Page 60 of Buckled in Barbwire

“Maybe this will help.” My bare feet pad across the carpet and I sit on the edge of the bed.

Paisley sniffs. “Coffee?”

I pass her a steaming mug. “Don’t know how you take it, but figured you like it creamy and sweet.”

She lunges forward as if I’m holding the cure to her illness. “I could kiss you!”

“All it takes is a cup of Joe? Wish I’d known sooner.”

“Hush,” she mumbles and inhales the rich aroma. Her lashes flutter shut while she sips. “Ohhh, this hits the spot.”

Warmth spreads through me as if I’m the one savoring every drop. I’m captivated by my wife drinking the coffee I made for her. My gaze is latched onto her upturned mouth, waiting for another sound of approval. It’s startling to realize that I want to see her happy.

As Paisley drinks and a moan parts her lips, satisfaction like I’ve never felt thrums through me. It’s worth suffering through the process of making another cup. What’s wrong with me? She’s not doing anything out of the ordinary. Butthe pleasure she gets from such a mundane act is irresistible. I want more.

Which is when she whispers, “Thank you. I needed that.”

Our eyes meet in a swift collision. The impact is an electric shock to my heart, but I manage to stay still. It’s a familiar game we’ve played before. Static sparks between us, crackling with tension. There’s a question in her gaze and I wonder if she’ll find the answer in mine. The anticipation mounts into a demand the longer we’re caught in this trance.

Paisley is the first to break, her stare dipping to my bare chest. Her interest explores lower and screeches to a halt on the distinct outline of my dick. That’s what she gets for turning the simple act of drinking coffee into an erotic spectacle. The reminder strokes me to half-mast and a blush paints her cheeks a rosy hue.

I can’t help but taunt her after the damage she’s done to my composure. “Like what you see, wife?”

“Umm…”

“Still think I have a teeny weenie?” I thrust to make it extra clear I’m packing more than a cocktail wiener.

“Uhh…” Paisley’s gulp is audible.

“Need a closer look?”

“You’re wearing gray sweatpants,” she blurts.

“And?”

“Nothing else.” If she stares any longer, my cock will pitch a tent for her to stay indefinitely.

“Is that a problem?”

Her gaze skitters away like a frightened virgin. “Only for our boundaries.”

“Obliterated quite a few last night.” Along with my guard against her.

She freezes, her mind probably working overtime. “We didn’t do anything.”

My chuckle is gritty and I finally take a sip of my own coffee. “Depends on your definition.”

Her wide eyes take stock of our proximity. “I blame the sleeping arrangements for this.”

“Could’ve taken the couch.”

“Didn’t seem like an option at the time,” she admits on a breathy exhale.

I preen like a proud peacock when she brazenly ogles me again. “You remember?”

“This”—she motions between us—“was just a cuddle party after too much champagne.”

“And a bedtime story.”

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