But I got work to do—–so I can enjoy my weekend distraction-free.
I head to the East Side location and I put in the hours. I am constantly watching the clock though. All I want to do is get home to my girl. Our weekends are our fun time and our punishment. I love how wild she is in the bedroom, how crazy she makes me, with her little pouting lips, her shaking hips, and the way she loves to be a dirty little brat.
Fuck, I sure won the wife lottery when I married her. The moment my eyes locked on hers at a local karaoke bar, I knew she was the one for me. She was nervous, out for a girl's’ night with friends, but hated being in the crowded bar. I knew right away she needed a man who could sense her needs and take care of her. I bought her a drink and listened, and she told me about her dreams of being a baker. I remember teasing her about how much I loved to lick frosting. Her cheeks had turned bright red and then she licked her lips before saying, "I love to swallow frosting."
I knew then that this kinky girl was mine.
And then the moment she spread those knees and let me see her warm, pink pussy, I knew I was a goner. Three years later and this girl—–she's my whole fucking world.
That's why the weekends are our favorite. We turn off our phones. We lock the door, and we have a little staycation. People say your honeymoon phase is only going to last a few months after you get married, but we're three years in, and fuck, it's just getting better.
When I'm finally in the car about to drive home, I text her and let her know I'm almost there. She sends me back a tongue emoji, which drives me insane and she knows it. When I walk in the front door, though, I'm surprised. There's a burnt smell in the air and for a second, I'm scared that there's something wrong.
"Bree?" I call out. "Is everything all right?"
She's in the kitchen, pulling out a casserole. It's burnt to a crisp.
"You knew I was hungry," I tell her, disappointed. We each have different jobs to make sure our house runs smoothly. This week, she was in charge of meal prep. "I told you one thing, gave you one order, and that was to have dinner ready for me. What did you go and do, Bree?"
She sets the glass casserole pan on a trivet on the kitchen counter. “You actually gave me two orders. One to make dinner, two to finger myself in the shower.”
I run a hand over my jaw, determining if Bree made an honest mistake or if she just wants to be a little brat.
She lifts her shoulders, pouting. "Sorry. I didn't burn it on purpose." But her little smirk tells me she's looking for trouble.
"You sure about that?" I ask, stepping toward my hot-as-fuck wife. She is trying to make me lose my load right here, wearing that teeny-tiny top that pulls across her tits good and tight.
"Of course, I'm sure," she says. "Why would I want to burn your dinner? It's what you asked for."
"I don't know," I say, stalking toward her and dropping my messenger bag on the ground. "Maybe because you wanted to get in trouble."
"Why would I want to get on my husband's bad side?" she asks, licking her glossy pink lips. "I was trying to do my best. Is my best not good enough?"
I growl. This dirty little brat knows what she's doing, driving me up the goddamn wall.
"I'm sorry," she says again. "I think I can pick off the black burnt parts. It might be salvageable."
I grunt in dissatisfaction. "Aren't you a full-time baker? Isn't that what you're planning on doing for your job?"
"Yeah," she says.
"Well then, how exactly did you burn something in the oven? Isn't that your area of expertise?"
She presses her lips together, her big blue eyes nice and wide. "I went to school to be a baker, not to be a cook. Don't you know the difference, Boone?"
Oh damn, this girl is trying to rile me up and she's doing a fine ass job of it. When she turns around to the kitchen sink to pour herself a glass of water, I see her ass cheeks hanging out of that itty-bitty dress she has on, if you could even call it a dress. It's a shirt, really, and she knows how sexy she looks in it. I know she does.
She turns around, taking a drink of her water. "I'm so thirsty," she says. "Parched, really. It’s like I have this craving to swallow something." She drinks down the whole glass of water.
"And I'm hungry," I say, looking at the burnt dish on the counter.