Page 113 of Finding Mercy

I get up and grab her hips so I can hit her harder.

I slam into her, watching her tits bounce and her head hit the pillow repeatedly.

“YES!” She yells.

I run my hand down her abdomen, every inch of her is perfect in my eyes.

“Baby girl, you need to come.”

She pushes me flat onto my back and rides me. What the hell just happened? Where’s my submissive girl?

That thought flies out of my head when she starts fucking me like a wild animal. She bounces up and down faster than a speeding bullet.

I grab her nipples and pinch them. She throws her head back, screaming out her orgasm. It’s not long before I’m right there with her.

We both move back to the head of the bed, and I take her in my arms.

“I think I like being married,” she says.

I laugh, “Me too, baby.”

“Some people might say we have sex too much,” she says.

“Fuck them. I never liked them anyway. Too much sex? That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

She giggles, “I love you.”

I kiss her on the forehead, “I love you too, baby girl. This is only the beginning.”

Liam and Mercy: The Wedding Night, Honeymoon and Beyond…

Read on for and excerpt of the next book in this series.

They open my bag in the middle of the airport and rifle through it. Mercy looks at me, “What the hell is in the bag?”

I blow out a big breath, “Fuck. I should’ve put it in the checked baggage.”

Mercy looks nervous. She probably thinks I have a gun in there.

“What’s this?” The female guard asks.

She’s holding a pink butt plug in the air much to my displeasure. People in line behind us snicker. Mercy has an expression that says she might kill me. And I'd like to strangle this woman. Seriously, everybody knows what a butt plug is. Don’t they?

“It’s a butt plug.” I say simply.

“Is it yours?”

“Yeah, sure it’s mine.” I roll my eyes.

She puts it back into the bag and allows us to go. I guess she’s done trying to humiliate us. It didn’t bother me, it’s a butt plug, no big deal. But I can tell from looking at my wife for her it is a very big deal. I don’t think I’ll hear the end of this for a while.

We finally board our plane, and we sit at the front, in first class. Her excitement about where we are traveling is long gone and replaced with anger.

“What kind of a fucking idiot doesn’t pack that in a suitcase instead of a carry-on bag?” She asks.

I sigh, “Someone whose wife packed enough clothes for six months so there was no room left in said suitcase.”

“Well, I’m so sorry I want to look nice.”

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