Page 8 of Bossy Bred

Her: Um…yes. But I’m kind of tied up right now with this whole alien thing.

Me: Well, if you can get yourself back to Earth by seven, I’ll have a hotel room waiting for us.

That evening, when I arrive at the Belmont, I’m informed by the receptionist that my wife has already checked us in and is upstairs in our room with the key cards.

I stare at the receptionist for a second, then breathe out a laugh.

“Right,” I say. “My wife.”

Upstairs, standing outside of our room, I rap my knuckles against the door. The door pops open and Leta’s smiling face appears.

“Hi,” she says.

“You think you’re real cute, don’t you?” I say, pushing my way in. I shoulder the door closed behind me and pin her against the wall.

“No, just a little cute,” she says, trying and failing to bite back a grin.

The next hour passes in a filthy blur, starting with me tearing off her clothes and ending with the two of us lying naked in a disarray of bedsheets, our bodies sticky with sweat and multiple tied-off condoms flung into the hotel trash bin. Leta’s plump ass is still red from how hard I was gripping it while I fucked her from behind. She’s a marvel, this woman. Eager to learn, indeed.

“Food?” I ask, still catching my breath.

“Mmm,” she says, a tired smile spreading on her face. “Food. Yes.”

Before our dinner comes, I toss her one of the plush robes from the bathroom and throw on the other one. I get it tied closed just as room service knocks on our door. Leta and I eat in bed, just as we did last night.

“So, how was your day?” Leta asks as she pops a crouton into her mouth.

I look up from my steak to give her a long look. “You really want to talk about our days?”

She smiles back. “You really want to sit here in silence?”

“Silence is golden,” I point out.

“Except, apparently, when it comes to dirty talk.”

That gets a laugh out of me. “Once again, the whole point of us being here is?—”

“Oh my God. Iknow,” she groans. “But why can’t we also have some normal conversation, just for, you know, the enjoyment of it?”

“I spend all day having conversations.”

“What about?”

If she thinks I don’t see what she’s doing, she severely underestimates me.

“Work,” I say simply. I glance at her plate, impatient for her to finish. “You almost done?”

“Nope.” She starts winding her fork through her pasta. Extremely slowly. “What kind of work do you do?”

I can tell this is a battle I’m going to lose. If I’m not going to get out of talking, I may as well make it less painful.

“It would be more interesting if you told me what you do.”

She continues to coil her pasta. “I run a nonprofit tutoring center. It’s an after-school resource for any kids who need it.”

I don’t know what I expected her to say, but it wasn’t that.

“And it’s going well?” I ask.

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