Page 158 of The Oscar Escape
She pushed onto her elbows. “The lobster panties are so well-made.” Her lips curled in a smile that spoke of pure wanton wickedness. “They can’t be ripped off like these can.”
This woman surprised him in the best ways every damned day.
“Message received.” With a few flicks of his wrist, he shredded the bit of satin and lace. The primal sound sent a jolt of lust rocketing through his body. The sensation gathered below his belt.Damn, she got him so fucking hard.
He tossed aside the ruined underwear and shrugged down his jeans and boxer briefs.
They didn’t have much time to get their lighthouse museum freak on.
The group planned to leave the inn and head down to watch the sunset and roast marshmallows at Lighthouse Beach. As he took Aria’s hand to join the procession to the water’s edge, Georgia and the judge had asked them to wait in the museum for twenty minutes before joining them. He had a good idea of what the islanders and their nanny love match crew were planning, and he was relatively sure it wouldn’t be another lobster cosplay sacrifice.
How did he know this?
Earlier in the day, he saw Del, the judge, and his father carrying the artifact Aria had desecrated when they’d arrived—the beloved Havenmatch Island driftwood bench built by Homer Havenmatch.
Either they’d be carving their names into the weathered wood, or shit would get freaky with the lobster masks. Whatever was in store for them on the beach, he wasn’t about to turn down some alone time with his wife and the creakiest bed on the island.
He traced a line from her inner thigh to her sweet center and teased her entrance. She was warm and wet. Her arousal kicked his desire into overdrive. And then the woman rolled her hips—her tell that she ached for him. Another shot of lust released into his system.
What did he want to do with this pent-up energy?
That’s easy. He wanted to thrust his cock inside her and make her come hard.
But he could also be a tease.
He worked her sensitive bundle of nerves, making lazy circles as he inserted two fingers inside her. “Say it, Mrs. Elliott. Say the whole thing. Your naughty-down-there parts are begging for it,” he said, admiring the view as she writhed and bucked.
“Normal,” she breathed. She was close. He could feel her tightening.
“Come on,” he coaxed.
“Penis,” she moaned.
He dialed up his pace and increased the pressure.
“Thing,” she cried, arching her back. “Oscar, I want you. I want to feel you. Take me now.”
He wasn’t about to make her ask twice.
He slipped her legs off his shoulders. She scooted back and rested her head on the pillow. The light held her in a hazy glow. She looked part angel and part devil. His favorite combination. He kicked off his shoes and discarded his pants and boxer briefs like they were on fire. With a delicious creak and a grating moan, the bed begrudgingly acknowledged the addition of his weight as he covered her body with his.
“Mrs. Elliott,” he said, his voice a low rumble.
She smiled up at him. “Will you ever get tired of calling me that?”
“Never.”
“Good, Mr.Mandelier.”
“You’re proud of that one, aren’t you?”
“You have no idea,” she purred.
She smiled that sweet smile—the one that made him feel invincible, the one she gifted him on his sixteenth birthday. The day he’d retrieved the ring she’d wear on her left hand, every day for the rest of their lives.
But he wasn’t here to take a walk down memory lane.
He was here to bang the hell out of his wife.
