Fed Up
Sierra Cartwright
Total-E-Bound Publishing (2009)
* * *
Tags: Romance
Elizabeth Driscoll is fed up with her barrister-husband’s work schedule. She’s sick and tired of Jon coming home late every night with no energy left over to satisfy her sexual appetite.
Once and for all, Beth takes control. That night, when he comes home from work, she’s ready for him. Dressed in high-heeled diva boots, a bra and stockings without panties, she grabs him by the tie, yanks him close to her and latches onto him in a way that gets his attention in a hurry.
When she orders him to his knees, respected and revered attorney Jonathan Driscoll is stunned speechless. He never knew his sweet, mousy wife had a dark and dangerous side. Having no choice, he complies with her demands. Jon learns, the hard way, that her oh-so-sexy boots are made for a whole lot more than just walking.
A Total-E-Bound Publication
www.total-e-bound.com
Fed Up
ISBN #978-1-907010-22-4
©Copyright Sierra Cartwright 2009
Cover Art by Anne Cain ©Copyright April 2009
Edited by Claire Siemaszkiewicz
Total-E-Bound Publishing
This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, Total-E-Bound Publishing.
Applications should be addressed in the first instance, in writing, to Total-E-Bound Publishing. Unauthorised or restricted acts in relation to this publication may result in civil proceedings and/or criminal prosecution.
The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator of the artwork.
Published in 2009 by Total-E-Bound Publishing 1 The Corner, Faldingworth Road, Spridlington, Market Rasen, Lincolnshire, LN8 2DE, UK.
Warning: This book contains sexually explicit content which is only suitable for mature readers. This story has been rated Total-e-burning.
FED UP
Sierra Cartwright
Dedication
For everyone who’s gotten to the point that they’ve just had enough.
Wouldn’t it be nice if we could let loose, even just a bit…?
Trademarks Acknowledgement
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:
Armani suit: GIORGIO ARMANI S.P.A. CORPORATION
Crown Royal: Diageo North America, Inc. CORPORATION
Chapter One
Elizabeth Driscoll was fed up. She’d had enough. She was mad as hell and wasn’t going to take it anymore… And whatever other ways she could come up with to describe her fury. All she knew was…she was pissed.
She so had not come all the way to England from the States a year ago to marry the man of her dreams and then sit home alone all day, bored out of her ever-living mind, lonely, and sexually unfulfilled.
No freaking way.
So, he was a hotshot barrister.
So, he had an enormous case load.
So, he was important.
So freaking what?
He’d chased her across an ocean and half a continent to woo her. Now he wanted her to be the little woman, keep his home nice and tidy, have his shirts ironed, his pants pressed, a nice, hot dinner waiting, along with a Crown Royal, neat, poured at the end of a long, hard day. Mr. Importance wanted his back rubbed a couple of evenings a week. Oh, and while he was working on a case in his study late at night, it was perfectly acceptable to refill that empty whisky glass.
If that’s what he wanted, he had married the wrong woman.
And wasn’t that too bad for him, because she was wearing his ring. He was stuck with her. For better or worse. If he kept it up, it’d be worse for him, much, much worse.
Enough was enough.
She was tired of being ignored.
Her cellular phone rang. Her heart leapt into her throat as she checked the caller identification. Jon. Even after all this time, no matter how angry she was at him, she was still totally, stupidly mad for him.
“Hey, baby,” he said. Even with the fuzziness of wireless service, his voice had the richness of a fine wine on a cold night.
Her shoulders dropped, her pussy moistened in anticipation. She loved his voice, especially when he whispered naughty things about what he was going to do for her.
And he’d do them, as well…
At one time, soon after they’d exchanged vows, he’d hurry home. She’d never forget the days he’d drop his briefcase and sweep her into his arms.
They wouldn’t make it out of the foyer before he kissed her deeply. With his mouth, with his hands, he’d take long minutes to let her know how glad he was she was in his home, in his life.
For the first few months of their marriage, she’d lost weight because they’d rarely made it into the kitchen for food. Instead, he’d carry her straight up to their bedroom, never minding the steep narrowness of the stairs.
“I hate to tell you this…”
She waited. She wasn’t going to make it easy on him.
“I’ll be late.”
Surprise!
“Beth?”
She sighed. “I’m here.”
“Look—”
She could picture him running his hand through his hair in frustration. Jon was dark blond, and every hair was perfectly tamed, cut and shaped into harsh submission. He insisted on presenting a good picture to his clients and the Court. Funny how there always seemed to be time in the schedule to see the hairdresser, but not his wife. “What time?”
“Nine?”
Was he asking permission? “Not a minute later.”
“Miss you.”
She had no doubt he was telling the truth. He just didn’t miss her enough to come home.
“Maybe we can get away to the country this weekend?” he asked.
She recognised the tactic. Appeasement. Three months ago, those kinds of soft words had actually worked with her. Back then she’d still been a sucker. Now she was somewhere between low simmer and scorching mad.
“And baby? I love you. I can’t wait to spend more time with you.”
He wouldn’t have to wait long. Without so much as another word to him, she pushed the end button.
Nine o’clock, he said.
She glanced at the antique grandfather clock. Its pendulum swung back and forth, ticking off the seconds. It was six now. That meant she had plenty of time to get a few things in order before her oh-so important husband arrived home for what promised to be a very interesting evening. After all, she’d been fantasising for a very long time…
* * * *
Nine?
Her husband clearly needed a new watch.
It was already half past and she’d seen neither hide nor hair of him.
Impatience hammered inside her, and her pissy mood matched that of the weather. It was raining. And it wasn’t a good long soak or a gentle drizzle. Nope. It was a miserable, cold, in-your-face rain. It gnawed at your fingers and bit at your ears.
Which was why she went to the front door and locked it. For good measure, she latched the safety chain.
Less than a quarter of an hour later, she heard the doorknob jangle, then a key sliding into the lock. Then the thud as the door didn’t open more than a handful of centimetres.
“Crikey. Beth!”
>
She stayed where she was, arms folded across her chest, shoulders propped against the wall, one leg bent at the knee, high-heeled shoe also on the wall.
He rang the doorbell a couple of times. And then another few times with quick jabs of his finger.
“Beth!” he shouted through the small opening, “You must have latched the door.”
He didn’t have a university education for nothing, now did he?
A few seconds later, she took pity on him. “Hang about,” she shouted. “I’ll have you inside in less than a jiff,” she said, looking at him through the small opening. She closed the door. It took her a couple of moments longer than absolutely necessary to release the safety latch. “Oh my word! You’re soaked through.”
His umbrella had all but turned inside out in the wind. His raincoat was drenched. His saturated leather briefcase dripped water.
Poor thing.
She closed the door behind him and said, “Let me help with that.” She took his brolly and shook the water from it before putting it in the umbrella stand. Then she helped him take off his raincoat. She hung it on the wooden coat tree and watched the puddle it made on the ceramic tiles.
He was still all deliciously professional, if a little worse for the wear. His dove grey suit was ready for the dry cleaners, and his white, button-down shirt was limp.
“You’re a sight for sore eyes,” he said. “I thought about you all day. Couldn’t wait to get home.”
“I’ve been anxiously waiting. Counting the minutes.” Standing on her toes, she linked her arms around his neck and leaned into him.
“You’ll get wet,” he warned.
“I’ll get you.” She nipped at his lower lip. “That’s worth any sacrifice.” Reaching up a little farther, she dug her fingers into his damp hair, pulling it slightly and holding him steady for her kiss.
“Didn’t know I married a tigress.”
“You’re about to find out.” She nipped his lower lip with even more intensity. He gasped and she took the opportunity to seek his tongue.
She kissed him deeply, passionately, demanding his attention, commanding his response.
Then, lowering her arms, she reached between them to grab his cock.
“Beth…?” The word was muffled between them.
His cock, which had been mostly soft, began to harden. She squeezed it tighter. He groaned.
Slowly she ended the kiss. “Let me pour you a whisky.”
“I…” He dragged his hand through his own hair.
She must be getting to him already.
“Damn… I want to spend time with you.” He took hold of her shoulders and looked deeply into her eyes. “But I brought home about two hours worth of work.”
“It will wait.”
“I’m due in court—”
She squeezed his cock harder. “You didn’t hear me correctly?”
He scowled. She’d thrown her unflappable husband off stride. In the past, she might have pleaded. Or worse, pouted. But that had gotten her a whole lot of nowhere. “You’ll have a whisky,” she repeated. “In the parlour.” With that, she released his cock.
She’d dressed with great care and purpose this evening. She had on his favourite shoes. They weren’t just shoes, not just heels, they were a wide open ‘fuck me’ invitation.
Beth had all but poured herself into a pair of indigo jeans. Her red bra was a push up confection of lace and silk with a demi cup, and her cream-coloured sweater fit so snug, he couldn’t possibly miss any of the details beneath.
She’d taken a few extra minutes to make sure her lashes were long and lush, and she’d secured a clip in her long hair, sweeping it off her neck and shoulders.
Turning away, she headed for the parlour without so much as a glance over her shoulder.
Seeming at a loss, he followed her.
She moved towards the sideboard like she normally did, then changed her mind. “Actually, darling, why don’t you pour your own?” She smiled. “And while you’re at it, I’ll have one as well.”
He stopped on his way to one of the wingback chairs. “You don’t drink whisky.”
“You’re fond of telling me that Crown Royal is not just any whisky.”
“True enough.”
“Go ahead and add a splash of ginger ale to mine.”
“Yes. Well then.”
“You don’t mind, do you darling?”
“Not at all.”
While he poured the amber liquid into two crystal whisky glasses, she took a seat in the chair he’d claimed as his own. The wingback faced the fireplace and had a small table next to it for his drink and the daily newspaper, after all, a barrister always needed to know what was going on in the world, right?
Because of the weather, Beth had lit a fire an hour ago. The room was wonderfully warm, making it almost possible to ignore the wind beating against the windowpanes. “Thanks,” she said, accepting the drink from him. She took a sip. Mercifully, he’d added a lot more ginger ale than he had whisky.
“You’ve been alone a lot,” he said. His drink was served neat. It wouldn’t take long for the alcohol to soothe and take the edge of his rough day.
She could be patient, for a bit.
He took a drink from his glass, then crossed to the fireplace. Facing her, he propped his elbow on the mantel. “I know I’ve been neglectful, Elizabeth, and I appreciate you being so patient with me.”
“Patient?” She took a drink, then studied him over the glass rim. “Whatever gave you that idea?”
“Everything alright?”
“No, actually.” She slammed the crystal glass onto the small table. Whisky and ginger ale sloshed onto the wood and made a dark, growing circle.
He winced at the mess. “I know it can’t be easy for you. This weekend, I’ll make it up to you.”
Placating. He was trying to fucking placate her. No, thank you. She stood and devoured the distance between them in three, long, controlled strides. “You’re right.” She took hold of his tie by its knot. He’d been home five minutes and he hadn’t so much as loosened it. And she remembered a time he hadn’t been quite so uptight.
When she’d met him in the States, he’d been on holiday. They’d both signed up for the same white water river rafting trip on Colorado’s Cache Le Poudre river, and she’d admired him in shorts and a T-shirt that was soft from years of wear. They’d been shooting a class III rapid when she’d ended up in the water.
A hero through and through, he’d been the one to haul her back into the raft. He’d used the hem of his T-shirt to dry the water from her face when she’d shivered. And when the trip was over, he’d taken off his shirt and given it to her to wear.
She’d gotten goose bumps then, and they had nothing to do with the bite of the brisk wind on her cold skin. It had everything to do with how sexy she found his bare chest, and the dusting of light-coloured hair across its breadth. His stomach was tight, his thighs steely from the hours he spent in the gym.
She wanted that man back, and by God, she was going to have him. “You’re right about one thing. I have been alone,” she said, “a lot.”
His eyes were light green, so light that at times the colour could almost be called hazel. They had an intensity that was barely leashed. Beth could only imagine what it might be like to be on the witness stand when he stared intently. Even she, the woman he loved, sometimes squirmed uncomfortably beneath the power and concentration in his gaze. “But you’re wrong about the rest. I will not wait for the weekend for you to make it up to me. You’re going to start to right this very moment.” Just in case he’d missed it, she repeated, “Right this very moment.”
“Oh?”
She loosened his tie, then undid the top button of his shirt. All the way home on the tube, he’d kept it done up. Poor thing was being repressed. She was duty-bound to help. “Take off your suit coat.”
He frowned, but did as he was told. She draped the jacket over a chair back, then returned to him. He’d taken
another sip of the fine, smooth whisky, and beyond that, he seemed at a loss of what to do with her. That suited her fine. She knew exactly what to do with him; to him.
She removed both of his cufflinks and let the pieces of metal fall to the hearth.
“Beth…”
“Leave them.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re about. Are you trying to seduce me?”
“Hell, no. In fact, Jon, it’s the other way around. You’re going to arouse me, satisfy me, make me come. Then, maybe, just maybe, you’ll get to come.”
In the early days of their relationship, they’d joked about this…how he’d like a woman to just rip away control and have her wicked way with him. It was a secret desire he’d never shared with anyone. At the time, she wasn’t sure he’d been serious. But the way he’d been behaving, pushing her to her limits, well, he was going to get his wish, wasn’t he? “You look surprised.”
“Shocked,” he admitted. “I didn’t know you had it in you. My demure little mouse of a wife.”
“Fooled you.” She inserted a leg between his thighs and brought her knee up until it was just beneath his balls. Softly, seductively, she said, “And just for that comment, I wouldn’t count on being permitted an orgasm, if I were you.”
Chapter Two
“Ah…that’s a very delicate position you’re in, Beth.”
“It’s a bit more delicate for you, my darling Jonathan.” She placed a kiss in the hollow of his throat. She loved the way her husband smelled. Tonight, the scent of winter rain commingled with the spicy notes of his aftershave. Even here, with her nudging him backward towards the mantel even farther, he wore power as easily as he did his Armani suit. Her pussy was wet.
Cupping one shoulder with her hand, she braced herself on his body and unbuttoned his shirt completely. She tugged the hem from the waistband of his trousers.
“Can you be careful with your knee, please?”
Evidently for safety’s sake, he grabbed hold of her waist, allowing her to let go of him.
Fed Up Page 1