Page 87 of Own the Eights Maybe Baby
But holy hell! He’d misjudged that assumption by a mile.
A clickity-clack coming from outside their bedroom sent his pulse racing. He took a quick swig of his sports drink, then slid the bottle back into its hiding place under the bed as a heady jolt of excitement coursed through his body in anticipation.
Who would he meet this morning?
Georgie opened the door, and he gazed at her silhouette. Yesterday, she’d come in wearing boots and a cowgirl hat. They’d reenacted the naughty rancher’s daughter scenario, which had become one of his favorites. They had to get more creative with their sexual positions, thanks to his wife’s blossoming body, and that’s where a well-loved book came into play. After consulting their worn copy of theKama Sutra, his dirty cowgirl rode his hard length like the rodeo beauty queen temptress she was.
That was the best part of this nesting business. It usually ended with his wife organizing her old costumes, and then, modeling an outfit for him in the wee hours of the morning.
He narrowed his gaze in the dim light and took in the splendor of his wife. The hem of her costume caressed her upper thighs, revealing her smooth, toned legs. The bedroom door creaked open a few more inches and let in the light from the hallway. And anchors away, his blood supply headed south.
Standing in front of him was the sexiest sailor he’d ever set eyes on. In a short, pleated dress with a folded collar adorned with shiny gold stars and a red bow resting below her ample breasts, his wife had him giving her a morning salute.
“What do you think?” she asked.
But before he could answer, the clickity-clack was back as Georgie busted out a four a.m. tap routine—all with Faby in her arms.
“I think you’ve sold yourself short on the skill set you developed when you were a teenager on the pageant circuit,” he said as his wife tapped out a rhythm, then set the fake baby on the bedside table with a pizazz not often exhibited at the crack of dawn.
“Oh yeah?” she replied, doing a shimmy twirl that revealed her bare ass hidden beneath the pleated layers.
He should take another gulp of his sports drink, but that would mean taking his eyes off his sexy sailor wife. Nope, that one sip would have to sustain him, no matter what sexual acrobatics his wife demanded.
He propped himself up and took in the full splendor of this morning’s randy role-play costume. The snug white sequined sailor dress accentuated her baby bump as well as her heaving breasts, which had him at full mast. And while the costume designer of this gem probably never would have predicted that this garment would be worn for a session of early morning hanky-panky, he sent a quick thank you out into the universe for seamstresses everywhere.
But he forgot all about costume design when he watched Georgie tap dance her way to the other side of the room. With her back to him, she leaned over and pressed her palms to the top of their dresser. The pleats of the sailor suit skimmed her legs, exposing the taut globes of her ass, and he flexed his fingers—his digits aching to grip the supple flesh.
Georgie glanced over her shoulder. “The captain says we’ve got rough seas ahead, and I need a strong deckhand to get me through the storm.”
She’d gotten damn good at the role-play dirty talk. But two could play at that, and he was always up for sharpening his skill set.
Naked as the day he was born, he maneuvered his large frame out of bed and sauntered over to his wife. These days, it made things easier to go to bed naked. And he was rewarded for the gesture when Georgie’s gaze dropped to his hard length, and a mischievous smile pulled at the corners of her mouth.
This sexy sailor didn’t mind his lack of sleeping attire one bit.
He came up behind her and met her gaze in the mirror that hung on the wall above the dresser.
“Sounds like you’re in need of a seaman.”
God’s honest truth? Seaman is a funny-ass word—except when your wife is dressed in a sequined sailor suit, bent over in front of a mirror and beckoning for a deckhand. Then, the word sounds as naughty as hell.
“Do you think you’re up for the task? It could get dangerous, Seaman Marks,” she purred—and again, there was nothing silly about seamen.
He pressed his rock-hard cock against her ass, then ran his hands up the sides of her body. His wife arched into him as he massaged her breasts, barely contained in the costume’s bodice. He kissed the delicate skin below her earlobe and watched in the mirror, like a predator assessing his prey, as she parted her lips and gasped.
“I can handle dangerous,” he whispered against the shell of her ear.
“And wet. It’s going to get very, very wet,” she rasped on a heated exhale.
If she ever tired of blogging, she’d be an ace at scripting NC-17 flicks.
He reached between her thighs and caressed her most sensitive place. “You weren’t kidding. You’re soaked,” he growled, then rocked his palm against her tight bundle of nerves as he teased her slick entrance with his fingertip.
But his wife was greedy. A click and a clack cut through her lusty moans as she spread her legs, granting him complete access. He worked her in perfect rhythmic circles, rubbing her sweet bud and driving her toward wanton release.
“Hold on to your hat, sailor girl. It’s about to get rough,” he said, reveling in the quickening of her sultry, audible breaths.
“I don’t have to hold on to my hat. I have mad bobby pin skills. A tsunami couldn’t knock this sucker off,” she whispered, then gasped for breath.
