It makes me feel bad for denying him sex yesterday morning, and then taunting him with the prospect of a blowy in the car, but his dismissal of my job is frustrating. My modest salary doesn’t mean my career is valueless. I like doing what I do, and it helps people. For one thing, I know I’ve kept Buck from screwing up his monetary future. Plus, my minimal financial contribution at least allows me to pretend I have some kind of independence.
I’m living in Alex’s massive house, driving the car he bought me, wearing the clothes his credit cards pay for, and rocking a huge diamond. I need to hold on to at least a tiny piece of my old self. My damn job is the way I’m managing this. I’m good at it. It gives me something to do with my time. I have friends there. And a few enemies, but they’re mostly jealous. Understandably so. I get a lot of perks, and not just because I know how to manage money.
My mom might be a bit of a hippie flake, but she taught me some things—such as never be dependent on someone else to feed you. She never relied on anyone to pay the bills or make life easier. We made our life what it was. The second I was old enough to have a part-time job, I got one. I volunteered, I tutored, and I always had money in my bank account because I put it there.
I don’t want to end up being one of those overly pampered women whose entire life revolves around her man. And I’m not referring to the ones with kids, because I can’t even imagine what you do with those things after they shoot out of your vag. Gold stars to them. I mean the ladies who exist from one lunch date or Botox injection to the next. The fact that I get my nails done every three weeks already feels highly overindulgent.
While I hate it when Alex is away, it’s actually good for me. Otherwise I’d likely stop hanging out with my friends and only spend time with him. Quitting my job takes me one step closer to that reality, and I’ve never been that girl.
I mean, eventually I’ll take reduced hours, or work from home or something. One day I’ll want to have Alex’s pretty little hockey babies, but that’s years away. First we have to tie the noose. I need to be his ball and chain for a minimum of three years before his super sperm start doing the job nature intended. I figure we can start with one and see how it goes. If it doesn’t completely ruin my boobs, we can go for round two.
The microwave beeps, and I take out my reheated meal. The edges of the chicken parm are dried out, and some of the noodles are crunchy, but it’s still tasty.
It’s four a.m. by the time I finish my snack. I’m still not tired. I consider waking Alex with a surprise BJ, but with the game tonight, that’s not a good idea. He needs to be well rested. If he’s up before I leave for work, I’ll get on my knees and choke on his dick.
He’s been stressed since Balls was traded to the team this season. He’s a forward, and younger than Alex. He’s fast on the ice and showing his worth to the team. It worries Alex, not only because Balls is an excellent player, but because Alex’s shoulder has been giving him problems lately, and he thinks it’s affecting his game.
Aware that going back to bed is pointless, I put my dishes in the dishwasher and grab my files for the Darcy account. I might as well get some work done if I’m awake.
By six I’m tired again. I trudge upstairs to catch an hour of sleep before my alarm goes off. Alex is starfished on the bed, hugging my pillow. I fit myself into his body, and he immediately pulls me up against him, nuzzling his nose into my hair. He palms my breast, and his dick nestles against the divide in my ass. I tense for a second, but I’m wearing underwear, so it’s not like he can attempt an invasion. Plus, he’s said he wouldn’t.
He grumbles something and settles back into sleep. I close my eyes and drift, lulled into dreams by the warm comfort of his body.
My alarm goes off at seven-ten. Alex’s arm tightens around my waist when I reach for my phone.
“If you want a morning blowy, you need to let me shut off my alarm.”
He releases me instantly. I chuckle and cut the music blaring from my phone. When I turn to look at Alex, he’s already thrown the sheets off. His erection stands straight up, flag-poling with excitement. His fingers are laced behind his head, thick biceps flexing and the outline of his new tattoo jumping with the movement.