Gloria's Forever (Gloria Book 3) (2 page)

“Oh, God,” I cried out as carnal pleasure rushed to my core.

“Angel, you’re always so fucking hot and wet for me,” he breathed into my ear as one hand flew to his broad, sculpted shoulder for support.

“Only for you, my love,” I moaned back as his deft fingers made their way to my clit, circling it hard and fast the way I liked it. His magnificent cock was swelling, getting bigger against me. In my highly aroused state, I managed to reach for it with my hand. I clamped my long fingers around the hot velvety thick shaft, stroking it up and down, applying more pressure and speed with each stroke. My rapid pants accompanied my hand movements, speeding up as they did.

He squeezed his eyes and groaned with mutual pleasure. Tortuous pleasure equal to mine. “Oh, baby, you’re doing it just right. You’re making me so fucking hard.”

Electricity coursed through me as I felt his heated cock elongate and thicken in my palm. His greedy mouth made contact with every ounce of my flesh it could latch on to. My breathing shallow and my temperature soaring, I was losing myself in him, my overheated body readying itself for a mind-blowing orgasm. The intense pressure was building, every cell buzzing with anticipation, want, and need. Sex with Jaime had not diminished while being pregnant. In fact, it had gotten better, as if better was possible. Lately though, so close to giving birth, we’d slowed down a bit, discovering that slow and steady could be mind-blowing too. My overprotective, controlling husband was afraid of hurting the fetuses. Our babies. While Dr. Bernstein said not to worry and we could do it as hard and as long as we wished, Jaime wanted to play it on the cautious side. Even though he wasn’t fucking me, this wasn’t what I would call slow and steady. We’d gotten carried away.

A heartbeat away from exploding, my cell phone rang. My distinct ringtone, an excerpt from the eighties hit song, “Gloria,” sounded repeatedly.
Calling Gloria.

“Fuck!” muttered a relentless Jaime. “Don’t answer it.”

“I have to,” I moaned with regret. “It could be an emergency.”

Later today, we were taping the annual Gloria’s Secret Fashion Show. It was going to air in the evening on a major television network and simulcast live on SIN-TV, the adult entertainment cable network which Jaime’s best friend, Blake Burns, founded and headed. I adored Blake. Like Jaime, he was cocky, smart—and controlling—and as big of a player as Jaime had once been. Rumor had it he’d fucked all of our Gloria’s Secret supermodels at one time or another. He’d always coveted my business. However, he wasn’t going to get my advertising dollars until he came up with a block of programming that appealed to my female 18-49 demographic. I kept telling him women watched erotica, not porn, and that he should hire someone, preferably a shrewd female exec who understood the popularity of
Fifty Shades of Grey.
With my successful line of BDSM-inspired lingerie and sex toys, an erotic block could be a great fit. Blake, however, didn’t believe me and kept complaining to Jaime, who handled his network’s media campaigns, that his daytime ratings were in the toilet. To me, the answer was simple. Stay-at-home women didn’t watch SIN-TV. They were looking for something beyond twelve-inch dicks in your face. They craved romantic fantasies.

The phone kept ringing. I fumbled for it on my night table with my free hand and eyed the caller ID on the screen: Kevin Riley, my beloved and trusted head of PR. I put the phone to my ear.

“Hi, Kev. Is everything okay?” I panted into the phone. Jaime was not giving up. “Stop!” I mouthed at him. He smirked and circled my clit harder. Forget it! And moreover, Mr. Persistent wasn’t going to let me stop stroking his cock. He placed his hand over mine so I couldn’t. Confession: I didn’t want him to stop nor did I want to stop. We were both so close to coming. Squirming with a roll of my eyes, I tried to focus on Kevin’s call.

“Glorious, there’s a fucking flood in the space where we’re supposed to tape the show.”
And there’s a fucking flood in the space between my legs where Jaime was about to take all of me. And a fire too!
“The dress rehearsal has been postponed until they clean up the mess. We may even have to relocate.”

One word: “Shit.” This was not good news, but Kevin had handled a lot bigger problems and they always got fixed. I loved my Kev, as much as I loved Jaime but differently. A lifelong friend, we had been through thick and thin, and we had even saved each other’s lives from the pink-eyed monster, Boris Borofsky.

Yet, I was still concerned since this was a new venue, and I didn’t know what to expect. We had always held the much-anticipated Gloria’s Secret Fashion Show in New York at the venerable Lexington Avenue Armory on the day before Valentine’s Day. But due to my late stage pregnant state, Dr. Bernstein had insisted I not fly. I’d protested. Only one word from Jaime had convinced me to follow her orders—turbulence. Something that terrified me. Hence, we were holding it for the first time in Los Angeles at state-of-the-art Smashbox Studios in Culver City, not far from our headquarters. It turned out to be a good thing too. The snowy weather conditions in New York were so bad the show would have likely been canceled.

“I’ll be there soon,” I told Kevin, asking him to phone or text me right away if anything else came up before ending the call.

“Is everything okay?” asked concerned Jaime, releasing my hand from his cock and his finger from my clit.

I shook my head. “I’ve got a big problem. The studio is flooded. It’s a total mess.”

“That sucks.” Jaime dusted my chin with the tip of my long braid. This was one of his many little affectionate gestures that always affected me.

“I’ve got to get over to Smashbox right away.”

“Let’s finish what we started in the shower.”

“I can’t. I don’t have time,” I countered unconvincingly as he tickled my chin again with my braid.

“C’mon. You know things always turn out okay.” Jaime scrambled off the bed, and before I could say another word, he gathered me in his loving arms.

“What are you doing?” I screamed out.

“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m carrying my princess off into the horizon for our next activity.”

“I weigh too much!” I protested, trying hard not to laugh.

“Nah.” He took a step and then without warning, he let out a deep groan and his legs began to buckle. His face scrunched up as if he was in terrible pain.

“Oh my God! Are you okay?” He continued to groan and sway.

“Baby, talk to me!” Oh God, we were both going to go down! The babies too!

“Gotcha!” He burst into a clap of laughter.

I pounded his chest. “You cocky beautiful bastard!”

“Shut up!” And with that, my amazing husband smothered me with a fierce kiss that sent another sweeping wave of pleasure through my core.

*

We made beautiful love in the shower. With one arm wrapped around my big belly, the hand of the other back to fingering my still throbbing clit, Jaime pummeled me slowly but purposely from behind. The multiple jets of steaming water pounded upon us, coming at us from different directions as we built toward climax.

“Are you okay, angel?” Jaime breathed against my neck, always so worried about my well-being and that of our babies.

“Yes,” I moaned back, so close to coming. I knew he was too, by his harsh breaths and his pulsing cock that filled me with love.

“Angel,” he cried out as I watched us orgasm together in the wall-to-wall bathroom mirror through the steamed-up glass shower door. I arched my head back and cried out his name in sweet relief as I came around his explosive length. Jaime’s name meant “I love” in French. I loved this man and he loved me. My husband, my lover, and the soon-to-be father of my children.
Our
children. My pulse still in overdrive, I glanced down at the magnificent two-stone diamond ring he’d given me. Two glistening hearts entwined like lovers. An eternal
toi et moi.
As he nuzzled my neck and whispered sweet words of love in my ear, I knew one thing. Even with a pending fashion show disaster, Jaime Zander was my forever.

Jaime

T
here’s something so damn sexy about watching a woman get ready in the morning. Especially a woman as sexy as Gloria.

After our delicious shower, we both donned matching terry cloth robes and headed back to the bedroom. I had the luxury of starting my day a little later so I stretched myself on the bed, pillow-dried my hair, and watched Gloria go through her rituals.

Usually, Gloria dressed for success. Conveying the image of the high-powered businesswoman she was. Chanel was her favorite designer. Despite LA’s casual dress code, Gloria always dressed up. A power suit and stilettos. A uniform that said, “Don’t fuck with me.” But to me, everything she wore said, “Fuck me now.”

Today, however, was a little different. Being on the set of the annual Gloria’s Secret Fashion Show, she preferred to be comfortable. I watched as she laid out her outfit on the bed—a pair of black leggings and ballet flats, an oversized white shirt (mine), and a lacy white bra. Hmm. No panties. My cock twitched.

My eyes stayed on her as she shrugged off the robe and began with the leggings. My blood heated as she slowly slid them up her legs. Even pregnant, Gloria had the most incredible legs. Toned and mile high. Like they emanated from her rib cage. Little about her had changed during her pregnancy. Just her tits and her tummy. I fucking loved them big.

Once the leggings with their built-in pregnancy panel were just above her hips, she reached for her bra. It was an underwire, lacy concoction that supported her spectacular planets. With its back closing, she struggled with the hook.

“Come here, you,” I said seductively with a wag of my finger. “Sit down and let me help you with the clasp.”

Wordlessly, she lowered herself to the bed and let me do it. I blew hot air onto the nape of her neck and watched her shoulders lift and goose bumps pop along her arms. I always had that effect on her. It drove her fucking crazy. And me too.

I began to nibble her flesh and flutter kiss her upper back. Her breathing grew shallow.

“Jaime, stop. I can’t. I have to get ready. You know how important this show is.”

What she said was true. The success of this show could make or break her company earnings.

“Okay, just this once.” Reluctantly, I pulled away. “But you’re going to pay tonight.” We were going to the Gloria’s Secret after-party at Greystone Manor. Every A-list celebrity in Tinseltown would be there along with all the Gloria’s Secret supermodels. Little did my wife know that club member, Blake Burns, had arranged with the owner the use of a private fuck pad. If I had my way (and I usually did), we weren’t going to be doing a lot of socializing as the party progressed. More like one-on-one time.

Gloria laughed as she reached for my button-down shirt. She had taken a predilection to wearing my shirts and tees while she was pregnant. They fit her perfectly, and I found it sexy as hell. Like she and our babies were cocooned inside me.

She shrugged it on, but before she could button it, I wrapped my arms around her and buttoned it for her, starting with the third one down. Her breasts caressed my forearms and my cock grew harder with each button. I could feel her heat.

“Darling, please!” she moaned as I slid one hand between her thighs. I just couldn’t resist, but then I caved in.

“Okay, okay. But you’re making it so fucking hard.”

“Very funny.”

Eyeing the sizeable tent right below the knotted belt of the robe, she laughed yet again at my unintended double entendre and then stood up. She sauntered back toward the bathroom. Man, I loved the way she walked. Even so pregnant, she exuded effortless elegance and sexiness. Her perfect heart-shaped ass shimmied beneath my shirt, her loose wet hair grazing it. Swinging my legs off the bed, I followed her.

Gloria had many beauty rituals. But morning hair and makeup were my favorite. Because I got to participate. Standing behind her, our reflections facing us in the expansive wall-to-wall mirror, I ran a comb through her long, damp platinum tresses and then began to braid them. While she’d had her right arm immobilized in a cast for six weeks after the Boris nightmare, I’d become an expert. I could do every kind of braid—from French to fishtail. I chuckled to myself. I was so good I could do an online tutorial on YouTube. Hell, I could probably open a braiding salon and make a fucking fortune turning it into a franchise.