Sidebarred_ A Legal Briefs NoveL - Emma Chase Page 0,1

words that she wants it and she wants it now.

I grip myself at the base and drag the head of my cock through her wet folds—rubbing against her clit, teasing her hole. My little wife whimpers, then she digs her fingernails into my thigh. “Jake . . .”

A chuckle rumbles behind my lips. Looks like teasing isn’t on the menu today. This also works for me. I line myself up and thrust hard inside her—deep to the hilt.

Damn that’s good. So, so good.

Chelsea’s back bows and she breathes out a welcoming groan. I lift her leg and start pumping in and out—smooth, shallow, building jabs. Her inner muscles squeeze me fantastically, while the rest of her body goes slack with pleasure, her spine relaxing back against my chest.

I kiss her shoulder and lick her neck and bury my face in the waves of her silky hair. The sounds of our pants and slapping skin fill the air and our bodies grow slick with exertion—her pushing back against me as I withdraw and stroke up into her. And time stands still. Or more—it loses meaning. All that we know, all that matters, is the growing, electric pleasure coursing through us, sparking between us.

Making love sweetly has its place; long hours of endless foreplay are great, too. Hell, I can even get into the romance stuff—candles and rose petals and warm baths. But hard, fast fucking should never, ever be underestimated—’cause it’s awesome. Even for married people, even for couples with kids.

Maybe especially for them.

There’s something primal about giving into this base need—being rough and dirty and fast. There’s something so intimate and comfortable and fucking honest about just wanting to come, and come hard, with the person you love.

It’s a feeling I’ve only ever known with this woman in my arms—something I’ll only ever share with her. Till death do us part.

“Please, Jake, please, please, please . . .” Chelsea chants mindlessly, and I know she’s right on the edge. I let go of her leg and bring my hand to the juncture of her thighs—rubbing her clit in feather-light circles—providing the added pressure she needs.

She lifts her head and gasps when she comes, every muscle contracting and squeezing. My breaths are harsh and my hips push without a rhythm, until I roll us over so Chelsea’s flat on her stomach and I cover her back. I thrust into her once, twice, and then my vision goes hazy as I come—the feeling so intense, all I can hear is the pounding of blood in my ears.

Damn.

Seconds, minutes, later we recover our breaths. I roll onto my back and wipe the sweat from my forehead with my arm. Chelsea rises up on her elbows and looks at me with sparkling blue eyes.

“Good morning.”

I kiss her lips gently—because she’s so fucking pretty. Because she makes me so stupidly happy.

“Good is an understatement.”

I open my arms and she curls against me, giggling. We stay like that for only a few minutes because now it’s a little after five—time to officially start my day. As usual, Chelsea drifts back to sleep as I kiss her forehead, ease out of bed, and get dressed for my morning run.

****

“I’m not gonna make it.”

“Yes, you are.”

“I’m gonna die.”

“No, you’re not.”

She starts to sing, “If I die—”

“Stop quoting frigging country songs, Rosaleen. You’re not dying.”

Frigging isn’t typically part of my vocabulary, but after a conversation with Chelsea—several conversations—and a few unfortunate imitations in preschool by Ronan, I’m making a concerted effort to tone down my language.

My running partner for the last two weeks, Rosaleen, gasps for breath as she jogs beside me, blond curly pigtails bouncing in the wind. She’s eleven now. I can’t fucking believe how fast she’s changed from the little blond Shirley Temple look-alike I first met, who thought thirty was so old.

Well . . . she probably still thinks thirty is old, and thirty-four must be goddamn ancient.

Anyway, she’s still short, still has those corkscrew curls and big, innocent blue eyes. But she’s grown, changed—matured. A few months ago she started worrying about her weight, because she’d put on a little.

She also started wearing a training bra.

So not going there.

Chelsea explained it’s just her age—that she’d arrived at the “awkward stage” and in a few months she’d hit a growth spurt and that extra weight would disperse the way it’s supposed to. But Rosaleen didn’t want to wait. So after I run seven miles on my own, I circle back and do an extra mile