Fed Up

Fed Up

Sierra Cartwright

Total-E-Bound Publishing (2009)

Tags: Romance

Elizabeth Driscoll is fed up with her barrister-husband’s work schedule. She’s sick and tired of Jon coming home late every night with no energy left over to satisfy her sexual appetite.
Once and for all, Beth takes control. That night, when he comes home from work, she’s ready for him. Dressed in high-heeled diva boots, a bra and stockings without panties, she grabs him by the tie, yanks him close to her and latches onto him in a way that gets his attention in a hurry.
When she orders him to his knees, respected and revered attorney Jonathan Driscoll is stunned speechless. He never knew his sweet, mousy wife had a dark and dangerous side. Having no choice, he complies with her demands. Jon learns, the hard way, that her oh-so-sexy boots are made for a whole lot more than just walking.

A Total-E-Bound Publication

www.total-e-bound.com

Fed Up

ISBN #978-1-907010-22-4

©Copyright Sierra Cartwright 2009

Cover Art by Anne Cain ©Copyright April 2009

Edited by Claire Siemaszkiewicz

Total-E-Bound Publishing

This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved.  No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, Total-E-Bound Publishing.

Applications should be addressed in the first instance, in writing, to Total-E-Bound Publishing.  Unauthorised or restricted acts in relation to this publication may result in civil proceedings and/or criminal prosecution.

The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator of the artwork.

Published in 2009 by Total-E-Bound Publishing 1 The Corner, Faldingworth Road, Spridlington, Market Rasen, Lincolnshire, LN8 2DE, UK.

Warning: 
This book contains sexually explicit content which is only suitable for mature readers.  This story has been rated
Total-e-burning.

FED UP

Sierra Cartwright

Dedication

For everyone who’s gotten to the point that they’ve just had enough.

Wouldn’t it be nice if we could let loose, even just a bit…?

Trademarks Acknowledgement

The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:

Armani suit:  GIORGIO ARMANI S.P.A. CORPORATION

Crown Royal:  Diageo North America, Inc. CORPORATION

Chapter One

   Elizabeth Driscoll was fed up.  She’d had enough.  She was mad as hell and wasn’t going to take it anymore…  And whatever other ways she could come up with to describe her fury.  All she knew was…she was pissed.

She so had not come all the way to England from the States a year ago to marry the man of her dreams and then sit home alone all day, bored out of her ever-living mind, lonely, and sexually unfulfilled.

No freaking way.

So, he was a hotshot barrister.

So, he had an enormous case load.

So, he was important.

So freaking what?

He’d chased her across an ocean and half a continent to woo her.  Now he wanted her to be the little woman, keep his home nice and tidy, have his shirts ironed, his pants pressed, a nice, hot dinner waiting, along with a Crown Royal, neat, poured at the end of a long, hard day.  Mr. Importance wanted his back rubbed a couple of evenings a week.  Oh, and while he was working on a case in his study late at night, it was perfectly acceptable to refill that empty whisky glass.

If that’s what he wanted, he had married the wrong woman. 

And wasn’t that too bad for him, because she was wearing his ring.  He was stuck with her.  For better or worse.  If he kept it up, it’d be worse for him, much, much worse.

   Enough was enough.

   She was tired of being ignored.

   Her cellular phone rang.  Her heart leapt into her throat as she checked the caller identification. 
Jon
.  Even after all this time, no matter how angry she was at him, she was still totally, stupidly mad for him. 

   “Hey, baby,” he said.  Even with the fuzziness of wireless service, his voice had the richness of a fine wine on a cold night. 

   Her shoulders dropped, her pussy moistened in anticipation.  She loved his voice, especially when he whispered naughty things about what he was going to do for her.

And he’d do them, as well…

At one time, soon after they’d exchanged vows, he’d hurry home.  She’d never forget the days he’d drop his briefcase and sweep her into his arms. 

They wouldn’t make it out of the foyer before he kissed her deeply.  With his mouth, with his hands, he’d take long minutes to let her know how glad he was she was in his home, in his life.

   For the first few months of their marriage, she’d lost weight because they’d rarely made it into the kitchen for food.  Instead, he’d carry her straight up to their bedroom, never minding the steep narrowness of the stairs.

   “I hate to tell you this…”

   She waited.  She wasn’t going to make it easy on him. 

   “I’ll be late.”

  
Surprise!

   “Beth?”

   She sighed.  “I’m here.”

   “Look—” 

   She could picture him running his hand through his hair in frustration.   Jon was dark blond, and every hair was perfectly tamed, cut and shaped into harsh submission.  He insisted on presenting a good picture to his clients and the Court.  Funny how there always seemed to be time in the schedule to see the hairdresser, but not his wife.  “What time?”

   “Nine?”

   Was he asking permission?  “Not a minute later.”

   “Miss you.”

   She had no doubt he was telling the truth.  He just didn’t miss her enough to come home. 

   “Maybe we can get away to the country this weekend?” he asked. 

She recognised the tactic.  Appeasement.  Three months ago, those kinds of soft words had actually worked with her.  Back then she’d still been a sucker.  Now she was somewhere between low simmer and scorching mad.

“And baby?  I love you.  I can’t wait to spend more time with you.”

   He wouldn’t have to wait long.  Without so much as another word to him, she pushed the end button.

   Nine o’clock, he said.

 She glanced at the antique grandfather clock.  Its pendulum swung back and forth, ticking off the seconds.  It was six now.  That meant she had plenty of time to get a few things in order before her oh-so important husband arrived home for what promised to be a very interesting evening.  After all, she’d been fantasising for a very long time…

* * * *

Nine?

Her husband clearly needed a new watch.

It was already half past and she’d seen neither hide nor hair of him. 

Impatience hammered inside her, and her pissy mood matched that of the weather.  It was raining.  And it wasn’t a good long soak or a gentle drizzle.  Nope.  It was a miserable, cold, in-your-face rain.  It gnawed at your fingers and bit at your ears.

Which was why she went to the front door and locked it.  For good measure, she latched the safety chain.

Less than a quarter of an hour later, she heard the doorknob jangle, then a key sliding into the lock.  Then the thud as the door didn’t open more than a handful of centimetres. 

“Crikey.  Beth!”

She stayed where she was, arms folded across her chest, shoulders propped against the wall, one leg bent at the knee, high-heeled shoe also on the wall. 

He rang the doorbell a couple of times.  And then another few times with quick jabs of his finger. 

“Beth!” he shouted through the small opening, “You must have latched the door.”

He didn’t have a university education for nothing, now did he?

A few seconds later, she took pity on him.  “Hang about,” she shouted.  “I’ll have you inside in less than a jiff,” she said, looking at him through the small opening.  She closed the door.  It took her a couple of moments longer than absolutely necessary to release the safety latch.  “Oh my word!  You’re soaked through.”

His umbrella had all but turned inside out in the wind.  His raincoat was drenched.  His saturated leather briefcase dripped water.

Poor thing.

She closed the door behind him and said, “Let me help with that.”  She took his brolly and shook the water from it before putting it in the umbrella stand.  Then she helped him take off his raincoat.  She hung it on the wooden coat tree and watched the puddle it made on the ceramic tiles.