at an expensive perfume counter. The space between us hums with energy.

I’m hot and achy under his gaze. Andconfused. I imagined free use would be all, wham, bam, in and out? Not Mr Blackstone gently prising me open and making me tingle all over without taking anything for himself. Not him completely misunderstanding my point about my knickers and removing them as though they were a cute hindrance rather than a girlish misstep.

“I thought?—”

“You don’t get a say in this,” he interrupts me, not even looking up from where he’s staring at my pussy. “Are you trying to show me you’d be a good little free use housewife, or not?”

I shut up.