It is just about 3 AM and the house is quiet except for the TV humming at a low volume, Clint Eastwood’s young, handsome mug on the screen, half hidden under the brim of his cowboy hat. Marc is watching the movie when he hears the front door being carefully unlocked, then opened, then closed, Michelle quiet about it, making sure she doesn’t wake him up. He smiles. He doesn’t deserve her.
She takes a careful step, and another, and her silhouette appears in the entrance to the living room. She looks good. She turns and sees her husband, lit by the glow of the television, and immediately she smiles.
“You’re up this late?” she asks, setting her purse down on a little table by the wall.
“I wanted to be awake when you got here, make sure you’re ok,” Marc says, muting the TV, a shootout happening now, inside a saloon, Eastwood killing folks, bullets flying everywhere.
“That’s so sweet of you, honey,” Michelle sighs happily.
She gets on her knees, then.
Marc smiles, anticipation starting to creep in.
She begins to crawl toward him. She does this slowly, taking her time, making her ass sway seductively, her eyes glued to his. Her cleavage is spectacular; Marc liking the red bra he can glimpse some of, hidden under her tank top.
