Page 74 of The Ground Beneath Our Feet
Holy fuck, she’s always beautiful.
Always.
When Jessica texted me a picture from her scantily-clad photo session, she’d opened a door, which gave me a chance with her. A chance I’d hoped for since the moment I saw her, even though she was so much better than I deserved. I didn’t just walk through that door, I leapt, like I was jumping between two adjacent buildings, with a two-story drop below me.
No hesitation. All focus. I was going for it.
I wanted her, and only her.
Getting a chance to touch that body? To taste that sweetness? To know that I was the one who made her climax? An honor.
She was a full meal that I’d devoured at every sitting.
But today she decided that torture was on the menu, bringing me along to pick up the photo book of boudoir shots at the photographer’s studio.
Orbooks. One of them she’d had made for me.
Standing behind her at the counter, I read the acknowledgment over her shoulder: “To Mikey, with affection.”
Inside the covers, Jessica posed wearing not much. In most photos, she had on a bra and underwear, but in a few she was topless, holding her tits coyly. Her dark hair crowned her made-up face. While normally I didn’t go for that, on my pretty princess it looked amazing.
She reclined in a bed, jutted out her hips while pretending to talk on a rotary dial phone like a pin-up, and blew the camera a kiss.
And the final picture in the back? She’d recreated Marilyn Monroe’s famous nude photograph, her arm extended overhead, her body curved in a way that was both demure and an invitation to look.
There was absolutely no reason for me to ever look at any other sexy pictures for the rest of my life with this hotness.
“I’m trying not to get hard in public,” I muttered in her ear.
When she turned to answer, her once-innocent eyes had a new knowing look that wasn’t there before. I loved it. “What would happen if you got hard now?” she whispered, as she handed the photographer her credit card, her lips brushing my ear. She pushed her ass against my pelvis, and I stifled a groan.
“I’d take you anywhere I could, baby.”
“Can’t wait until we get home, then.”
Fifteen minutes later, we arrived home, but we weren’t alone. Cherry stood at the doorway, Elvis thumping his tail behind her. She had on sunglasses and a black and white polka dot dress, dressed to go to Delmonico’s circa 1957.
I got out of my car, Jessica following me, fishing something out of her purse.
Why was Cherry here? We were done. I’d made that clear.
“What’s up?” I called.
Jessica skipped up the walk, but came to a halt when she saw Cherry. Her eyes whipped between us. “Hey, Cherry. Nice to see you.” She stepped forward and gave her a hug.
“Lovey! I didn’t know you knew Mikey.”
“He’s my roommate.”
“He’s my ex-husband,” said Cherry, whose pointed expression at me was easy to read. This was the trouble she knew I’d get into.
Jessica stiffened next to me, and I watched her put two and two together. That it had been Cherry she’d walked in on when we met.
Fuck.
I hadn’t told her about my history yet. I meant to. We just hadn’t got around to it.
Her face morphed into that blank look I’d thought I’d gotten rid of. The one where she shuttered her expression.
