His entry brought a shock of raw pleasure to her; she didn’t breathe, didn’t move as he slid, slow and easy into her, letting her body adjust to him. The sensation of it was startling, so cool and hot all at once, and so intoxicatingly provocative that Rebecca’s breath came out in one long and heavy sigh. She instinctively lifted her hips; Matt slid in deeper, to her core, and Rebecca felt a surge of sensual gratification so deep she threw her head back against his shoulder, moaning.
Matt’s hand slipped from her waist to her sex, and as he began to move inside her—slow and smooth at first—he toyed with her, teasing her toward the climax he had warned her about. Rebecca’s breath was coming in spurts now; she was gulping for air, lost in the sexual bliss that surrounded them as he slid deeper and harder into her, pushing her toward release with his body and his fingers.
She reached turned the point where there was no going back, where she could feel it nearing the surface, and Matt said hoarsely, “Let it go, Rebecca, let it go . . .”
She let it go with an animal cry, her arms flailing, knocking the last of the ice cream onto the bed, her body shuddering from the sheer weight of her orgasm. Rebecca let go, came harder and better than she ever had in her life, falling headlong into pure rapture. And as it rained down all around her, she heard Matt cry out with his release, and thought, almost giddily, that he was louder than her.
Several moments passed before either one of them seemed to breathe; several more before they could untangle themselves from each other. They laughed later; laughed at the ice cream everywhere, laughed at the scarf, which Matt confessed had been a last-minute idea. They lay together on sticky sheets, their arms and legs entwined, Rebecca feeling so wonderfully vibrant and alive that she wanted to explore it all, to know everything there was to know. Matt obliged her, even while joking about the beast he had unleashed, and when they had at last exhausted themselves, they spoke low to each other about little things, and somewhere between talking and giggling at their toes, that blissful night passed into a blissful dream.
A dream that was brought to an abrupt end when the faint strains of “Who lives in a pineapple under the sea?” drifted into Rebecca’s consciousness.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
When you’re in love it’s the most glorious two and a half days of your life . . .
RICHARD LEWIS
At the sound of that familiar refrain, Rebecca’s eyes flew open; beside her Matt shifted and groaned lightly in his sleep. Carefully, she moved his arm that was slung across her torso, slipped out from the sheets that were now impossibly sticky thanks to their adventure in ice cream, and darted into her bathroom, where she quickly cleaned up, pulled her hair up into a ponytail, and donned a silk robe.
When she stepped into the bedroom again, Matt was still out of it, sprawled across the bed facedown—it looked as if his cheek might actually be stuck to the pillow—the sheet covering him from the waist down. He did indeed possess a beautiful body, a magnificent form that she’d like to paint someday, but at the moment, she really didn’t have time to admire him, and tiptoed out of the room.
Grayson was in the great room, sitting cross-legged in front of the television, glued to his favorite cartoon. Surrounding him were the dogs, who all clamored to their feet when they saw Rebecca, and all came charging forward, tails wagging.
“Hi, honey,” she said, trying to wade through a pack of snorting and hungry snouts.
“Hi,” Grayson mumbled.
“Did you sleep all right?” she asked, pushing Bean away.
“I dunno,” he said, and inched closer to the television in a clear sign that Rebecca was interrupting.
She walked out onto the porch and fed the dogs, pouring whatever came out into their bowls without any thought. Fat little Tater looked up at her in wonder, as if she were a doggie food angel sent from heaven. Rebecca laughed, squatted down to scratch him behind the ears. “That’s right, Fatso. It’s a new day,” she said, and left the dogs scarfing their food to go back inside, where she took a seat directly behind Grayson.
Speaking of new days . . . there had to be a proper way to broach the subject of a man in Mommy’s bedroom, but it wasn’t exactly a situation Rebecca had anticipated dealing with anytime before he was eighteen. Now she wished she’d had the foresight to at least look it up in one of her parenting books. But she had to think of something quick, because Patrick and SpongeBob were grabbing balloons and floating away as the theme song played to an end. “Hi, kids! We’ll be right back!”
Grayson stood up, started toward the kitchen.
“Ah . . . Gray, come here, will you?” she asked, reaching out for him.
He looked at her hand very suspiciously. “Why?”
“Because I want to give you a hug.”
“Ah, Mom,” he complained, but stumbled forward nonetheless, dragging his feet, until Rebecca could reach him and wrap him in a strong embrace.
“Mom! You smell like ice cream!” he complained, pushing away from her.
Rebecca grabbed his hand before he bolted. “Grayson, honey, listen . . . you know Matt and I are friends, right?”
He nodded.
“Well . . . sometimes, grown men and women like each other. You know . . . like mommies and daddies like each other.”