Total pages in book: 35
Estimated words: 33254 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 166(@200wpm)___ 133(@250wpm)___ 111(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 33254 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 166(@200wpm)___ 133(@250wpm)___ 111(@300wpm)
“All the other girls in this contest wish they were you, Thatcher!” Cassie screamed.
“You’re damn right!” I shouted back.
I shook my head back and forth like I was letting down a long mane of hair and set my face’s attitude level to It’s Britney, bitch.
After all, any performance quality I had, I could attribute to Brit. She knew how to command an audience, and thinking of her made it easier for me to let go and have the kind of fun my wife was obviously needing.
I knew there had to be something at the root of her desperation for a wild time—I mean, I was shaking my tits in a wet white T-shirt right now, for fuck’s sake. But when I took the oath to make her my wife, I knew I was promising to do absolutely anything she needed—to be anything she needed.
Plus, she had a really strong backhand smack-move she liked to show to the Supercock on occasion, and with pregnancy hormones running amok, I felt like it’d be even more powerful. Kind of like being bitten by a radioactive spider and turning into a villain or some shit.
I didn’t know the exact science, but since I was still undecided about having more kids, I didn’t want to test it.
“Come on, Thatcher! Show me the action! I wanna see skin!” my wife shouted like a lunatic. “Take it off, take it off, take it off!”
For the first time since we arrived, I was feeling extra thankful that Panama City Beach was a ghost town. Things would be a little more awkward if there were other patrons in the bar, but being that my cute little wife was the only one, I obliged, reaching back with a hand between my shoulder blades and ripping my soaked T-shirt over my head.
“Woo-hoo! Oh yeah!” she hollered. “Mama like!”
I smirked. I was pretty dang confident in my own skin—a little too confident for the taste of some—but the value of a good hype-woman should never be underestimated.
“I’ve been working out,” I told her, leaning off the stage and holding out the flower for her to take.
“Shh,” she replied savagely. “I like the show better when you don’t talk.”
Shaking my head with a smile, I backed up on the stage and rose to my feet to swing my hips and then turned around and presented my ass. I didn’t know if Britney would be proud of my performance, but I sure was.
Chasing the end of the song, I worked my way to the edge of the stage, my breath coming in heaving pants at this point, and settled myself into the pose I’ve seen the contestants hit in the Miss Universe pageant. One knee cocked, hand on hip, titties held up high, loud and proud, I brought my wet T-shirt dance to the big finale pose.
I could only hope my crazy little dandelion appreciated the effort I’d put in.
Thatch stood on the stage, sweat dripping down his brow, and his shirtless body was contorted into a pose that made my entire mood take a nose dive.
He looked…so unlike my husband, it wasn’t even funny. Honestly, if he actually had a set of breasts on his chest, those puppies would be pushed out with the kind of confidence that said they were about to take over the fucking world.
And I didn’t know why, but…I’d gone from cheering him on to wanting him to get off that stage as fast as he could.
Oh, holy hell, things have taken a serious turn for the bizarre.
A wet T-shirt contest had sounded like a great idea at the time, and Thatcher had really gone all out, but my mood had swung from enjoyment to nausea in the span of a heartbeat, and I wasn’t sure how to break it to him. I mean, he was up on the stage, panting like a wounded dog, for Pete’s sake, his foot poised and prissy. His pecs pushed out and perky.
Fluff, this is no longer bueno.
There was no damn way I was going to make him feel bad for doing everything I’d asked. He deserved way more than that from me. But I needed to find a way to bring myself back from the edge of horror, and I needed to do it fast without letting on at all.
That was simple enough, though, right?
If I could handle some of the things I’d seen in my wilder youth, I could handle a simple sweep under the rug with my emotions for Thatcher.
“How’d I do, Crazy?” he asked, still cocked in his ending pose. “Did I nail it? Was it everything your wet T-shirt dreams were made of?”
Ah, shit. I needed a distraction, and I needed one fast.
Quick! Think of something! Anything!
Suddenly, a thought popped into my head, and it was out of my mouth before I could stop it. “Shots!” I yelled suddenly, as though it weren’t the most random word in the free world to be yelling if you weren’t LMFAO.