My Ex Is Engaged to My Stepsister, and I'm Still His Wife novel · Chapter 3 of 24

Chapter 3: After Midnight

In her bed she rolls him over and takes him; she tells him the Gatlinburg wedding was a joke Colt tore up, and at three he is dressed at her counter with an invoice pad.

My bed is a mattress on a low frame under a big window.

Josiah put me down on it and stood over me and took off his shirt.

He did it one button at a time.

He was broad and dark and solid, with a patch of gray hair in the middle of his chest.

An old pale scar ran along his left ribs.

"What's that one?" I said.

"A fence. I was nine." He dropped the shirt on the floor. "I'll tell you the whole story when you can listen."

"I can listen now."

"No," Josiah said, "you can't."

He undid his belt and pushed his trousers and his shorts down together, and stepped out of them, and let me look.

I looked.

He was long and thick and flushed dark.

He stood there with his hands loose at his sides and let me take all the time I wanted.

"Come here," I said.

He came down over me on his hands and knees, and the mattress dipped, and I wrapped both legs around his hips.

His cock pressed hot and heavy against my stomach.

I was still sensitive from the door, and I was already wet again.

When he moved against me I made a noise the woman from the tent would have been ashamed of.

"You're ready," he said.

"I've been ready since the driveway," I said.

"Hold the note, Ms. Dunavant."

"Now?"

"Now," he said, and reached between us and guided himself to my entrance.

I hummed the A.

He pushed in slowly, an inch at a time.

I felt every one of those inches.

He stretched me wide and full, and I lost the note on the third inch with a gasp, and he stopped.

He stopped completely, buried halfway in me, with his forearms trembling on either side of my head.

"Josiah," I said.

"The note."

"You are the cruelest man I have ever met," I said.

"Hold it," Josiah said, "and I'll give you the rest."

I closed my eyes and found the A and held it, ragged and thin, and he pushed the rest of the way in.

He filled me completely.

I held the note through the whole last stretch of it, shaking, with my nails in his shoulders.

His hips met mine and he stopped, deep inside me, and I let the note go in a long, helpless breath.

"There," he said, rough against my ear. "There you are. Good girl."

I should have hated that.

I had been called a good girl by a man for six years, and it had always been a pat on the head.

When Josiah said it, flat and low, it went straight through me and settled low.

"Move," I said.

"Say please," he said.

"Please," I said.

"Say it like you mean it, Ms. Dunavant."

"Please, Josiah, please fuck me, I swear to God I'll die."

He pulled out slowly and pushed back in, and I cried out loud enough to wake the bike shop downstairs.

He fucked me long and deep.

He took his time with it, rolling his hips.

He ground on the end of every stroke so that his body pressed against my clit, and I arched up to meet him.

"Look at me," he said.

I looked.

His face was close to mine, his eyes wide open and black in the light from the window.

He looked at me with such total attention that I almost came right then.

"Hold it," he said.

I was already humming.

I held the A for six strokes, then eight, with my heels dug into the backs of his thighs.

My voice shook higher and higher.

He changed the angle of his hips, and something inside me lit up, and the note cracked into a moan.

He did not stop.

"I broke it," I gasped.

"You did."

"You're supposed to stop."

"I changed my mind," Josiah said, and bit my earlobe, and thrust hard.

I came around him with a sob.

It was long and deep, and my pussy clenched on him again and again.

He groaned into my neck and held still while I shook.

It was the first time all night the sound he made was out of tune.

I opened my eyes and pushed on his shoulder.

"Roll over," I said.

"Ms. Dunavant," he said.

"I said roll over."

He rolled onto his back with me still on him, in one long smooth motion.

I ended up straddling his hips with his cock buried to the root.

He lay under me with his hands open on the sheets.

He didn't touch me.

He just looked up with that steady, heavy gaze and waited, and I understood that he was giving me the next part.

I put both hands flat on his chest and began to move.

I rose and sank slowly, and I watched his face change with every stroke.

His mouth came open a little.

His eyes went half closed, and his hands found my hips and rested there, not guiding, just holding.

"Good?" I said.

"God," Josiah said. "Yes."

"Say the rest."

"You're exquisite," he said. "You're the best thing I've ever seen sit on me."

I started to laugh.

It shook through me and through him, and he felt it, and his hips jerked up.

"Do that again," he said.

"What?"

"Laugh. Do it around me."

I laughed, helpless and wet, and my muscles tightened around him on every breath.

He swore.

I rode him harder, bracing on his chest, and he bent his knees behind me so that I could lean back against his thighs.

That put him deeper.

I sang a note into the dark, high and clear, and held it.

Then I lost it on purpose, on a squeal, to hear what he would do.

He laughed.

He laughed out loud from deep in his chest, rich and low.

I had not heard that sound from him all night, and it shook the bed.

"Oh," he said. "Oh, you."

"I broke it," I said.

"You broke it on purpose," he said.

"I wanted to hear you laugh."

His hands tightened on my hips.

His whole face changed.

All the level, careful quiet went out of it, and what was underneath was young and astonished.

"Come here," he said.

He sat up with me still on his cock and wrapped both arms around my back.

I ended up in his lap with my knees on either side of him.

We were chest to chest, with nothing between us but sweat.

I put my arms around his neck.

He kissed me, deep and slow, and he did not move at all.

"Don't stop," I said into his mouth.

"I'm not stopping. I'm learning you."

He rocked me forward in a small slow roll of my hips on his.

The thick head of him dragged over a place inside me that made my toes curl.

"There," I said. "Oh, there."

"Here?"

"Right there. Don't you dare move."

He didn't.

He held me exactly there and rocked me, an inch at a time.

He kissed my throat and my shoulder and the corner of my mouth.

"Sing," he said.

"I can't."

"You can."

I found the A against his ear, ragged and quiet, and held it.

He rocked me, slow, slow, and every roll of his hips drew the note out thinner and higher until it was only breath.

"You're perfect," Josiah said. "Hold it. Hold it for me."

I held it until I came again, softly, with my forehead on his shoulder and my whole body clenching around him.

He felt me do it.

He made a low rough sound and set his teeth in my shoulder, gently.

Then he laid me back on the mattress and drove into me from above.

He took my wrists, my right and then my left, very gently, and pinned them above my head.

He held them there loosely.

I could have lifted either hand away, and he'd have let go at once.

I didn't.

"Mine for tonight," he said, his voice scraping.

"Yours," I said.

"Say it again."

"Yours, yours, Josiah, yours."

He let go of one wrist and slid his hand down between us.

His thumb found my clit and pressed in a slow circle, and I bucked under him.

"Again," he said. "I want it once more before I let myself."

"I can't. I already did."

"You can," Josiah said. "Hold the note."

I hummed it into his mouth, wrecked and cracked, and he rubbed me through it.

It came up from nowhere, sharp and shocked, and I cried out against his lips.

Only then did he take my wrist again and fuck me hard, fast and deep, with his forehead against mine and his breath coming ragged.

I locked my ankles behind his back and met every thrust.

I came again, hard and short, and he followed me.

He said, "Ms. Dunavant," and the name cracked in the middle and came out a full step too high.

He came inside me with a long shuddering groan and his face in my hair.

We lay there, wrecked.

His weight was heavy and warm, and I put my hand on the back of his neck.

Eventually he rolled off, and I curled into his side, and he put his arm around me.

The streetlamp had gone out in the window, and the room was dark and quiet.

I traced the scar along his ribs with one finger.

"Colt used to say I was a joke," I said. "Not to my face. Everyone's a joke to him in the end."

"Why would you tell me that?"

"Because it's three in the morning and I'm happy and I'd like to tell somebody who won't use it."

Josiah's arm tightened.

"Tell me."

"We got married once," I said, drowsily. "In Gatlinburg, on a dare, in a chapel with a neon sign. Fifty bucks."

"And?"

"I cried laughing. He tore the certificate up in the parking lot and said it never counted."

He went still.

"Married," Josiah said.

"A joke wedding. Nobody filed anything. He said so."

I felt him breathe in and out once, slowly.

"A man who tears a paper up in a parking lot," he said at last, "wants it to be gone."

"That's what I thought."

"Nobody should be a joke, Ms. Dunavant," he said into my hair. "Not even to him."

I fell asleep with his hand on my back.

When I woke it was a little after three, and the bed was empty and the lamp was on in the kitchen.

Josiah was sitting at my counter, fully dressed, with his jacket on and his shoulder rig buckled.

He was writing on a pad of paper with a ballpoint pen.

He looked up.

"Ms. Dunavant," he said. "I need to talk to you about billing."

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