Gwyneth said she doesn’t like hiking.
Then she wakes up early this morning, puts on her clothes, and says, “Take me hiking, husband.”
So I did exactly that, then fucked her against a tree to teach her how to behave and not be a flirt. Although, in her case, that only makes her act out more.
Over the weekend, hiking has grown on her so much that she doesn’t even need me to carry her on my back anymore. I’ve done it anyway because her tiny body wraps all around me and she plays with my hair and face and neck and anywhere her hands can reach.
She’s a touchy person. One who needs physical contact to feel connected. But she doesn’t go around touching everyone, just her inner circle that she deems safe.
At the moment, I’m in the middle of that circle and it’s a fucking wild ride.
Any time spent in her presence is. Even when she’s sleeping, she stretches her body out all over me and hides her face in my neck. Or she lays her head on my lap and flings her legs in the air.
Like right now.
She was reading her negative words list and telling me how she worked hard to desensitize herself to them. Not only is Gwyneth a storyteller, but she’s an entertaining one at that, which is why I know she’ll make a good lawyer, especially for civil cases. She’ll be able to spin her own stories and capture the audience, and that’s what makes the best lawyers. Even those who only chose law due to having a grudge against the system, such as Knox, can succeed as long as they’re good storytellers.
“Dad never knew about this,” she says in a sleepy voice, then closes her eyes.
As if King wouldn’t know anything about her.
He’s the one who put her in therapy because he’s so attuned to her and her needs. She thought he did it because of her sleep-talking, but it was also because she showed signs of depression. She started showing them after she accidentally learned that her mother threw her away without looking back.
I slowly pull the notebook from her fingers, not wanting to wake her up. Her insomnia has gotten better lately and she sometimes sleeps through the night.
Still keeping the notebook in hand, I slowly put her legs down. She doesn’t open her eyes as she climbs into my lap, wraps her arms around my shoulders, and hides her face in my neck.
Her breathing slowly evens out and she sighs into the hollow of my throat. The small puff of air makes my dick fucking hard and I release a breath through my clenched teeth.
Gwyneth makes me a sex addict, unable to get enough, no matter how much I take her. No matter how much I feel her warmth and hear her moans, I need more. And it is a need. One I can’t fucking stop or restrain.
I’m about to close her notebook and carry her to bed when the page flips to the letter M.
My chest squeezes when I see the first word there. Gwyneth says she categorizes them by colors. The red is for the hardest ones to get over.
And the first word under the letter M is written in a thick red marker. A word that shouldn’t be in the negative words list in the first place.
Mom.
It has several red lines underneath it—bold, messy, harsh—and I can imagine her furrowed brow and stiff movements when she did this. When she decided Mom is the worst word under the letter M. Like she thinks death is the worst word under the letter D.
“You’ve never gotten over her even though you’ve never met her, have you?” I ask her sleeping form, stroking her auburn strands away from her forehead.
This must be why she’s been asking if King was searching for her. Does she want to find her? She’s never expressed that before, neither to me nor to her father.
It’s understandable in King’s case since he’s the founder of Gwyneth’s mother’s anti-fan club, but she’s never talked to me about it.
Or maybe I wasn’t listening.
She stirs, moaning softly in my neck, before she pulls back and stares at me, then at the notebook that’s still open on the letter M.
All sleep whooshes away from her face as she startles and snatches it from my fingers. She staggers to the other side of the sofa, pulling it close to her chest.
“It means nothing.” She smiles, but it’s with effort and barely-there. This woman can’t fake a smile to save her life and it’s weirdly endearing.
“Do you want to find her?”
“No!” she says too fast, too defensively.
“Hey, this is me, not King. You don’t have to lie or hide to protect his feelings.”
She winces. “Was I that obvious?”
“Kind of.”
“It’s not that I want to find her because I want a relationship with her like Dad thinks. I just want to ask her why, you know? I want to know why I meant so little that she threw me away and didn’t care whether I lived or died.”
“I understand.”
“You do?”
“I’m sure King understands, too, even though he doesn’t want to admit it or admit that he can’t erase her from your life.”
“He wanted that?”
“It’s one of his goals, aside from crushing Susan.”
She gets on her knees and inches closer to me. “Please tell me, Nate. Was he looking for her?”
“He was.” I didn’t think she needed to know this before, but if she’s still this entangled in her mother’s story, then she deserves the truth. Or as much of the truth as I can give her without making her hate her father.
“Why?”
“To keep her away from you so you’d never meet, even by coincidence.”
“Oh.”
“I told you. He takes protecting you to the next level.”
“Did he manage to find her?”
“He was getting close, but I’m not sure if he did.”
“He…did.”
“How do you know that?”
“I…uh…”
“What did you do, Gwyneth?”
“I got his car’s dashcam and watched some footage. I think he was speaking to a PI, but I couldn’t get his number to call him. Anyway, Dad said, ‘She can’t be Gwyneth’s mother. Look again.’ So that must mean he thought he’d found her. And that whole thing happened the day of the accident. Isn’t that too much of a coincidence?”
Jesus. I keep her out of my sight for a second and she goes playing a dangerous detective game. She really has no sense of self-preservation sometimes. “Why the fuck did you even get the footage?”
“Why is that important right now?”
“Answer the question. What pushed you to watch it?”
She remains silent, biting her lower lip and staring at me through her lashes. At my harsh stare, she blurts, “Aspen said she suspects that Dad’s accident wasn’t an accident.”
Fucking Aspen. I’m going to have a word with her about planting these seeds in Gwyneth’s head when we don’t even have concrete evidence.
I’m almost sure it was an accident. If there had been foul play, the detectives would’ve told me as much, or I would’ve sensed it myself.
“Since when are you and Aspen friends?”
“We’re not, but after she told me that, I saw that Dad found my mother on the day of the accident, so what if she’s the one behind it?”
“That’s a reach.”
“But what if it’s true?”
“That possibility is slim to none, especially since we’re not one hundred percent sure that the accident was premeditated. You need to stop this train of thought.”
“As long as the possibility is there, I won’t give up.”
“Gwyneth, you need to move on.”
“I will after I see this to the end. But here’s an idea: I’ll be able to move on faster if you help me.”
“Nice negotiating skills.”
“I learned from the best. You teach me a lot of things, husband.” Her voice turns breathy and she lets her notebook fall to the sofa as she inches toward me.
The strap of her oversized shirt falls off her creamy shoulder. She’s not wearing shorts today, just the shirt.
“Like what?” My voice is thick as my whole body tightens, responding to the bright look in her eyes and the way she keeps approaching me until her heat mingles with mine.
“Like how to be full.”
“Full?”
“Yeah, it’s a thing. I like being full.”
“What else do you like?”
“Being your slut.”
I grunt but it’s not only because of her words, but also because of the way she crawls on top of my lap, parting her legs until her shirt rides up her thighs.
My hand grips her tiny waist and she wiggles against my rock-hard dick. “So you’re my slut?”
“I am.”
“Only mine?”
“For now.”
My chest burns at that, and I hate the sensation so much that I dig my fingers into her side. She moans when I reach under her shirt and it’s met by my grunt when I grab her bare cunt.
“Were you ready for me, wife?”
“Maybe?”
I bunch a fistful of her shirt and lift it over her head. She’s braless, too, my bad girl.
Instead of pulling the piece of clothing over her arms, I lay her on the sofa and tie her wrists with the shirt that was covering her.
“What…what are you doing?”
“Stay like that.”
“Why?”
“Don’t ask any questions, got it?”
“O-okay.” The breathlessness in her tone makes my dick strain against my shorts.
So I stand up, push them down, and remove my T-shirt as she watches me with those huge eyes that have turned into a myriad of bright colors, all mingling and mixing the more she watches me.
I shouldn’t feel fucking proud that she looks at me like that, like I’m the only one who exists in her world, but I do.
And it feels fucking euphoric.
“Now, I want you to open your legs in the air, baby girl, like what you do when you sleep upside down.”
Her face turns a deep shade of red, but she does, lifting her legs and opening them, giving me the perfect view of her glistening pussy.
I position myself on my knees at her opening and glide my dick up and down her soaked folds.
Her legs tremble in the air and she moans, then groans. “Nate…”
“What?”
“Aren’t you going to fuck me?”
I push two inches of my dick inside her pussy, then pull out, then thrust in again and out so that I’m coated with her arousal. “Not in this hole, no. Tonight, I’ll claim your ass.”
She trembles, her eyes doubling in size.
“Did someone touch this ass, Gwyneth?”
She shakes her head frantically.
“Use your voice.”
“No…”
“Is it because you were saving it for me, too? Like you saved your virgin pussy?”
Her channel tightens around my cock, swallowing me in, and she lets out a long puff of air. “Yes…for you. I’ve always been yours, Nate.”
A harsh current of possessiveness grips me by the balls and it takes everything in me not to fuck her as savagely as my cock demands. “After tonight, every inch of you will be mine and mine alone.”
Her lips part open and her leg droop.
“Keep them in the air, Gwyneth.” I part her ass cheeks and slip a thumb in. I’ve been preparing her by always fucking her pussy while there’s a finger or two in her ass, but she’s tight as fuck.
So I gather her natural lube and smear it on her back hole, teasing her clit in the meantime until she’s writhing, her nails digging into the heels of her palms.
Then I push the first inch of my cock inside and stop. She’s closing her eyes and strangling me.
“Relax, baby girl. I’ve got you.”
Her eyes slowly open and she does relax, her breathing slowing a little. I rock for a few moments, then push in the second inch while thrusting a finger inside her pussy.
She moans and opens up for me, so I push more and add another finger into her inviting warmth.
By the time I’m fully sheathed inside her ass, we’re both panting. “You’re so fucking tight, wife.”
“Mmm.”
“Does it hurt?”
“It does, but it’s the good kind of pain. Oh, and…and it’s full…so full…” She opens her legs farther in the air, giving me more access, and I start thrusting into her, slow at first, as I pound my fingers into her pussy.
She writhes on the sofa, her back arching and her legs unable to stay still.
So I bend them and push them back until her knees are at either side of her head and my face is inches away from her neck.
The position gives me more depth, both in her ass and pussy, and my thrusts go deeper. She feels it, too, because her moans are higher in pitch.
“Do you feel my cock claiming your tight ass, wife?”
She nods frantically.
“This ass is now mine, too, isn’t it?”
“Yes!” She lets out a breath as she tightens around me and starts shaking. My fingers soak with her arousal when she comes undone, her limbs trembling and her lips falling open.
My pounds get even deeper and sharper, and she takes it all, still whimpering and trembling.
It’s impossible to control my pace as it mounts and spirals out of control. Usually, I can, but I’m a fucking animal when it comes to Gwyneth.
It’s that inability to get enough. The inability to stop even when I know I should.
My lips latch onto her neck and I suck the soft skin in as my balls tighten and I shoot my cum up her ass.
Her pussy clenches around my fingers and I pump them more, making her leak arousal and scream another orgasm.
By the time I pull out of her, she’s dazed, her eyes half-droopy, even as a little smile grazes her lips.
I stroke the sweat-soaked strands out of her forehead. “Are you in pain?”
“A little, but it feels good.”
“It does?”
“Yeah, so maybe you should fuck me in the ass more often.”
“Is that so?”
“Uh-huh”
“Are you sure you can take it?”
“I can take anything you offer, Nate.” She smiles and I can’t help mirroring it. Lately, I noticed how easy it is to smile around her.
“Come on, let me take care of you.”
“I love that. When you take care of me, I mean.”
I carry her in my arms and take her to the shower, where I fuck her slower in the cunt while I clean her. Then I wash her hair with her vanilla shampoo. She kisses me on the neck for having remembered to pack it.
We spend more than an hour in there, fucking and cleaning and messing everything up again, especially after she gets on her knees to clean me and ends up sucking my balls dry.
Once we’re done, I wrap her in a towel and carry her back to the bedroom to dry her hair.
“It’ll dry on its own,” she grumbles, staring at me through the mirror.
“That’s not healthy. Stop being lazy.” I run my fingers through her strands and inhale her scent. The scent that should be boring but is now growing on me more than anything. Then I turn off the hairdryer and brush the strands back.
“Hey, Nate?”
“What?” I ask absentmindedly, too focused on her hair.
“Why do you never kiss me?”
I pause, meeting her gaze in the mirror. It’s cautious, expectant, and on the verge of gray.
“What’s with that question all of a sudden?”
“You never do. I just thought it was weird.”
“I don’t kiss.”
“You just fuck?”
“Correct. I just fuck.”
“What if I want to kiss?”
“Gwyneth, I told you…”
“This is sex only, no feelings,” she repeats, mimicking my tone before she slips back into hers. “I know that. But this is about kissing, not feelings.”
“Kissing is related to feelings for me. That’s why I don’t do it.”
She stands up abruptly and faces me. There’s a soft halo around her face, a tension in her neck, and she’s clinking her nails over and over as if she can’t keep them in one place.
“Even now?” she asks in a low, haunting voice that fucking guts me.
Though, no. It’s not the voice that guts me, it’s the expectation in it, on her face. It’s practically shining through the green of her eyes.
But I can’t allow her to have rosy dreams. I can’t let her build her life on expectations.
She said I make her feel full, but it’s the fake type that holds no meaning.
After all, how could I cure her emptiness when I’m hollow myself?
“Even now,” I say.
She flinches as if I’ve slapped her. There’s a tremble in her chin before it spreads to the rest of her body.
“Screw you,” she whispers, and storms out of the room.
I don’t follow after her, because it’ll just get ugly. She probably needs to cool off for a while before we talk again.
I spend some time checking my emails, then I go to the living room to find her sleeping with her head on the table and her notebook between her fingers.
It’s open on the letter N, where she’s been scribbling in bold red letters.
Nate.
My jaw tightens and it takes everything in me not to rip up the thing. Does she really think she’ll get rid of me by just writing my name in a notebook?
She obviously doesn’t know the heights I’d reach to make sure she remains fucking mine. I warned her and she didn’t listen, so all she can do is bear the consequences.
I carry her to the bed and when I’m covering her, my phone vibrates on the nightstand. It’s the hospital.
My fingers flex. They wouldn’t call at this hour if it wasn’t something important. I take my phone and step outside to answer it.
“Nathaniel Weaver speaking. Is everything all right with Kingsley?”
“Yes.” There’s glee in the nurse’s voice. “Mr. Shaw just woke up.”
