OBSESSED Series

Chapter 37

Here I go. I have to sit down on the edge of the bed and count to ten again. It helps when Stella comes over and combs her fingers through my hair, counting with me.

When we moved to Green Bay after the NFL draft, we were shocked to find the public’s fascination with our relationship had been growing since our days in college. Apparently there was footage floating around the internet of me walking out of the building after passing my Western Civilization test and throwing Stella over my shoulder. It had gone viral on TikTok.

Overnight, there were several Instagram accounts dedicated to us—and the interest didn’t end when we transferred Stella to her new school so she could continue to study, earn her degree and the scrutiny blew up my first year in the league. I was the hot new rookie on a winning streak and Stella was the pregnant, nineteen-year-old beauty watching from the glass box, high above the stadium, her heart in her eyes. My jersey wrapped around her. Ten security guards positioned on all sides—a requirement of my contract.

It's hard to blame people for being fascinated. Love this powerful isn’t typical.

It’s a fucking gift, just like every damn second with her.

“We don’t have to let them all the way in,” she whispers, nestling into the V of my outstretched thighs. “Just enough to satisfy their curiosity.”

I grunt, rubbing my face between her tits. “And then we come back to bed?”

She hums, a tremor passing through her. “Yes. Until the kids are ready to be picked up from nursery school.”

The mention of Allie and Christopher makes me smile. My son is four, my daughter three. They are curious and funny and brave. They are a mixture of me and Stella and I’ll never stop marveling over them. Along with their mother, they’re my life. My source of happiness. But my obsession? That’s for Stella alone. Its wild and without end.

I lick a path from between her tits up to the hollow of her throat, dipping and swirling my tongue there, absorbing her scent, her shiver, her tiny gasp of air. “You going to let Daddy fuck you in that pretty new dress, Stella?”

Her shivers turn more pronounced, her knees pressing together. “Yes.”

“Nasty?” I breathe at her throat. “In the other room?”

She can’t answer now, so she nods. Obediently. Biting down on her bottom lip.

My cock is stiff as hell in my briefs. Mouth is dry. How am I going to make it through this interview without dragging my sexy wife to a different floor and taking her doggy style on the floor somewhere? She loves it from behind. Especially when she’s naked and I’m fully dressed.

God, I’m turned on. When am I not?

Stella exists. That fact alone keeps my dick hard. End of story.

Over the last five years, our sexual relationship has become…intense. Even more so than it was in the beginning. It was always pretty obvious that she enjoyed my dominance—a lot—but now? Now she is entranced by it. The slightest wielding of my power can make her tremble, turning her pussy to cream in a heartbeat. Our bedroom is for lovemaking and we do that. Frequently. Slow and thorough and so fucking emotional, sometimes it takes me hours to come down. But we have a secret, soundproof bedroom on the other side of our walk-in closet so she can scream for her Daddy without anyone hearing. Where I can spank her tight ass and knock the headboard into the wall without someone calling the cops.

That’s where we get nasty.

We’re marked by each other, inside and out.

And suddenly…I don’t know where the desire comes from, but it rockets out of me. This need for the world to know that I would die for her. That I would sell my soul to stop her from crying. Or to see her smile. The love inside of me for Stella has expanded so much that I can no longer lock it inside. My muscles are fatigued from trying. That’s where the bouts of possessiveness come from. Keeping this ferocious obsession caged.

I surge up from the bed, scooping up my wife in my arms and carrying her from the bedroom. My robe is open and all I’m wearing underneath is black briefs and I don’t give a shit. I just have to get this burning ache off my chest.

Our housekeeper has seated the journalist from Vanity Fair in the dining room and he stands up when I storm inside, holding Stella against my chest like a treasure. Which she obviously is. He blinks at us, a smile playing around the corners of his mouth. But I only have eyes for my wife who is gazing up at me curiously, then knowingly, scenes from the last five beautiful years flashing in my mind. She can see them, too. See what I’m thinking. She can read my mind, like only the love of my life can.

“Write this down,” I bark at the man without breaking eye contact with Stella. “Gage Weston lives every single second of his life for Stella Weston…”