Madeleine Wakes (A Wife-Watching Romance): Book One of the Madeleine Trilogy Page 12

  “I guess they are close friends,” Hugo said, gently marinating his middle finger inside Madeleine.

  “When it started, it was just those two. He was just watching.”

  “You been watching them long?”

  Hugo’s question anticipated an answer in the range of an hour, maybe two or three at the outside. But Madeleine said: “A month or two, I guess.”

  A month or two?

  He tried not to seem surprised, fearing she would take it as disapproval. He said: “Do they all live in that apartment?

  Madeleine shook her head. “Just him, I think. But I’ve seen these two with him before.”

  “One of them is his girlfriend?”

  “Oh no, he doesn’t have a girlfriend,” she said seeming almost happy that was the case. Was this her crush they were watching? Madeleine added: “He sleeps with a lot of women.”

  She moaned as the knuckle of his thumb found her little clit, and he felt her wiggle her behind, pressing back against his swollen manhood.

  Somehow, the idea that Madeleine’s crush was a bit of a womanizer sat well with Hugo. It seemed to downplay that little tickle of fear that he might one day lose her to him.

  “Tell me what they’re doing,” he asked her, kissing her neck.

  “Tell you?” she seemed confused.

  He nuzzled into her neck as two of his fingers caressed the slippery inner walls of her pussy. He said: “I don’t want to watch them, I want to watch you. But I want you to tell me what they’re doing.”

  He saw her smile, loving that he wanted to keep his attention firmly on her.

  “Well,” she started nervously. She’d never really been one to talk dirty before. But it felt as though they were stretching boundaries. “The Indian girl is over his head, rubbing her… her va-jay-jay all over his face…”

  “Her va-jay-jay?”

  She smiled. “What d’you want me to say? Her vagina? Her pussy? Her c– ”

  “I don’t think I heard it called a va-jay-jay, that’s all,” he chuckled, interrupting her.

  “I can see everything—she must shave it. Maybe wax. The brunette looks the same way down there.”

  Hugo kissed her shoulder. “What’s she doing? The brunette?”

  “Bouncing slowly up and down on him.”

  “Bouncing?”

  “Fucking.”

  Madeleine seemed to roll the word around her mouth, as though feeling it out, seeing how it made her feel to use such language.

  Then she said: “She’s fucking him, and she’s leaning forward, and she has her face pressed up against the Indian girl’s… pussy. The guy’s licking it too.”

  Hugo felt adrenaline coursing through his veins to hear her talking that way. Listening to her, though, it seemed she was beginning to like how it felt, too.

  Was it his imagination, or was her pussy just a little more juicy all of a sudden? Her breathing deeper, trembling more pronounced.

  “I’ve never seen a girl rubbing her… her pussy on a guy like that,” she said.

  “I bet he’s enjoying it,” Hugo said.

  “You think?”

  “Don’t you?”

  Madeleine shrugged. “The guys back in college never really liked… you know… going down on girls. Not as far as I was aware.”

  “Did you ask them?”

  She smiled, making Hugo wonder what she’d been like at college, who she’d dated, what kind of guys she went for. She’d never wanted to talk about such things before, and he’d never asked her to, but for some reason now he was getting interested.

  Hugo quietly stepped back, crouching behind her while wordlessly slipping down her panties.

  She said: “Maybe because the girls all seem to shave down there nowadays...”

  Taking her observation as a prompt, he sank to his knees, his nostrils filling with the heady scent of her seeping arousal, and kissed her right buttock. Madeleine gasped, in realization of what he was preparing to do.

  She looked behind herself with a hint of uncertainty—this was not something that had been part of their repertoire, before the depression or after it. Yet having watched the apartment across the street, who knew how many times in the past few months, Hugo got the feeling she was curious.

  As he continued a trail of kisses around her soft derriere, using his face to stroke her burning flesh, she leaned forward, bending over to support herself on the waist-high ledge running across the wall of windows. Tilting her hips to offer him access to her pussy, as though she were that Indian girl across the street.

  In the lee of her body, Hugo found himself driven by an intense hunger for his beautiful Madeleine. He wedged himself upwards between her thighs, feasting on her free-flowing juices, his tongue delving into her tender folds to seek out her succulent flavor.

  “Oh God...”

  Her commentary had quickly fizzled as he worshipped her sex with his mouth, so that he had no idea what she was watching any more. His only thought was to satisfy her, only motivation her moans.

  He was sure she probably lost track of time as well. She grew bolder about applying the pressure, grinding her clit against his chin, her pussy lips crushing his face.

  Did she come? Hugo could never quite tell. She could have come more than once, judging by her flow of sweet ambrosia and the rise and fall of her moans, her breathing, her energy levels.

  At last, riding the upslope of another wave, Hugo pulled himself up behind her, and taking advantage of the wonderful abundance of her juices, slid his rock-hard shaft deep inside her.

  “Oh my God...” she purred as he filled her completely.

  Hugo asked her: “What are they up to now?”

  Madeleine moaned as he stirred his hard cock inside her, but she seemed to want to try a little more dirty talk. She said: “He’s fucking the Indian girl now. She’s lying on her back, and the other girl is… well… the Indian girl is licking her now. Her pussy.”

  His wife shivered a little as she mentioned the bisexual aspect of what was going on across the street. Hugo couldn’t quite tell if she was repulsed by it, or drawn to it, perhaps never having thought about it before.

  “She’s so wet, you can see it,” Madeleine breathed, and Hugo couldn’t tell if she was referring to the Indian girl being fucked, or the brunette being licked.

  Perhaps feeling emboldened by the feeling of her tight around his manhood, Hugo found himself temporarily brave enough to ask one of the big questions circling his head.

  He said quietly: “So is he the one?”

  He felt her jerk, though she tried to act calm and unaware of what he was talking about.

  “Is he the one what?”

  “The one you like.”

  He heard her quietly gasp, and it wasn’t from his forward thrust inside her.

  “Your crush.”

  “Lucy?” Madeleine sighed, and again it was not from the big hard cock that stirred in her sex. “That girl cannot keep a—”

  “She didn’t tell me. One night while I was watching you, you were talking about it with her.”

  Another sigh from Madeleine, though one that apparently no longer blamed her friend for the indiscretion.

  “She seemed to suggest you had a thing for someone across the street,” he said.

  Madeleine laughed, and he actually felt her laughter ripple through the tightness around his shaft.

  “I don’t have a thing for anyone but you, “ she said. “Lucy’s just trying to wind you up, make you jealous.”

  Hugo gripped her waist tightly as he plunged into her again.

  “Why would she want to make me jealous?”

  Madeleine moaned, pushing back against his thrusts now, adoring the sensations they had not enjoyed together for so long.

  “I may have let slip that we haven’t… you know… been in the mood for a while.”

  He eased out of her, as though making a threat.

  He said firmly, though still avoiding any hint of anger in his voice: “Is
he the one?”

  She turned to face him, and he saw unmistakable fear in her pretty face. “I promise you, it’s nothing.”

  “Nothing? What’s nothing?”

  “I’ll stop.”

  Hugo felt the acid burn in his chest again, the air squeezed out of his lungs. He felt confusion cloud his thinking. What was she saying? Had she done something?

  “I don’t understand,” he said, his tongue sticking to his overly dry mouth. “Stop what?”

  She said quietly. “I watch him, that’s all.”

  “You already told me you watch him, have for months. If that’s all it is, why should you stop?”

  She gave him a sharp, inquisitive look, as though she wasn’t sure if he was being crazy, stupid or manipulative.

  “Because he’s not my husband,” she said.

  Hugo smiled, warmly, genuinely. He kissed her tenderly on the lips, said: “You know everybody gets crushes from time to time—even if they’re already married.”

  “I know.”

  “It’s no big thing.”

  For another beat or two, her eyes continued to roam over his face, trying to ascertain if he was being serious, if he was hiding his anger, if he was teasing her in some way.

  “I just told Lucy at some point that… well, he obviously works out a lot. You know?”

  The orange and blue lights of the city and the street were not exactly strong, but Hugo could have sworn his pretty wife was blushing right now. She looked positively delicious.

  Hugo chuckled, and placed his hands gently around her head, pulling her in for another sweet kiss. “I think it’s hot you have a crush,” he said.

  She looked at him as though he were crazy, one of her eyebrows raised in surprise, not quite understanding why he wasn’t angry at her.

  “You know I love you, don’t you?” she said, deadly serious, almost ignoring his tolerance of her roaming eye, because she didn’t understand it.

  “Of course,” he kissed her again, his hands falling to her breasts. He couldn’t get enough of just kissing her. Her lips were so sweet, her response to his affection so warm and so genuine.

  “You know I could never do anything to hurt you?” she said.

  Hugo smiled, kissing her neck now, loving the heat of her soft skin, the hint of perfume lingering there. “I know,” he said quietly. “But you know it could never hurt me, you having a crush on someone?”

  “I don’t have a crush,” she insisted, but then she added meekly, half-joking perhaps, but perhaps not: “Well, maybe a little one.”

  She offered him a weak, half-smile. Almost penitent.

  As though paying her penance, she placed her hands on his waist now, she turned him, and he was willing to be led. She urged him onto the window seat, where he did as she pleased, lying on his back, his hardness bobbing up briefly before she took it in her hands.

  Kneeling over him, he felt her silky hair falling over his abdomen before she touched the tip of his cock to her warm lips, kissing him briefly there before taking him inside her hot mouth, sinking down on his shaft.

  He let out a long low moan as she sucked on him, her fingers closing around the base of his shaft.

  She must have been able to taste herself on his flesh, her juices. He couldn’t recall her doing it this way before, but then there was a lot he couldn’t recall. And they’d done things in the early days of their courtship that had faded out over time, until the few occasions of their marriage had resorted to a quick missionary-style process drained of creativity.

  She did not dwell long, however, withdrawing before sweeping the hair out of her face and lifting herself over him, straddling his hips—though facing away from him.

  “You don’t seem angry at me,” she said, as she reached behind her, leaning forward to position his hardness so that she could sink down and take him inside her tightness again.

  “I’m not angry,” he said, groaning a little at the pleasing feeling of her weight on him, the searing heat of her slick pussy enveloping him.

  “Not even a little?”

  “Not even a little.”

  He placed his hands firmly around her waist as she began to move on him, gently circling her hips to grind on him, feeling out the shape of him, the intrusive object inside her. She’d turned her head to the windows, watching the student apartment again. Was she looking for him?

  “Are you jealous?” she asked, leaning back, pressing her hands down on his chest to support herself.

  “I don’t know,” he said, thinking that the fact she was asking him if he was jealous gave some credence to the suggestion she had a significant crush on another guy. “Maybe a little.”

  “And that doesn’t make you angry?”

  “Why should it make me angry? It’s not your fault if you find someone else attractive.”

  “It’s my fault if I stay up at night to watch him.”

  Hugo felt his belly tighten at that admission.

  She let out a little squeal, then breathlessly said: “I felt you… it moved. Pulsed, kind of.”

  He smiled. “I have a sexy blonde on top of me, impaling herself onto me—of course it moved.”

  “No—when I told you that I watched him,” she said. “There—you did it again.”

  “It just feels good, that’s all,” he said, both hands squeezing the glorious roundness of her buttocks as he watched his rigid staff disappear between them.

  She pulled herself off him, stepping down onto the floor again before turning to re-mount him, this time facing him, her hair trailing all over his head as she climbed over his stomach, and Hugo held up his shaft to allow her to take him back inside.

  She kissed him, her tongue slipping out to taste him as he felt her soft breasts pressing against his chest, not to mention her wet heat squeezing him down below.

  “You do have a crush on him, then?”

  She looked at him, her face serious, dignified, yet also hesitant, nervous. Those razor-sharp eyes scanning him for signs as to whether she needed to give him a little white lie, whether she needed to tell the absolute truth.

  Madeleine nodded.

  “Oh God!” she suddenly gasped, “there it was again!”

  She sat up on him, astonished. Her confession, even provided as a simple nod, had dropped some kind of thermonuclear device into his stomach. It was devastating, awesome in its power and at the same time brutally beautiful, magnificent, all-consuming.

  She looked at him as though he were a ghost.

  “What?” he said, all innocence. “It’s amusing to think of you having a crush, that’s all.”

  “Amusing,” she said, the dryness of her voice leaching out the question from her tone.

  She looked down on him, those dark, beautiful eyes piercing his face, and he could see the gears turning inside her sharp mind. She began a slow, almost hypnotic rhythm on his hardness now, her body undulating in that graceful, feminine way that drove men crazy.

  “Would it amuse you to think of your wife gazing out of the window at some other guy across the street?” she said, her voice dropping in pitch, thick and heavy like molasses. “Would it amuse you to hear that I watch him undress, see all those muscles over his body?”

  She calmly controlled the pace of her hips, the motion of her slippery pussy as she rode him, though one of her brows raised up to suggest she could feel something now.

  Hugo tried to keep calm, but his heart was pounding like a jackhammer. He even tried to block out the images that Madeleine was implanting in his head.

  “Would it amuse you if I said I imagined what it might be like if I was over there with him, helping him pull off that shirt, running my hands all over his chest?”

  She gasped, and flashed him the widest smile he thought he’d ever seen, her eyes seemingly on fire as she looked into his. “I can feel you growing inside me,” she said, breathless. “It excites you, doesn’t it?”

  “Having you on top of me, fucking the daylights out of me?” Hugo grinned. />
  “No, telling you I was thinking about that other guy.”

  “I guess it does.”

  Even Hugo felt himself throb inside her this time, Madeleine gasped again, and the genuine shock in her face actually sent a shiver of trepidation and fear through Hugo.

  He gripped his wife’s hips, pulled her down on him hard. She giggled at how she affected him, at how he completely lost all control.

  Chapter One from Madeleine Plays (Book Two of the Madeleine Trilogy)

  Before he left for work the next morning, Hugo stood for a moment, gazing down on the bed and the sleeping form of his beautiful wife. Had last night really happened? Had she really revealed a hint of a wild side to him? Or confessed about her crush? That she liked to watch him have sex in the apartment across the street?

  Had she really made out with one of her friends at work?

  This was Madeleine, the same Madeleine he had dated, had fallen for almost instantly, had married. The same Madeleine who had shown no sexual interest in anything for so long that he couldn’t remember. This prim, proper, pretty girl who lay before him as though it was just another Wednesday morning.

  Had she really admitted fantasizing about a man who was not her husband?

  And had he revealed that he found such a thing hot?

  Hugo had to leave the bedroom before the tingling between his thighs became the kind of burning need that would make him late for work.

  At work, he couldn’t stop dwelling on it. It felt unreal—halfway through the day, he started thinking maybe it was unreal. That it hadn’t happened.

  As the morning wore on, he wanted to text her just to say what an incredible night it had been, just making love to her like that, time and time again before they’d collapsed asleep. But every time he picked up his phone, doubt froze his hand.

  What if the cold light of day had made her ashamed of what they’d talked about while making love? What if she was embarrassed now, about revealing her secret to him? And what if she thought he was disgusting?

  *

  He was trembling a little on the way home from work, but along with the fear and the trepidation, the strongest thing he felt was hope: that the way they’d been able to talk about things, like never before, would continue.