I don’t know what the hell am I doing. At this point I think that my life is running on an autopilot mode because coming to Paris all the way from Seattle just because I saw my wife posting a story with some guy is most definitely not a part of the Book Of Rational Things That Rhys Mikhailov Can do.
And at the moment, as I have her pinned to the window of her own Rolls Royce while the driver takes us to my villa in the city— at my orders, of course— all I can focus on is the generous cleavage that is visible through the sweetheart neckline of her blouse and I am agitated at the fact that all I want to do is lick a strip across her chest and see just how much harder her n*****s can get from the way they are currently pressing against the thin top.
She notices my gaze and trembles in my
