by West, Jade
Dirty Treats
Jade West
Contents
Dirty Treats
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Epilogue
Christmas Daddy
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Dirty Treats copyright © 2019 Jade West
The moral rights of the author have been asserted.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the email address below.
Cover design by Letitia Hasser of RBA Designs http://designs.romanticbookaffairs.com/
Edited by John Hudspith http://www.johnhudspith.co.uk
All enquiries to [email protected]
First published 2019
Created with Vellum
For the magnificent man with the magnificent ass.
And the magnificent brain to go along with it.
You truly have been an inspiration.
Merry Christmas, and thank you for the very, very, very dirty treats you’ve been giving.
Long may it continue. <3
Dirty Treats
Prologue
My name is Marcus Harrington, and my life is perfect. Or so they say it should be.
Since moving into Belgrave Road, in our four-bedroomed, detached, picket-fenced beauty of a house, with the Roystons and the Georges as the most friendly-waving neighbours in the world opposite us, life should be village bliss.
And it is.
Most of the time, it is.
My wife, Jen, is now a member of the local baking club on a Thursday evening. She’s on the school board for summer holiday events and sports tournaments. She has a Neighbourhood Watch sign proudly displayed in our porch window, and she takes the kids to after school activities three afternoons out of five.
She’s doing great in the local mother stakes.
And me?
Well, I’m a suited, booted, office-shackled mid-tiered management guy on a pretty decent salary at the local banking hub. I’m doing ok.
Our kids are awesome little specks, who wave their arms and shout Daddy like troopers when I step in through the door at night. Joey and Pippa are my world, and Jen’s world, and keep us busy enough that for the past few years – long enough to take the edge off the memories – we’ve been reduced to snatching military-position fumblings late at night with the lights out.
Yeah, that bit stinks.
It stinks real bad.
I thought I was living with it, wiping it away as the essential basics with the occasional bonus blow job thrown in on a Saturday if Pippa’s ballet class had gone well. I thought I’d pretty much forgotten the dirty little minx my sweet Jennifer was when I met her way back when.
I thought I’d forgotten how tight her hungry little asshole was, and how she squealed for more when I shunted her deep.
I thought I’d forgotten that filthy glint in her eyes when she opened her mouth nice and wide and wanted me to fill it up hard and rough.
I thought I’d forgotten how wild she drove me. How frantic our grabbing, and thrusting, and raw fucking slams got when we were caught up in each other’s flesh.
I thought I’d forgotten it and consoled myself with snatched pornography sessions in my home office late at night, until I was in the garage that one Sunday afternoon in early December, and reached down the wrong box for the Christmas decorations.
I dropped it on the floor and tugged the dusty cardboard flaps apart, but what greeted me there wasn’t tinsel and grinning snowmen ornaments.
No. It was Jen’s old journals, and the glass jar full of filthy little sex ideas we’d intended to act out in random order and never got round to it. Never more than five of them, anyway.
My heart did this weird little jump, and I felt like a horny fucker as I tipped that jar up and down, straining my eyes for even a snippet of what was still inside there. But the little pieces of paper were all folded tight.
In that moment my wife was back in my memory bank nice and clear, holding up those perky little bouncing tits and moaning for more as I slammed up inside her. She was a temptress at my parents’ place, sneaking her fingers up my thigh to tease at my swollen cock through the fabric.
She was everything my mouth was already watering for, just at the sight of those ideas rolling around inside that glass.
So, the decorations took a back seat. That glass jar was up and hidden away in my half of the wardrobe before Jen came back from Santa’s grotto with Betty Royston and her girls.
I resisted every urge to look through the smutty ideas myself, and opted to save it until I could put a plan in place to make the most of them.
And so I fucking did…
Hello, Christmas Eve. Hell, how I’ve been looking forward to you.
Chapter 1
Jen
I was sure my to do list wasn’t nearly so neat and tidy as it looked. Yep. It must have been a liar.
There was no way it wasn’t a con artist of a phone app as it listed the completed must dos as I prepared for Christmas Eve out with my husband. There was no way I’d ever be that organised. No way. I was run ragged every other week of the year badly enough without this holiday blizzard of responsibilities closing in on top.
I’d been trying my best to complete them before our date night came up on us. I’d been wrapping presents and dishing them out in a frenzy, stocking up on Christmas junk food and getting the kids’ stockings all ready to roll and hidden under our bed.
To be honest, I was still in shock, and weirdly nervous.
Marcus had suggested our Christmas Eve date night out of the blue one Wednesday morning when he was fastening his shirt up with the bathroom door open. He had barely even looked in my direction, firing it out there like it was just some everyday par for the course thing. Like it was completely normal that he’d already arranged for his parents to play babysitters and hang around to join us on Christmas morning and worked out a surprise for us.
For me.
But it wasn’t normal. Not in the slightest.
We hadn’t had anything like a date night since Joey was over at his friend Ted’s birthday party and Aunt Polly had taken Pippa for the evening. Even then we were back by ten.
I’d missed them. I really had. I mean, I always did. That’s what happens, I guess, when you’re a mother to little ones.
That must have been at least three years ago. We just didn’t have time. Or energy. Or… anything really to do that again, not these days.
I was fluttery in my belly as I pulled one of my finest going-out dresses from the back of my wardrobe. I hadn’t even considered wearing it in ages. Easy slung clothes that could handle food spillages and general
grime were far easier to throw on and off every day. Plus, they were comfy for jumping around after the kids all the time – so much a winner.
The dress was a sparkly black satin number, with a wrap front that hid the slight post-maternity hang of my belly, and it had a decent split to show off my thigh.
My thighs were still ok actually. One little confidence I’d held onto into my thirties. Still long and toned and graceful enough to keep them on display.
I put on my white gold necklace and swept up my hair, freshly dyed with auburn overtones. I made sure to spritz my favourite perfume an extra eight hundred times and be extra careful not to bodge as I applied my lipstick. I gave myself a twirl in the full-length mirror and wondered for the billionth time these past few years if Marcus really would still find me attractive if I was under harsh lighting, in the way I still found him. Because I did.
My husband was every bit the fine beast I married. He was still toned from the treadmill and weights machine in the garage, snatching his time every evening before dinner. He still styled his hair in the finest sweep every morning, and kept his stubble as a five o’clock shadow in just the right way.
I still wanted him, even if I was too exhausted, and ragged, and snappy as crap after a frazzled day playing mother-of-the-year to the local busybodies to show it sometimes.
Most times.
Every time, it might seem to him.
He used to reach for me every night in bed and whisper dirty words into my ear. Things he wanted. Craved.
Things he was excited for. Needy for.
Things about me that drove him crazy.
But I was always tired. So many times I was tired and pushed him away.
Early morning. Headache. Too bloody tired.
Crappy excuses that I guess he listened to over time and gave up trying.
Now it was a fumble after midnight with the lights out. Him pulling me in and seeing if I responded to a kiss before rubbing my clit and climbing onboard for a quick one.
I should have said something sooner, but now it was the status quo. I just wished I had more energy and spark and confidence to challenge it.
“My parents are here,” he said, and I jumped a little as I saw him standing there in the bedroom doorway.
He was every bit as dressed up as I was, in a tightly-fitted black suit with the black and gold tie I liked. His shirt was white and crisp and I could smell his aftershave from all this way across the room.
He smelled delicious.
He always did.
“I’ll be right down,” I replied with a smile, and he flashed me one back before stepping away and out of view.
I really was nervous now. Really damn nervous.
I felt unsteady in my heels as I headed downstairs and grinned at Annie and Robert waiting there. They were armed with bags of presents and overnight cases, and I got that rush of Christmas joy I’d been getting without fail since I was Pippa’s age.
Tomorrow morning our little ones would be squealing with delight as they tore into their gifts, thanking Santa and his reindeer for dishing out the expensive goodies. I couldn’t wait.
Only I could wait. This one time I could definitely wait.
It took just one glance at the twinkle in those hazel eyes of my husband for me to realise this really was going to be a date night. He held out a hand for mine, and gripped it tight, thanking his parents once again for keeping house while he took me off for adventures.
I expected him to pile us into the car and head into the city, or have a taxi pulling up ready to roll.
I definitely didn’t expect him to lead us straight across the frosty street and up the garden path of Betty and Rob Royston’s place.
“What are you –” I began, but he was already fishing the key out of his jacket pocket and letting us in.
No lights. No action. No people.
Not even a car on the driveway, I noticed just before I stepped over their front door threshold.
“Why are we –” I began, but stopped again as he flicked on the hall lights.
The Royston’s place was made up for Christmas, sure. But it felt empty. Vacated for some holidays. Strangely silent and echoey as we paced on through to their kitchen – decked with tinsel garlands and real mistletoe hanging over the central island – and Marcus grabbed a couple of wine glasses from their cabinet.
The only noise was from Priscilla, their tabby cat, piling on in from upstairs and mewling around her cat bowl.
“The Royston’s are away this Christmas,” Marcus told me as he grabbed a bottle of white from their fridge. “I said we’d stay awhile, so people got the impression it was still inhabited. Christmas can be full of thieves and vandals.”
He flicked the radio on and an angelic choir filled the air around us.
“That’s nice,” I said as he took his suit jacket off and hung it over a chair.
I couldn’t quite digest it, staring around the place.
He laughed as he saw my expression, and poured out my wine.
“Relax,” he said rolling up his shirt sleeves. “We’re going to have a good time.”
I took a seat at their breakfast bar and took a sip of my wine. I knew in a heartbeat it was my favourite one, even though I’d paid no attention to the bottle when he’d poured it. I didn’t know quite what to make of it when he carried on fishing around in their fridge and cupboards, getting together the ingredients for another of my favourites – a spaghetti bolognese that didn’t take a world class chef to cook, but was always delicious nonetheless.
“Sorry I’m not a culinary guru,” he said with a smirk, although reading my mind.
“I’m still in shock,” I told him. “I really didn’t expect you to be the date, the barman, the chef and the waiter all in one.”
“I’ll be many things all in one tonight,” he replied, with that same smirk on his face and that same twinkle in his eyes.
The twinkle in his eyes that made my belly do a little flutter all over again.
I cleared my throat and looked around the kitchen as he got the pan ready to go.
“So the Royston’s want us to be their burglar alarm?” I probed as he got the beef together.
“They sure do. I said we wouldn’t charge them for one night’s services. They can owe us one.”
I laughed a little, fully soaking in the randomness of all this. Us, in the neighbour’s place, with Marcus preparing our evening meal.
He was a dedicated chef as he sorted out dinner, waving aside my offers of help with that same air around him. That simmer of something deeper I hadn’t felt in years. Not like this.
It reminded me of the early days, when it was just us and that never-ending need to get to each other. I’d have torn that suit off his back when I was that young woman back then. I couldn’t get enough of him. Of his chest and his mouth and his dick that never stopped giving.
My husband has always been fully equipped with that wonder. I felt a flash of regret pulse through me at the thought of the wasted years with him in bed at my side. Missing so many opportunities for closeness, and touch, and excitement, and hushed moans in the night.
“Penny for them?” he said and I shrugged as I realised I’d been silent while he put the spaghetti on the hob.
“I was just comparing their kitchen to ours,” I lied, and he let out a laugh of his own.
“Keeping up with the Joneses,” he said, and cast his eyes about the place. “I think their kitchen island is bigger than ours. Their sink has better taps, too.”
He was right on that, and so many of the wives in this neighbourhood would give a shit about it, constantly comparing their homes to each other’s and determined that they would reach the top of the pile one day.
I’d never cared about that. Not once in the years being associated with them.
There was a niggle though, right there in that moment. The realisation that although I didn’t feel the need to compare about the physical – the homes, and the cars, and the handbags –
I did feel the need to compare the rest of it.
The way the kids were dressed, and how many hours I put into the school sports board. How my cupcakes did on baking night, and how tidy my garden was.
So much pointless shit that took my attention from the important stuff.
From him. Marcus.
The man who was my everything.
“I don’t give a shit about their sink, or their taps, or their kitchen island,” I said to my husband with a snipe that didn’t sound like me.
He raised an eyebrow, and stirred in some chopped veg with the beef, and then he laughed my favourite laugh of his to match the other favourites he’d been dishing out.
“Steady, tiger,” he said. “You’ll be needing that roar for later.”
“I mean it, though,” I added. “I really don’t give a crap about Betty Royston’s kitchen.”
“Me neither,” he told me, but he didn’t need to. I knew that anyway.
I sipped at my wine as my husband finished off browning the meat and poured in some sauce. My mouth was watering, both from the delicious aromas of the spag bol and for him.
For him as he brought a spoon to his lips and tasted his cooking.
“Oh that’s good,” he said, giving it a stir.
He joined me when the pots were bubbling away quite happily, leaning across the island and taking a sip of his own wine, and I reached out for his hand, squeezing his knuckles as he looked quite surprised at the contact.