“Of course.”
Here’s an interesting fact: how you eat a gingerbread man says a lot about your personality. Head-first eaters are ambitious, independent, and magnetic. Feet-first are the more artistic, creative types, and those who start with the hands are kind and nurturing. Same rules apply for chocolate Easter bunnies.
Maybe you’re wondering how I came to know this information?
I looked it up. Because James is a head-first eater.
And Kate and I were . . . unsettled . . . by all the headless chocolate bunnies lying around last Easter.
But—good news—he’s not a serial killer in the making, he just has the same driven, bound-to-be-a-success temperament as his parents.
During my research, I also discovered that sociopaths and CEOs share a lot of character traits—but we’ll talk about that another time.
There are other, more crucial matters at hand.
“So, we have the whole apartment to ourselves?” I ask.
Kate licks her lips happily. “Yep.”
My dick gets even harder, thinking of the possibilities. “That means we can fuck in the living room? The hallway? The kitchen?”
A center island is the perfect height to comfortably eat a woman out while she’s perched on the counter.
Coincidence?
I think not.
Kind of makes you rethink the meaning of “eat-in kitchen,” doesn’t it?
Kate replies, “Yes. Yes. And definitely yes. I’ve missed kitchen sex.”
I’ve missed bending her over the arm of the sofa and pounding her from behind.
Oh—and sleeping naked. I haven’t slept naked for a year and a half. Not since my son crawled into our bed in the middle of the night and asked why I wasn’t wearing pajamas. Telling him the truth—that it’s liberating and makes it more convenient to screw his mother—was out of the question. So I just said I forgot.
He thought that was funny. And I’ve slept in boxers almost every night since.
When people tell you having kids changes things—they’re not screwing around.
But all thoughts of our child fly out of my head as Kate envelops my dick in her warm, wet mouth. My head lolls back, relishing the sensation of her stroking tongue. But after a few seconds, I have to look and take in the sensual sight of Kate’s head bobbing up and down, doing what she does so very well.
My hand skims her spine. I lift the sheer red fabric, exposing her firm ass, scarcely covered by the red silk panties. My stomach contracts in hot pleasure as she sucks me harder. I pull on the red ribbons tied at her hips and the panties fall away. Then I knead the soft flesh of her ass before sliding my fingers between her open legs—into her warm *. She’s already slick for me; her muscles tighten around my fingers as I pump them slowly.
I pull my hips back and I slide out of Kate’s awesome mouth. I cradle her face with my hands and bring her up to meet my lips. We kiss playfully, my teeth scraping along her jaw to her neck, licking and sucking—both of us moaning. I wrap an arm around her waist and lift her to her feet, dragging us to the couch.
Without a word, Kate assumes my favorite position—bent at the waist, her stomach draped over the arm, feet apart, her delectable ass high and waiting. Her hands brace against the cushions and my hand rests on her shoulder. My other hand grasps my dick and makes two teasing passes across the opening of her sweet cunt. She wriggles back against me, reaches out her hand, and pushes behind my thigh—trying to maneuver me where she needs me to be.
Always so eager.
Although our sex life is fantastically frequent, we can’t be as . . . vocal . . . as we once were. Not with a kid in the house. So I plan on taking advantage of this opportunity to hear Kate’s voice in all its hedonistically desperate beauty.
I cover her—my chest flush with her back—nudge her silken hair with my nose, and bring my lips to her ear. “Do you want me to fuck you, baby?”
“Mmm,” she groans. “Yessss.”
I nip her earlobe. “Tell me.”
“Fuck me,” she whispers.
Yeah. She’s gonna have to do better than that.
I straighten up, smiling, and tease her again with the head of my dick. “I’m sorry, I didn’t quite get that.”
Her hips squirm with frustration, and she yells, “I want you to fuck me, Drew!”
Almost.
“God, now . . . do it . . . please. Fuck . . .”
Beautiful.
I push inside her with a moan and her back arches. I rest my hand on her hip, holding her in place as I rear back. Then thrust in long and slow and deep.
“Yes,” she keens loudly. “Just like that.”
I look down where I move in and out of her—disappearing into her gorgeous, welcoming body. It’s a view that never gets old.
“Christ, you feel good, Kate. Always so goddamn good.”
It’s true. And it’s got nothing to do with the fact that Kate’s is the only * I’ve ever been inside without a rubber.
It’s her. The life we’ve made together—the way she matches me in every way—her desire, her humor, her mind.