Naughty Nibbles Anthology

by Sierra Cartwright, SL Majors, Christy Lockhart

  "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.

  She parted his shirt, then shucked it from his shoulders. The Italian cotton fell to the ceramic tiles, but he said nothing.

  Beth sucked in a shallow breath at the sight of his naked chest. He turned her on.

  She ran her hands across his chest and took a few seconds to scrape her freshly painted fingernails across his masculine nipples until they were tight little nibs.

  His erection strained against the front of his trousers. He might not be sure how to react emotionally to his aggressive wife, but his body didn't have the same problem.

  She nipped at his jawbone.

  "Vixen,” he said. He yanked her sweater upward.

  "No.” She smacked his hand away.

  "I beg your pardon?” A pulse ticked ominously in his temple.

  "No,” she repeated. Her heart thundered. This was the part where she might lose her nerve. Jon had always been the aggressor; she'd been the meek and mild wife. Well, mostly meek and mild. She'd always had these wild fantasies ... And the times she insisted on him lying back while she provided the pleasure ... As she thought about it, her pussy throbbed. “I'll have you naked, Mr. Driscoll."

  "Will you, now?"

  "Shoes, if you please."

  "That's a bit difficult with your knee being where it is."

  She drew her carefully tweezed brows together. “Be quick about it.” She lowered her knee and realised the next few seconds would be very interesting.

  He'd obviously decided to play along. Whether he was intrigued, or because he was suddenly horny, or maybe, just maybe, because he was smart, he was following her orders.

  She took a couple of steps back, and he removed his shoes. “Now your trousers."

  If Jon had any idea how hot she was for him, how much she wanted his body, his ears would scorch.

  In seconds, he was down to his socks and boxers. “The socks must go,” she said, tutting. “Better,” she said approvingly when he took them off. Leaning towards him, she gave his erect penis a squeeze through the cotton boxers. “Now the underwear."

  His Adam's apple danced when he followed her command. He stood before her then, gloriously naked.

  She took a few moments to study him, turning the tables. He liked to look at her, and sometimes she squirmed uncomfortably.

  Despite his busy schedule, it was obvious he still took time to visit the gym. His chest was broad, his waist still trim and athletic. He stood with his legs slightly spread, and his thighs were hard as steel. “Turn around."

  For a second, he hesitated, but then he turned.

  Man, she liked his bum. He had perfectly formed ass cheeks, and she wondered what they'd look like with a few stripes from a cane across them.

  Beth all but licked her lips.

  "You may face me,” she said.

  His brows were furrowed, but he was harder than ever. If she could place a few quid at the bookies, she'd say her husband was as turned-on by her attitude as she was by his body. Maybe he hadn't been entirely kidding when he'd told her he wanted a woman to take charge. “Lovely,” she said. “Your dick is magnificent, Jon.” And it was. It wasn't overly long, but it was thick. She knew from experience it would fill her, stretch her. “It's begging to be sucked.” And soon, he would be, as well. Abruptly she added, “I think thirty-two years is long enough to wear underwear. Leave them off in the future so I can access your cock faster."

  "Beth—"

  "There will be none in your drawer, either.” She cradled his testicles, feeling their fullness. Warmth gushed through her. She wanted his cock inside her pussy, and the sooner the better. “Upstairs,” she said. “To our bedroom."

  He licked his lower lip, a bit uncertainly.

  "Or I can fuck you here. Your choice."

  "Good God."

  She blinked her eyelashes seductively. “Tell me you don't want it. Don't want me?” She pointedly glanced at his hard-on and at the balls she still held. “That's more than just circumstantial evidence, yo
u'll have to admit."

  Beth smiled. “If you're a good boy, you might get to come."

  "You're driving me mad."

  "You have two choices. You can go upstairs like I requested, or I can have you down here.” She didn't tell him she was counting on him going upstairs, that she'd spent the better part of two hours shopping and arranging their bedroom for what she had in mind.

  "I have work to do,” he said.

  Which one of them was he reminding, she wondered?

  She tightened the pressure on his sac. Her fingernails were likely digging into him.

  "Up-stairs,” he said, the word broken into two distinct syllables.

  Releasing his balls suddenly so that he gasped, she bent to pick up his tie and looped it around his neck. She used the dampened silk to draw him a few centimetres towards her. “Good boy,” she said approvingly.

  Still fully dressed, she followed him. When he paused on the threshold of the master bedroom, she slapped his tight ass. There would definitely be more where that had come from. “Inside. Now."

  "What the hell has gotten into you tonight?"

  Tonight and every night. “I want my husband's full attention."

  "Woman, you've got it."

  Beth didn't betray the nerves that made her stomach a fluttering mass of desire. “In the middle of the bed,” she told him. “Lying down, on your back. Your ass on that pillow."

  "One might think you'd planned this."

  "One might,” she agreed. “Any objections?"

  "None,” he said.

  She refused to betray her nerves. “Arms over your head,” she said.

  Saying nothing, he complied. So as not to freak him out, she knelt on the bed and drew the tie from around his neck.

  "You're going to tie me to the bedpost?"

  "Uhm.” She secured his wrists to the wooden slats. He could get out just by wiggling, and they both knew it. Which was part of her plan to disarm him. Within the next quarter hour, Jon would be so shocked, he wouldn't sleep the rest of the night.

  "Now your feet."

  "You're scaring me,” he said.

  She heard the slight husk of amusement in his voice. No mind. He wouldn't be laughing for long, poor sod.

  Beth traced a fingertip across his lips. “Be a good lad, now."