Storm-Tossed Wife: Bull Wine Baron Claims Her at the Beach House
Victor's storm traps meek hubby Martin as the bull claims and cuckolds his eager wife.
Prefer to read it? Open the full story →
The rain hammered the beach house roof like a thousand frantic fists as Martin fumbled with the key. Lightning strobed across the dunes, turning the ocean into a boiling cauldron of whitecaps. Elena stood close behind him, her soaked silk dress clinging to every curve, nipples stiff against the fabric from the cold. She smelled like rain, expensive perfume, and something sharper—pure, restless hunger.
The door finally swung open. Warmth and low lamplight greeted them, along with the deep, mocking baritone they both recognized instantly.
“Well, well. Look what the storm dragged in.”
Victor lounged in the leather armchair like he owned the place—which, in the wine world, he practically did. The bull wine baron was shirtless, thick slabs of muscle gleaming from a recent shower, dark hair tousled, a glass of something blood-red swirling in one massive hand. His yacht had apparently sought emergency shelter in the private cove hours earlier. He looked entirely too comfortable.
“Victor,” Martin said weakly, shoulders already slumping. At five-foot-eight and soft around the middle, he knew exactly how he measured up next to the six-foot-four barrel-chested supplier who controlled half the premium California reserves Martin depended on.
Elena, however, didn’t slump. She stepped inside, water dripping from her long dark hair onto the hardwood, and let her gaze travel slowly over Victor’s sculpted chest and ridged abdomen. A tiny smile played at the corner of her full lips.
“Looks like we’re all trapped together,” she murmured, voice already huskier than it had been in the car. “How… inconvenient.”
Victor’s grin was pure predator. “For some of us.” His eyes raked over her soaked dress, lingering openly on the way the wet silk outlined her heavy breasts and the flare of her hips. “Jesus, Elena. You look like a fucking wet dream. That pathetic little husband of yours doesn’t deserve to see you like this.”
Martin flushed crimson but said nothing, setting their overnight bag down with shaking hands. He could already feel the familiar, shameful heat building low in his belly. Elena noticed. She always noticed.
Victor stood, towering over both of them. He reached out and casually brushed a wet strand of hair from Elena’s cheek with one thick finger. “You’re freezing, sweetheart. Why don’t you come warm up by the fire? Martin can fetch the towels like a good little distributor.”
Elena laughed—low, throaty, already betraying her. She let Victor guide her toward the massive stone fireplace where flames crackled. Martin scurried after them, cheeks burning.