Page 48 of His Vengeful Tradwife

"It's true," he said seriously, his big hands closing around the long stick of the butter churn. "I thought I knew you and I underestimated you. You're not just sweet and caring, you're also ruthlessly intelligent and brutal when you want to be."

"That's fucking right," I said. "Churn the butter."

"And it's hot, Mrs. Laurent," Maverick added, his dark eyes smoldering at me. "It's hot as fuck. I love this side of you. Even if it's at my own goddamn expense."

I said nothing, turning my phone torecordas he began to churn the cream with slow, steady strokes.

Well,holy fuck, I thought as I watched him.

Maverick Laurent was wearing a tight gray T-shirt and jeans with big boots. He never wore jeans, and his eyebrows were drawn together in concentration as he stroked the big stick up and down.

Did I want my husband to fail or succeed?

I wanted him to succeed.

But I would keep by our bargain. He had to accept the role reversal, be OK with how much more money I made. Be OK with the fact that he was a jobless bum and I was the CEO of a thrivingbusiness. And he had to get me to 40 million subscribers like he claimed.

The muscles in his arms rippled tantalizingly as they moved in those slow, powerful strokes.

I felt drool begin to pool in my mouth.

That was how he had always pleasured me. Steady, powerful concentration, never stopping until he got what he wanted--my body trembling, pulsating around his cock as he growled in my ear that I was his.

Maverick braced his legs around the churn and began to pick up the pace, his powerful thighs straddling the wooden device.

I closed my lips so I wouldn't moan on livestream, dragging my eyes away with an effort to watch the views steadily ticking up, the comments exploding with ferocious ferality.

I had tagged the video "Morning chores with my husband," and Maverick had never been on my channel A Bit of Ginger before.

I began to wonder if 40 million subscribers wasn't possible after all as a trickle of delicious sweat ran down my husband's strong throat, his shoulders looking impossibly broad as his well-honed muscles flexed visibly under the shirt.

Then he looked up at me, his eyes so alight with warmth, crinkling up as he grinned at me.

"This butter better be goddamn good," he said, a lock of dark hair falling into his face.

Low heat pooled deep in my belly.

"I have some sourdough bread it will go perfectly with," I said coolly, trying to keep my voice steady.

This was not about my pussy

Once he was done with that, it was time to clean out the chicken coop.

And my husband put his head down and worked like a dog, week after week in the summer heat, on my farm.

I felt like I was edging myself into complete insanity by denying my desire for him.

"This is fun doing it together," Maverick said one evening as he yanked the silky strands from the fresh ears of corn we had just picked. Soon enough it would be time to carve a path through the stalks for a corn maze.

I wanted to bite out a sharp retort, likewhy the fuck didn't you ever come out and spend time with us then? Instead of spending your evenings working on some corporate case or fucking Amanda for the last six months?

But I said nothing, looking at the way the multi-colored ears fit together in the basket.

If I gave him a second chance, it would be a true one. I couldn't useremember when you had a mistressto win an argument.

Instead I rubbed my cheek on Emmylou's soft dark curls as she sat in my lap, Gabriel and Seraphina on the steps in front of us.

Damn, that would make some good easy content. Golden hour, the ears all piled together, our old hound dog in the background. I didn't use my kids for content, but just a picture of the corn against the wooden slats of the basket, the bright yellow glowing in the evening light, was positively majestic. Of course, if my recent views were any indication, including even a hint of my husband would mean a positive bonanza of likes.

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