Page 103 of Force At Third

Good girl. It’s a definite turn-on. One I struggled with.

Some could say it’s daddy issues … but it’s not.

I don’t have daddy issues. I understand my father. He’s neatly filed away under “entitled, self-centered, and self-important.” There he sits, not bothering me in the least until I allow myself a trip down memory lane, and then I want to punch him, but not for attention. Simply because he needs to be punched. He actually has one of those faces, all pinched and judgmental, the kind that begs to have a fist thrown at it.

I didn’t lack approval growing up. Mom may have been busy with two jobs, but I knew she loved me, and she showed up for me. I didn’t need more than that. I didn’t want anything more than Mom, good food, a good book, an occasional puzzle, and a day we could veg.

Good girl from Locke is a tease, a prelude to foreplay resulting in sock-rocking orgasms, which is a precursor to being fucked so good that my orgasms produce aftershocks, and lying there, catching my breath, is the only thing I can do, and I do this while he lays on me, inside me or beside me, with a lazy smile, just as fucked up on post-orgasmic bliss as I am.

So, good girl equals a really good night.

That’s why I have set an alarm to wake me in an hour. I won’t leave this bed after that, and that’s rude when you have company.

***

When he walks into the bathroom, I’m standing at the sink, looking in the mirror and pressing concealer onto my face with a brand-new beauty blender, compliments of Chloe and Whit’s engagement gift basket, to cover the scratches on the side of my face.

I lean into the mirror and rub my lips together, evening out the thin layer of gloss while fluffing my hair a bit before turning to face him.

My palm flat on his crisp, tailored, and perfectly pressed Tom Ford shirt, I tell him, “I was just thinking that we should do all that you have planned after we act like good hosts and hostesses.

“Is that what you were thinking?” he asks, looking my face over.

“Sure was.” I reach up and push the deep navy Ralph Lauren blazer over his shoulder.

After taking it off him, I put it on a hanger, place the hanger on a hook, and walk over to stand between him and the sink.

“That day we were here, waiting on you to get back from the game, I snooped in your closet.”

“Not snooping when it’s your Jersey home, too,” he groans when I start unbuckling his belt.

“Imagine how confused I was to find Gucci belts, Tom Ford shirts, Ralph Lauren blazers, and dress pants from those same designers.

“Tom’s my go-to. Ralph’s a good choice, as well.”

“Brunello Cucinelli? I had to google that one. Nine-hundred-dollar tee-shirts?”

His lips twist up. “Bruno’s worth it. You’ll sleep in one of those tees tonight and be on board.”

“And I’ll introduce you to Hanes tag-less.”

“Tag-less, huh?”

“Oh yeah, you’ll be all like, Bruno who?”

“Yeah?” He smirks as I pull the brown leather belt from the loops and set it on the countertop behind me.

“Ferragamo loafers and a watch collection that’s mind-blowing.”

“Sexy, isn’t it?” He smiles.

I pop the button on his pants. “The Leland Locke I knew, his tastes have changed.”

“Not so much,” he says, staring at my mouth.

Licking my lips, I unzip his pants and slowly push them down, and do so squatting down in front of him.

“Fuck.”

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