Page 90 of Stolen Vows

I’m right there with her, my hand matching her rhythm as I stroke myself through my sweatpants. The damp fabric clings to my cock, adding just enough friction that has me teetering on the brink. I’m so hard, so fucking ready to explode.

Francesca's head falls back against the tiled wall, her mouth falling open on what I know is a silent scream of ecstasy. Her hips buck erratically, the vibrator moving in short, frantic thrusts as she rides out her orgasm. I can see the way her body tenses and shudders, every muscle pulled taut as pleasure crashes over her in waves.

It's the most erotic, mind-blowingly sexy thing I've ever seen.

My cock pulses in my hand, my balls drawing up tight as my own release barrels down my spine.

I’ve never come in my pants before, but now it’s happened twice in one night. All because of my wife.

30

FRANCESCA

The smellof books and fresh flowers clings to the air, warm and familiar, wrapping around me like a second skin. Fiction & Folklore has always been my safe place. My sanctuary. But today, it’s different. I’m different.

Or maybe I just can’t stop thinking about Graham.

I haven’t seen him all day. I woke up to an empty house, the smell of coffee lingering in the kitchen, a small note tucked next to a to-go cup on the counter.

Had a call early. Made you a coffee.

See you later, wife.

That’s it. No good morning. No mention of last night. Just a simple, efficient note in his neatly scrawled handwriting.

The logical part of me knows that’s just who Graham is—concise, direct, no wasted words. But another part of me, the one still reeling from the way he touched me last night, the way he raspedtell me what you wantagainst my skin, wanted more.

Maybe I expected some kind of shift between us today. A lingering glance, a brush of fingers in the hallway, some small sign that last night meant something. But the house is too big. Too unfamiliar. And Graham is too good at compartmentalizing.

Maybe I’m not being fair. Maybe he is as affected as I am. Shit, for all I know, he didn’t even enjoy my little performance in the shower last night.

Still. Even if he didn’t tune in, we still shared an orgasm together. I can’t remember the last time I came like that. I honestly don’t know if I ever have.

Who knew dry-humping would be so hot?

Romance novels.

Romance novels told me it would be hot, and I should’ve believed them. Actually . . .

The thought hits me like a freight train, stopping me in my tracks as I shelve the latest shipment of paperbacks. I set down the stack of books, my mind racing.

I’ve read countless romance novels over the years, losing myself in the pages, in the heart-pounding, pulse-racing moments when the enemies finally become lovers. When the omega finally get her alphas. When the mafia heirs burn down a city because his rivals took his woman who he’s been secretly pining for since he broke her heart to keep her save.

I’m a self-insert reader, so I’ve imagined myself in hundreds of scenarios. But for the first time, I might be able to actually have those experiences.

With Graham.

Excitement and nervousness tangle in my stomach. He said this marriage could be whatever I wanted it to be. And last night, I told him I wanted it to be real.

The memory of his hands on me, the heat in his eyes as he growled against my skin, it makes my cheeks flush and my thighs press together. He didn’t hesitate. Didn’t question me. Just took what I offered with a hunger that left me breathless.

So maybe it’s time I start really exploring what I want from this marriage.

I use the book in my hand to fan myself as a flush crawls over me. It’s probably a good thing I’ve got a full day at the bookstore. A way to anchor myself in something steady, something routine.

The bell above the door jingles, signaling a customer's arrival and pulling me from my thoughts. I straighten up, smoothing my hands over my sundress as I turn to greet them.

“Welcome to Fiction and Folklore! Let me know . . .” My voice trails off as I take in the person standing in the doorway.

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