Marrying Up

by Abby Knox

  "Molecular gastronomy," she breathes into the phone. "Just make sure you call and cancel the reservations and let someone on the waiting list have a lucky night. Right after you send me a photo of you."

  "Why do you need a photo of me? You already know what I look like."

  "Babe."

  Then it hits me. "Oh, you mean…"

  "I would have thought you'd know me by now. I wanna see your hand wrapped around it."

  Oof. "Shit, babe. You're killing me."

  "Come on Smitty, you know what a sucker I am for those rough hands of yours."

  I turn around and, seeing nobody else nearby on the ridge, I unzip the fly of my jeans, reach inside my drawers and pull out my dick. It's already hard since I've been thinking about that immaculate pussy it's going to own tonight.

  I click send, zip up, and swagger back down the ridge toward the house, feeling pretty good about myself. In my haze of lust, I get excited when I hear Ally call me back. But when I look down at my phone, I see it's the restaurant texting me. Confused and perplexed since I was just about to call them, I look at the message.

  It reads, "I don't think that photograph was meant for us?"

  I take a closer look and realize, with horror, I made a mistake.

  When I arrive at the hotel and park the truck, I head on up to the penthouse suite via the specially designated elevator. The metal door slides open directly into the suite, and there's my wife, waiting for me, naked as a jaybird.

  "Happy birthday to me!" she chirps and plants a kiss on my neck. "I don't know what you said when you called to cancel our dinner reservations, but Devin just called me and said dinner was on the house tonight."

  I was feeling pretty deflated after my humiliating debacle earlier. Further mortifying was having to reply to the restaurant and explain that the photo was for my wife and I needed to cancel. I said I was fine to pay for the dinner that we had to cancel because I was just relieved they didn't call the cops on my bungling ass.

  "I don't get it. Why in the world would they call you?"

  "Babe, I've coordinated at least ten weddings at that restaurant. Devin the maȋtre d' and I go way back. So…," she says, running her hand over my shirt and unbuttoning the buttons, "if we skip the concert in the park, we can still make dinner. What do you say?"

  I have to confess the truth or I'm never going to make it through this night. I'm terrified that I'm about to ruin her 40th birthday either way.

  She is raring to go, her thigh already riding up the outside of my leg.

  I can't stay away from her kiss as she arcs up toward me with those full, pink lips. I press a sensual kiss into her waiting mouth and it both nourishes me and scares me. But I have to tell her the truth.

  "Baby. You're probably wondering why you never got that dick pick."

  Her mouth is killing me with those saucy humming noises, her tongue skimming lightly over my bottom lip. My cock twitches.

  "I sent it to… apparently Devin, by mistake."

  The words barely escape me with her lips so close. I wait for the ax to fall, slicing its way through our perfectly sexy evening and more importantly, putting a damper on her birthday.

  She follows her licking with a kiss and palms my member. "I know," she whispers.

  "You've known this whole time?"

  She pulls back, but only slightly; I've got too hard of a hold on her. "Yes, I wasn't expecting a full confession. I was going to let it go but since you said something…" Her hands begin quick work of my belt buckle as she continues. "You ought to know that your little whoopsie got me especially hot."

  Whoa. She shoots me a look and then sinks to her knees, tugging down my jeans and boxer briefs, freeing my aching cock.

  "Really?"

  My fucking sexy wife shoots me a heated look, and then takes me in her warm hands and places a kiss on the bottom side of my shaft.

  I hiss with anticipation. What is happening right now?

  "It got me incredibly wound up to know you tried," she purrs, licking and kissing my cock and stroking my balls with one hand. "It made me super hot when I heard you sent it to somebody else by accident because you were so distracted by my photo." Another lick and a kiss to my cock then a squeeze. "It made me feel incredibly lucky to know somebody else got to take a look at something that belongs to me."

  When she talks, I can feel her breath against the tender skin of my shaft. I don't even care if some other dude liked the photo of my cock so much, it got my wife excited. Not what I expected, but whatever floats your boat, baby.

  The anticipation is so intense, her mouth so close to my cock, that a bead of precum glistens at the tip, contrasting with my red, throbbing rod.

  Ally licks her lips. Finally, relief is coming.

  But no, she takes just the tip of her tongue and dabs away the pearly essence, then I watch as she gingerly paints her own lips with the tip of her tongue.

  "Sweetheart, you better wrap that filthy mouth around it before I explode."

  She lightly licks up my shaft and says, "Oh, you'd better explode, then you'd better paint me with it."

  "Oh shit," I breathe, thanking my stars that I didn't ruin her birthday, that I somehow by dumb luck made it slightly kinkier and better.

  The warmth of her wet mouth owns me. I thread my fingers through her hair. She glances up at me and sucks harder, moaning in affirmation when I tug at the roots. I guide her into a sexy rhythm until I'm ready to explode.

  "Get up here," I rattle out. "I want your pussy on my dick. I want another baby."

  She pops my rod out of her mouth and sweetly attacks my face with a sultry, emotion-filled kiss. "Baby. And I was afraid to ask." Gripping her tight to me as we kiss, I inch us over to the bed and sit down. She seats herself on my dick, gripping me with her heat just as tightly as ever. My hands grab her ass and she rolls her hips into me.

  "Angel, why in the world were you afraid to ask?"

  Ally bites her lip. "I didn't know if you would be ready for the challenges of a baby at our age."

  "Give me that lip," I command, and suck that thing out from between her teeth, moaning at the taste of her in my mouth. "What about you, darlin'? People can get real weird about a lady pregnant at forty. You ready for that?"

  She shrugs and her eyes light up with her usual certitude. "Doctor says there's no reason not to try. As for everybody else? Fuck 'em."

  I laugh and thrust in hard, holding her steady with both arms wrapped around her. "That's my girl."

  She smiles and rolls into me, her tits slapping my cheek. I take one nipple and then the other into my mouth, nipping slightly with my teeth.

  She yelps in surprise and delight, just like the first time I lifted her little body on the back of a horse. "That's my cowboy," she whispers hoarsely, her body smacking against me, our torrid, wet noises growing louder and quicker. "Always up for a ride."

  "Slow down and lean back a little, baby," I growl. Ally arches her back slightly toward my knees and hooks her hands around my thighs so I can reach her clit with my thumb.

  "I don't know what I did to deserve you, always making me come first or at the same time," she says on a hard grip with her heat.

  "Whatever we do, we do it together, darlin'."

  After the two of us have completely wrung each other out, I hold her close against me and feel her breathing.

  All the other stuff is pretty damn fantastic but this is my favorite part. Just two souls fitting together, making sense, making each other's worlds a little bit sweeter than they were before.

  About the Author

  Abby Knox lives a dual life. Fantasy Abby would love to live on a farm with goats, bees, chickens, donkeys and alpaca, making her own soap, yarn, honey and cheese. Reality Abby has no desire to do actual farm work. So, the ever-pragmatic Reality Abby keeps Fantasy Abby happy by putting her into adorable little works of romantic fiction with her pretend hobbies. Both Abbies hope you enjoy her sweet, sexy — sometimes a little over the top and weird
— storytelling.

  Keep up with the latest news with Abby’s newsletter!

  Say hello at

  authorabbyknox@gmail.com

  Also by Abby Knox

  Need more stand-alone short reads and novellas?

  Check out Abby’s other titles!

  Shacking Up

  Maid for the Billionaire

  Made for Marriage

  Doctor Dave

  Officer Max

  Fighting For Dylan (book four in a six-author MMA series!)

  Hot Off The Press

  The Halloween Bet

  The Christmas Pickup

  Saved for Me

  Matched for Me

  Off-Season Stud

  In the mood for a beachy rock-n-roll combo?

  Beach Avenue Babes

  His Vinyl Vixen (a stand alone for the rock ’n’ roll nerd in all of us)

  Her Hi-Fi Hunk (Dusty and Jed from His Vinyl Vixen)

  The Greenbridge Academy series

  Swim Coach (book one)

  Grumpy Dad (book two)

  Benefactor (book three)

  Headmistress (book four)

  Queen Bee (book five)

  Bake Sale Queen (book six)

  The Very Good Boy Duet

  Fencing Her In (A bad neighbors to lovers story. With a lot of dogs. You need this in your life.)

  Doing Him Good (An insta-love, sowing-his-wild-oats whirlwind romance.)

  Need more?

  From the Small-Town Bachelor Romance Series

  (each can be read as a stand-alone, but if you want to read in order … this is the order)

  Take Me Home

  Game Face

  Written in the Stars, a special Christmas edition

  Walk With Me

  Stay the Night

  I’ve Got You

  Come And Get It

  The Windy City Holiday Duet

  Pumpkin and Spice

  Comfort and Joy

  An excerpt from Shacking Up

  How it all began…

  Sam

  “I like your boots.”

  The compliment comes from the husky-voiced young thing with the tattoos, the exact person I didn’t want to sit next to me.

  She’s speaking to me while holding one small Bluetooth earphone in her hand, like we’re about to engage in an important enough conversation that she needs to be all ears.

  I don’t want this lady near me because those barely-there cutoffs caught my eye as soon as she breezed in the door of the jury selection room this morning. Hardly appropriate for court. And fifteen minutes late.

  The summons I got in the mail—the one I presume Little Miss Short-Shorts also received—clearly said to arrive for jury duty at exactly 8 a.m. Dress code? “Business or business casual,” it read.

  Not that I’m a huge fan of the government telling me when and where to show up for things. But I’ll do my part for the justice system. I don’t mind fulfilling my civic responsibilities, even though I have a ranch to run and several new ranch hands to train. I did leave my tried-and-trusted ranch manager, Smitty, in charge. He’s like the son I never had. But still, it’s calving season; I hate to miss things.

  I probably won’t be chosen to serve on a jury anyway. I’m a cranky old dude who probably looks like he regularly shouts at kids to clear off his lawn. The kind of guy who has no patience for fancy legalese.

  I’m not actually like that, but I don’t mind if I look a little scary.

  I can’t imagine the tattooed young lady has huge demands on her time. Looking like a free-thinking little rebel chick, she’s perfect if a criminal attorney is in need of a jury of peers for her client. A very pretty, nice-smelling peer who flits about as if she could be carried off by the slightest breeze.

  All that bare skin is making me uncomfortable. Her proximity, and now her talking to me, is making it difficult for me to mind my own business and concentrate on the book I’m reading.

  “Thank you,” I say, giving her a nod and glancing down at my feet. They’re not the fancy kind of country singer boots, just basic brown. But they do shine up nice and seem appropriate for court, unlike my usual shitkickers.

  This wisp of a woman has eyes that are impossibly violet, and they’re locked onto me as she leans back in her folding chair. She crosses her legs, one foot resting on her bare knee. I think she’s waiting for me to pay her a compliment in kind.

  I blurt out, “I uh ... like yours too.”

  This is a lie. I don’t like her boots. They are knee-high, lace-up monstrosities with a four-inch platform and look like they’re from a costume for Frankenstein’s monster. They don’t suit her thin frame at all, nor her overall ethereal glow. Before I can stop myself, my eyes travel up her leg and land on her right thigh, which is just barely brushing against the outside seam of my jeans. Why are these chairs so close together in here? Can’t the county afford to spread these seats out an inch or two to let people breathe?

  The tattoo on her nearest thigh appears to be Latin and says something about bastards. It feels familiar but I can’t put my finger on it.

  Sure would like to put my fingers on that bare thigh and let her explain it to me, though.

  Shit. Five minutes back in civilization and this is what happens. I’m already having inappropriate thoughts about a younger woman. When I’m on the back of a horse, I don’t think about anything but taking care of the land and taking care of my animals. Being all alone in wide open spaces suits me much better than being stuck in this windowless box, rubbing up against this punk pixie siren.

  “Thanks,” she says. That low, sexy voice doesn’t seem suited to a tiny thing like her either. She looks like a person who might have a Minnie Mouse kind of voice. Minnie Mouse with an attitude.

  I glance around to see if there’s an empty seat I can escape to. Anywhere but next to this woman, with her strange, silvery-lavender hair and herbal scent. She looks like one of those protestors who once tried to break in through my gate to free some of my cattle. I wonder if I’ve ever had to call the cops on her or some of her friends. Wouldn’t be surprised.

  The only other open seat in the room is in front of me, next to the corny guy. A minute ago I heard him comment to his neighbor to the other side, “I guess it’s time to hurry up and wait,” and then guffawed at his own joke like it was the first time anybody had said that.

  All right fine, I’ll stay where I’m at. As painful as it may be. I’m just gonna read my book.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see the young lady cock her head to read the cover of my Wild West novel, but I keep my eyes trained on the words in front of me. Maybe Louis L’Amour will be enough to ward her off from trying to talk to me.

  He seems to do the trick.

  She sits back in her chair and takes out her phone, then tucks her earbud back into her ear. That’s right, darlin’. I’m boring as shit. Just keep your thighs to yourself. I mean eyes. Not thighs.

  Suddenly, I hear a strange voice, one that’s definitely not from these parts. A highbrow kind of British accent from one of those PBS programs where fancy folks laze about a manor house and give each other knowing looks while discussing the weather. I mean, I don’t watch those shows, but I’ve seen them advertised. And I might’ve caught a minute or two, here and there. And maybe I’ve lingered, if something interesting is happening, such as a lady turning down a proposal of marriage from some oily dude. Anyway, how could a guy like me resist looking at well-mannered English women wearing historical costumes that show off their tits?

  And then my brain registers what that British male voice is saying. And it for sure ain’t a costume drama on public television.

  “Take it out and hold it in your hand. It’s quite massive, isn’t it? Now, pet, you’re going to do as I say and put it your mouth.”

  People seated around us give themselves whiplash as they swivel around trying to locate the source of this filthy narration. Some of them stare at me and the young lady, but she’s just
sitting there staring at her phone screen, perplexed. Someone nearby titters. Some old lady in the row in front of us gasps, horrified.

  The sounds of smut continue, the breathing becomes heavier, and the invisible British man is getting bossier now. “I said, stroke it and tease the tip. Be a good girl, now, and you’ll get your reward.”

  I realize what’s happening. The young lady is listening to something filthy on her phone and she doesn’t realize the Bluetooth connection isn’t working.

  Jiminy Christmas. What in the world is she listening to? And where can I find the female-voiced version of it?

  “Ma’am,” I say, shifting toward her although it’s the last thing I want to do.

  She ignores me. Must be noise cancelling headphones.

  I don’t want to touch her, but I tap her gently on the shoulder.

  She turns her head and her mouth drops open, giving me a questioning look.

  “What?” she says, a little too loudly.

  I point at her phone, and then at her ear, and shake my head.

  Her eyes widen in horror when she realizes what has happened.

  Rushing to stop the track playing on her screen, she fumbles the phone and it clatters to the floor. Meanwhile, the words broadcasting from it become more graphic with every passing moment.

  “Fuck," she says, her hands scrambling and missing. Some people around us are in stitches, some are murmuring about public indecency. The phone skids across the floor and I reach out one foot to catch it, pinning it beneath my boot.

  Leaning forward, I press the pause button on her screen. “Sorry, folks,” I say to the half-horrified, half-amused faces all around me as I sit up straight again. “Didn’t mean to scare you. Must have drifted off and started talking in my sleep.”

  I hand the phone back to the young lady.

  While trying to get back to my book, I can feel many pairs of eyes on me, including the lovely ones belonging to the tattooed woman next to me. I can tell her jaw is hanging open.