Florist Breeds the Hotwife Bareback
Jeweler's hotwife gets bred bareback by the hung florist in his cooler.
Prefer to read it? Open the full story →
The late-morning sun poured through the tall glass windows of Bloom & Thorn, warming the rows of cut stems and turning the air thick with the sweet, earthy perfume of lilies, roses, and peonies. Lila pushed open the door, the tiny yellow sundress fluttering around her toned thighs. The hem barely reached mid-thigh, and every step reminded her she wore nothing underneath. Her bare pussy lips brushed together with each movement, already slick from the thrill of what Marcus had whispered to her over breakfast.
Marcus, her husband of six years, had looked her dead in the eye while stroking his cock and told her exactly what he wanted today. Go see Ronan. Wear the shortest dress you own. No panties. If he wants to fuck you, let him. Send me proof. The memory made her nipples tighten against the thin cotton.
Ronan looked up from behind the counter, his massive shoulders stretching the black apron he wore. At thirty-five, the florist was built like a man who spent as much time hauling fifty-pound buckets of flowers as he did arranging them. Thick forearms corded with muscle, a strong jaw shadowed by dark stubble, and eyes the color of wet moss. When he saw her, his gaze dropped instantly to her legs, then slowly crawled back up.
“Mrs. Hale,” he drawled, voice low and rough like gravel wrapped in velvet. “Back again so soon. Those centerpieces for your dinner party ready in twenty. Unless you want to pick them yourself.”
“I do,” Lila said, letting her voice drop into that husky register she knew drove men crazy. She tucked a strand of long auburn hair behind her ear and let her fingers trail down her neck. “I like watching you work, Ronan.”
His smirk was slow and filthy. He stepped around the counter, towering over her five-foot-four frame. “Careful how you talk to me in that little dress, Lila. I might forget you’re a married woman.”
She felt her clit throb at the warning. “Maybe I want you to forget.”
Ronan’s eyes darkened. He glanced toward the front door, flipped the OPEN sign to CLOSED, and locked it with a decisive click. “Then follow me to the cooler. Best blooms are in the back.”
The heavy steel door to the walk-in cooler shut behind them with a pneumatic hiss, sealing them inside the chilled, fragrant space. Temperature-controlled air washed over Lila’s bare legs and up under her dress, making her shiver. Rows of flowers stood in tall buckets—cascades of white roses, deep burgundy calla lilies, clouds of baby’s breath. The cold made her nipples diamond-hard against the thin fabric.
Ronan didn’t pretend to look for flowers. He leaned against a metal shelf, arms crossed over his broad chest, and openly stared at her body.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “You’re not wearing anything under that, are you?”
Lila’s breath caught. She slowly turned in place, letting the short hem flare, then bent forward just enough to show him the smooth, bare curve of her ass. “Not a thing. My husband picked this dress for me this morning. He wanted me to feel… accessible.”
Ronan’s jaw flexed. “Your husband know you’re in here teasing me like a slut?”