Page 49 of Mr. Brightside
I doubt my plan to edge him the second I meet his gaze.
“What happened to ‘I want to make you feel good’?” he scoffs.
I bite on my bottom lip to keep from smiling. “Did that not feel good?” I ask innocently.
He charges me then—gets right up in my space and smacks both hands against my bare chest with so much force I stumble. “It did. But it doesn’t now,” he hisses.
His face is inches from mine. I can’t resist capturing his mouth in a deep, sultry kiss.
He doesn’t resist me, but he doesn’t kiss me back, either.
“Baby,” I mutter against his lips. “Don’t be mad. Think about how good it’ll be tonight when I finally let you come.”
“Hmph. You don’tletme do anything, Jake Whitely. I’m your husband. Not your plaything.”
I still at his words, pulling back to assess if I’ve read him all wrong. I thought he’d be game for this. But I’ll drop to my knees and suck him off right now if he really doesn’t want to play.
He glares, huffs out a frustrated breath, then runs a hand through his perfectly styled hair. I know the second he goes soft and accepts his fate. A rush of relief washes over me then. I didn’t fuck this up. I keep watching him as he cools off—I’ve never seen him get worked up about anything like that in all the years I’ve known him. He’s adorable when he’s flustered, and I can’t wait to really break him down.
“Sorry,” he mumbles as he meets my gaze. “I didn’t mean that. I’m good. I’m into this. You just caught me off guard. I’m the sexual equivalent of hangry right now.”
“Horngry?” I offer.
His smile takes over his whole face, but he doesn’t give me the satisfaction of eliciting a real laugh.
“Let’s go to the pool,” I suggest, wrapping my arms around his waist and pulling him close. I have to stifle my own moan when his dick brushes against mine. “Then the bar. I want to show off my new husband and see what this honeymoon business is all about. Then, I promise,” I kiss him for emphasis, “to bring you back here and make you come so hard you see stars. Trust me, Cory. I want to make this good for you in every way possible.”
He nods and kisses me back, greedy and eager. I meant what I said—I’m determined to do everything I can to make this night, this trip, the next few years, worthy of this man.
Chapter 22
Cory
Wespenttheafternoonpoolside, cuddled up in a half-dome cabana with bottle service, unlimited snacks, and a privacy curtain. It was literal paradise: the type of vacation I’ve only ever dreamed of taking. The only thing that would have made it better? If my tease of a husband would have taken advantage of the damn privacy curtain instead of working me up not once, but twice, in public, only to pull back when the first tingles of release had my toes curling in anticipation.
The first time was my own fault. I fell for it when he offered to feed me a strawberry and quickly replaced the fruit with his tongue. He didn’t even touch me anywhere below the neck and shoulders… just sucked on my tongue and kissed me senseless until I was rock hard and writhing on my pool lounger. He pulled back, and when I reached out for more, he just shook his head apologetically and took off toward the pool to participate in the afternoon water slide races.
When he came back, he did pull the privacy curtain, and my dick-drunk ass fell for his antics again. The man was straddling me in the chair, under the very unconvincing guise that he wanted to apply oil to my back. Having him on top of me like that… pinned down by his rock-solid thighs and delicious body weight…
He had me crushed down so securely I couldn’t have grasped my own dick if I tried. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t love it.
He let the sun oil drip all over my back, then rolled down my swim trunks a few times, dribbled it over my ass, and massaged it into my cheeks until I was dry humping the lounger.
Just when I was about to beg, he popped up, kissed me on the cheek, and called for another round of drinks.
We came back to the villa and noshed on a huge platter of sushi, oysters, and shrimp that room service had left in the fridge. Then, after I took an unsatisfying solo shower, we made our way back to the main building for another round of drinks.
Now we’re sipping mojitos and sitting in a kitschy lounge called Cousteau’s Cabin. Or at least I’m sitting. My husband can’t stay still or get enough of this place. The walls are lined with nautical instruments and artifacts, and he’s been making the rounds, checking them all out. Of course he then has to strike up a conversation with every person in the vicinity of each display. I’d be more amused watching him so in his element if I wasn’t so horngry.
I finish off the last sip of my drink, and whether it’s his bartender prowess or this profound connection we’re exploring together, he looks over at that moment and meets my gaze. He winks at me from across the room—which would be an eye roll-worthy cringe move if it came from just about anyone else. But Jake pulls it off. Because he’s Jake.
He smiles broadly and says one last thing to the older couple he’s chatting with near a large display of old-school scuba gear before excusing himself.
I can’t help but watch him as he walks—no, prowls—toward me. He’s laser focused on his target. My cheeks heat, but it’s not from sun or rum this time. It’s him. It’s all him.
“Hey, handsome,” he greets me as he bows low and gives me a chaste kiss. He snatches the empty glass out of my hand. “I’ll be right back.”
The second he sidles up to the bar, the bartender, Jerry—who he’s already on a first name basis with—pours us another round. I oscillate between watching my husband flirt with everyone at the bar and watching the three-person band set up on the other side of the lounge.