My Husband, My Stalker - Jessa Kane Page 0,12

walking in and finding a little girl instead of my wife.”

A sob scratches from my throat and I drop the spoon I was using to stir the sauce. “Christopher…”

This is not the first time my husband has seemed to read my mind. When we’re in bed, he knows what I want before I do. He knows when I want to change the channel of the television or drop a subject. He knows when I’m nervous or happy or annoyed. So I’m not surprised that he walked in here, took a look at my outfit, and knew there was something afoot. I’m grateful for his intuition now. It’s going to be so much easier to talk about what’s on my mind, because he’s pushing me there. Giving me no choice.

“Which is it?” He tugs the belt harder, pushing the seam of my shorts against my clit, and I heave a sob. “Are you my wife or my little girl?”

I squeeze my eyes shut. “I could be both. A-at different times.”

“Interesting.” He gathers more of the leather in his fists and I have to grip the stove for balance, my thighs starting to tremble violently from the arousing pressure between my legs. The belt isn’t even moving and I’m sure to climax. It’s inevitable. God oh God oh God. “Let’s say you’re my little girl right now. What does that make me?”

My heart is going to beat out of my chest. “I…I don’t know.”

He clucks his tongue. “You don’t?”

“No.” The belt is yanked. Hard. I scream. “Daddy! You’re my Daddy!”

“Good girl. Now you get a reward.” He starts to saw the belt between my legs, up and back, dragging the denim seam over my clit, creating friction everywhere. Everywhere. Even on my back entrance, which shouldn’t feel so perfectly good, but it does. So good, I can barely maintain my position on my tiptoes. “One more question.” His mouth is right up against my ear. “If I’m your Daddy and you’re my little girl, where does that leave your mother? Is she in the picture?” The belt. The belt. It moves faster, making me moan. “Do I have a very short window of time to exercise my rights?”

“Yes,” I gasp, groping blindly to turn off the stove burner.

He knows. He knows every naughty thought in my head without me having to say a word.

Accepts even the parts of me that are a little wrong. A little twisted.

“I see,” Christopher says, dropping the belt.

I whine over the loss of friction, the promise of an imminent orgasm, but the sound gets caught in my throat when I’m spun around, picked up by the waist and tossed onto the edge of the kitchen table. And oh my God, his eyes are pitch black, sweat dotting his upper lip, which is curled up in a snarl. His shaft is thick, filling out one leg of his pants. And his fingers, they undo his shirt buttons quickly, jerking the garment open and treating me to mouthwatering muscles, tattoos layered above flushed skin.

“How long do we have?” he pants, stripping off his shirt completely, dropping it.

“Fifteen minutes,” I whisper.

He growls, as if frustrated by having so little time, and goes to work unfastening my shorts, lifting me up against his chest to get them down my hips, then jerking them further, past my ankles and away. “We’ll leave on the shirt and panties, so you can get dressed fast.”

“Okay.”

I’m hypnotized by the sight of his thick fingers lowering the zipper of his pants, the bulky ridge that comes into view, hidden only by thin white cotton. It’s the first time. He’s my Daddy and we’ve been tempted too far. “I can’t take it anymore. Having you so close and not being able to touch,” he rasps, pulling me to the edge of the table, fastening his mouth over mine in a forbidden kiss. “You’re the only thing that makes me hard.”

Our mouths devour, tasting hungrily, his hands lifting my tank top to my neck so he can fondle my bare breasts, groaning brokenly as he does it.

“So supple,” he says, dipping his head to suck a nipple into his mouth. “So sweet.”

My fingers twist in his hair, holding his skilled mouth to my breasts, but I drop one now, sliding it into the V of his pants, exploring his erection, gasping excitedly over his size. “You’re so big, Daddy.”

He groans at my praise, tugs the silk strip of my thong underwear to the right. “Oh Christ. We shouldn’t