Page 11 of His Queen

“Mirabella?”

“Here.”

Sure as shit, there she is, dressed in spandex that’s practically a second skin, hugging incredibly tight around the curve of her ass. Nala-colored leopard print pants aren’t even what I’d consider full pants since the sides are held together by some sexy, hot as fuck mesh design that my fingers could snap with the slightest tug. And the matching top she’s wearing—or rather the matching bra that covers half her tits and crisscrosses behind her back—I’d be able to tear that thing off her with my goddamn eyes.

My fists tighten as I watch my wife position herself on the floor, her hands on the teal mat and knees on the cold floor. My cock jerks as she leans her weight forward onto her hands, slowly sliding her knees out to the sides. More. More. More. Good God, I’ve got the perfect view of my wife’s ass and pussy hugged by a thin layer of spandex. While my blood boils because there’s another man around while my wife is doingthat,I’m also incredibly aroused because my wife is doingthat.

Bending her elbows and lowering her arms toward the ground, Mira pushes back into her hips.

Is that…

Is she…

Is she doing the frog pose? The cock-voodoo pose that magically has my cock slide into her every time she shows me how she gets her thighs so firm and tight? Does she do this move in front of Jean—

“Make sure your back is flat and core engaged.”

—fucking Luc?

I’m silently snarling at the sound of his voice, the slight tenor vibrating across my last nerve.

“Keep on edging your knees outward. Feel that stretch through your groin and inner thighs. You feel it?”

“Yes. I feel it,” Mira says, then inhales deeply.

“Does it feel good?”

“So good.”

What the actual fuck?

Jean-Luc appears beside her, the sight of him in his neon green spandex making me want to burn my retinas. The man’s balls are practically in my face.

“Your back needs to be flat, baby girl,” he says, going on his knees, placing a palm on my wife’s back and the other on her stomach. “Flat. Tighten your core. You don’t want your back to sag.”

Mira breathes out, and I’m holding my fucking breath because I’m one-hundred-and-fifty-two-thousand percent sure I’m about to breathe fire.

“There you go. Good girl.”

Fuck this.“What in the holy name of fuck do you think you’re doing?” I growl as I storm inside the studio, pushing through the door with enough force to cause a mini-earthquake. “No one calls my wife a good girl but me.”

“Nicoli?” Mirabella looks over her shoulder. “Nicoli, don’t!”

Jean-Luc’s eyes are so fucking wide that his eyebrows almost touch his hairline. “Mr. Del Rossa,” he stutters as I charge toward him like a boulder of destruction about to tear his spine out of his spandex-covered ass.

“I’m going to kill you!”

“Nicoli, no!” Mirabella leaps to her feet just as I grab Jean-Luc by the throat, forcing him back. His pissy hands claw at my wrist as I slam his back against the wall.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing with my wife?

“We were…” I tighten my grip on his throat. “We…were…just—”

“Nicoli, for God’s sake. Let go of him.

“—stretching.”

“Stretching?” I sneer, clenching my jaw. “The only one who gets to stretch my wife is me.”

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