As I said before, I’m not into drugs. They’re not just a vice—they’re a crutch. A chemical support for weak-minded individuals who can’t deal with life’s everyday bullshit. But it’s not like Kate is popping Mommy’s Little Helpers three times a day. Since I’ve known her, she’s gotten stoned exactly twice—both times with Dee-Dee, while the four of us were on vacation together. Kate doesn’t buy or grow her own stuff. She would certainly never get high around our son.
So if she wants to kick back and toke up once in a blue moon, I’m not going to be the self-righteous, overbearing asshole who gives her shit for it. “Of course I’m not mad.”
Her smile grows. “Oh . . . that’s good. Because I have plans . . . plans that require you not being angry.” She giggles wickedly. “Well . . . maybe a little angry would be okay.”
Then she attaches her lips to my neck, sucking and kissing, moaning softly. Have I mentioned that weed makes Kate horny? Oh, yeah, it does. Which is another reason I’m perfectly happy with her current condition.
I sweep her up into my arms, princess style. She squeals. Then I tell Jack, “We’ll be in our room. Don’t knock on that door unless the place is on fucking fire.”
Now that the goddess host has left the building, Jack’s feeling needy. “I thought we were going to play Xbox?”
“Plans change.” I swing around and make my way toward our room.
“That’s not cool, man. Bros before . . .” My glare cuts him off. Because there’s no way I’m going to let him finish that sentence when he’s talking about my fiancée.
He takes the hint. “Fine. Dicks before chicks, then.”
“You might want to rethink that. Because while you’re out here jerking your game remote with Warren, I’m gonna be in there, with Kate. No contest, buddy.”
I walk through our door and kick it closed behind me. Then I set Kate on her feet, cup her face with my hands, and kiss the breath right out of her. I pull the pink robe down her arm, exposing the creamy flesh of her shoulder. I taste it with my tongue, then slowly make my way up to her neck.
Her head rolls to the side with a moan. My hands make quick work of the robe and the black, strappy nightgown underneath—sliding them off Kate’s body into a ring of satin around her feet. After kissing her lips deeply one last time, I kneel in front of her, soaking up the sight of her beautiful bareness.
She’s perfect. It shouldn’t surprise me—I know what she looks like. But still, every view of Kate’s firm tits, her flat waist, her toned, smooth legs, revs me up like a kid getting his first glimpse of porn.
Because she’s mine. Because she’s amazing. Because she wants me as badly as I want her. And this is the way it’s supposed to be—the way it’s supposed to feel. The way it always will—an intense haze of lust and heat and adoration.
Her heavy-lidded eyes look down at me as I lean forward and kiss the skin around her *. She’s completely smooth and soft—freshly waxed. Kate pulls back just a bit at the contact.
“Tender?” I ask.
It’s times like this I’m particularly glad I’m a guy. Because manscaping with an electric razor is one thing. Getting hair ripped out in large clumps with hot wax? No thanks. Sounds like a goddamn torture technique, doesn’t it?
Though the results are awesome.
She exhales. “Just a little sensitive.”
“I’ll be gentle.”
I cup her ass and bring her sweet snatch to my mouth. I caress her with my tongue—like an artist stroking a fresh canvas. Slowly at first. Then deeper, with more purpose—more pressure. And I’m overwhelmed by the texture—the sight, the taste, and the scent. It’s sublime sensory overload.
The saints can keep heaven, because this spot between Kate Brooks’s legs is so much fucking better. Paradise on earth.
We’ll stop right here for a second. Don’t want to ruin the vibe—but we should talk about a “very special” topic. A topic that the male youth of today are tragically under-informed about. I like to call it cunning linguistics.
You may know it as going down. Dining at the Y. Carpet munching. Having a box lunch. The point is, *-eating is an acquired skill. All that making-the-alphabet-with-your-tongue crap is for lazy schmucks who couldn’t find a G-spot with a fucking flashlight and a navigation device.
You have to hone your craft—develop your technique. It’s a lot like . . . basketball. Just knowing the right moves isn’t a guarantee you’re gonna score points. Because you have to know whom you’re playing with—the type of moves they’re partial to. Too much attention to a sensitive clit kills the momentum. Not enough attention and the chick will be checking her watch thinking, Is he done yet? Body language is crucial. Reading the signals—taking cues.
At the moment, Kate’s * is dripping—wet desire clings to her thighs. And it’s fucking glorious. Women should never be embarrassed about being turned on. Even if you squirt like a high-powered water gun or gush like Old Reliable—be proud. Guys love it.