She was gone.
Part of this was because she’d tortured him through a fat shrimp appetizer, a big steak dinner, and a fucking dessert, all of this wearing a clingy sweater dress that had the added temptation of having a wide collar that fell off one, the other, or both her shoulders.
So when he got her home, he’d wasted no time getting her hot, then making her hotter as he turned her over his thighs at the side of her bed, yanked up her skirt, and dove in.
He toyed with her watching her ass move, feeling her squirm, listening to her whimper then beg, and doing this with her laid out for him, another pair of thigh-highs and her brown high-heeled boots a bonus to the goodness.
Only when she’d begged had he torn off her clothes, bumping up against her repeatedly as she tore off his. He grabbed her toy and positioned her to get the rest.
And there they were and if she didn’t get there, things would get messy.
Lips to her neck watching her tits bounce as she drove herself down on his dick, he murmured, “Get yourself there, baby.”
“Low,” she whimpered, her hands moving high and low to wrap around his wrists tight.
“Take it and get yourself there,” he growled, needing her to do that in about two seconds or he’d be spent and need to use just her toy to take her there.
She bucked harder, moaning, “Oh my God.”
Fuck.
She was killing him.
“Millie—”
“Oh my God,” she breathed, letting go of his wrist at her tit and reaching back to clamp her hand in his hair as she drove down hard and started grinding.
Finally, she was coming.
Thank Christ.
He cupped her tit, tossed the toy, wrapped his arm around her belly, and held her steady to power up into her until he found it, grunting his orgasm into her neck.
He felt her breath even as his own grew steady.
Then he growled, “New rule. No fuckin’ toy when I’m away from you.”
She released his hair. “What?”
He pulled his face out of her neck and looked at her profile. “You made yourself come. Meant you could take more and take it longer. Thought my dick was gonna explode waitin’ for you to come.”
She twisted to look at him.
“Is that a problem?” she asked.
“You finish before me, Millie,” he answered with information she fucking well knew.
She grinned. “It isn’t a cardinal rule.”
He raised his brows. “It’s not?”
She looked to his brows, then back to his eyes, hers were dancing. “It’s not my fault you’re so hot, generally, but also being that in bed so I have to take care of business at the very thought of you if you’re away.”
“Abstain.”
She giggled.
He did not.
She lifted a hand to stroke his cheek, whispering playfully, “You can handle it.”
She gasped as he pulled her off his cock, turned her, put her in bed on her back, and followed her down, giving her a good amount of his weight.
“How playful you feelin’, beautiful?” he asked quietly.
“I may,” she kept whispering, “need a nap before I get more playful.”
He slid a hand down her side, in, and used his fingertips to stroke the skin of where her panty line at her front would be if she was wearing panties.
“Sure about that?”
Her whisper was breathy when she replied, “I might be coaxed into continuing to be playful.”
He hid his grin by kissing her.
After he finished kissing her, he started doing other things to her.
He didn’t stop even when, after he’d just started, she turned her head and said in his ear, “So glad you’re home, Snooks.”
That earned her another kiss.
As well as other things.
Which meant he was glad he was home too.
But he’d already felt that earlier when he walked in her back door and Chief had come sailing across the floor and hit his boot.
And then she’d walked out in her phenomenal dress.
But mostly it was after she did that.
Which was when she’d smiled.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Anything We Could
Millie
THE DOORBELL RANG and I opened my eyes.
“Fuck,” Logan said from behind me right before he rolled away and I felt him continue to roll as he rolled out of bed.
I twisted his way and peered at him through the predawn dark.
“Someone’s at the door,” I informed him of something he obviously knew, considering he was at the side of the bed pulling on his boxer briefs.
“Yeah,” he muttered.
I looked to the (new) alarm clock, then back to him. “At six in the morning.”
Due to Logan’s extreme dislike of alarm clocks, and his contribution to my morning (and household) routine, I’d adjusted the alarm so it didn’t wake us up before six but at six thirty.
With Logan making coffee, bringing me coffee, bringing me cereal or toasted, schmeared bagels, feeding and watering the cats and going out to jack up the thermostat in my studio and making coffee there, I had more time in the morning.
Not to mention doing other things that just gave me more time in my day. Like taking out the trash, getting in the groceries (he had no aversion to the grocery store and my groaning fridge and cupboards laid testimony to this fact), loading and emptying the dishwasher, nabbing my mail (both personal and office), and dropping it at a post box (even going to the post office if something needed special treatment).
It was now the Thursday after Logan’s weekend with his girls. He and I were getting into a rhythm. And this was part of our rhythm.
A happy part.
But there was more.
Like Logan noticing the light switch that turned on the lights to the kitchen by the living room didn’t quite catch unless you had the patience to flip it half a dozen times. So he’d gone to his RV, collected his box of tools, brought it back, opened the plate, and fixed the switch (then left his tools in my laundry room).