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She likes to fuck long and hard. She can go for hours, her cunt dripping as she comes over and over again, and I know our honeymoon is going to be a week of tangled sheets and a tender pussy, because I know I plan on licking her up and down until my face is coated in her come, until she shakes from pleasure and trembles from my cock hitting her core, over and over again.
God, I'm fucking hard thinking about it, and as I fill her tight pussy, I thrust hard inside her, knowing my baby likes it deep. She holds tight to my shoulders as I move against her, her hips swiveling as she rides me like she was born to do it.
"I fucking love you, Dottie," I tell her, pulling back her hair and watching her tits bounce like the fuck toys they are.
"I have a present for you, Dane," she moans as I grab her ass, squeezing her cheeks so hard, nearing release. I don't want to come yet, I want to keep fucking Dottie right here, like this. With her back arched and her lips swollen and her heart mine.
"It's a wedding present, Dane," she groans, coming against me with bated breath.
"You didn't need to get me anything, baby. What is it with you and gifts?" I remember her surprise present after my kidney operation. Introducing me to the second great love of my life. Our son.
I can't imagine why presents are on her mind at a time like this when I'm fucking her, but Dottie is always full of surprises. Like when she started a nonprofit in NYC to help train public school counselors to help low-income students apply for college. Like when she started running the Westbrook Charity for single parents. She is nothing but a dream, this wife of mine.
And right now, as I fuck her into oblivion, as my cock explodes, my come shooting inside her like it was made to do, I can't begin to imagine what surprise she has for me now.
"Oh God, Dane," she whimpers, her pussy throbbing as she orgasms against me. "Oh, yes, yes, ohh." She closes her eyes, a smile spreading across her mouth. "Thank you, Dane," she whispers, catching her breath.
I pull her to me, loving her so damn much.
"So, are you ready for your present?"
I look into her eyes, I see her soul. This woman is my fucking wife and the mother of my child. There is no present on Earth I deserve—I already have everything I ever dreamed of.
"I'm pregnant, Dane," she says, her hands on either side of my face. "We're having another baby."
Her words catch me off guard, and I pick her up by her tight little ass, and spin her around and around in the pool, whooping and hollering because she just made me luckier than any man deserves.
She laughs, telling me I'm crazy and she’s right. I'm fucking insane for her and our life.
Then I pull her mouth to mine, wanting to freeze this memory in my heart, not wanting to miss this moment or the gift that it is.The Sailor’s Secret BabySweetieI need to get my own place.
Nights like this make that fact more than crystal clear. The music booming from the five-foot-high speakers grinds on my last nerve. The raucous laughter of dozens of people I’ve never seen before has me clenching my jaw, and the smoke, oh the smoke. Why exactly do these strangers feel the need to leave the front door open while they smoke on the porch?
Sharing a house with my three brothers is not my idea of a good time. Give me a mug of tea, a new book on my Kindle, maybe a scented candle, and I'm good to go.
Not wild and crazy, but I like living in my little bubble when I'm not behind the front desk at my brothers' shop. Grim Reapers Tattoos. Not exactly warm and cozy.
It's Friday night, and Nixon, Smith, and Porter have invited over their fifty closest friends, plus whoever decides to crash the house party.
The music pounds in my ears and, as I leave the sanctuary that is my bedroom, I see Nixon reach for the volume on the speaker and turn it up.
Frustrated, I push past people in the kitchen and reach for the kettle that's whistling, adding hot water to my mug. I'm not letting the people here ruin my night.
After I fill my mug, I reach into the cupboard for my fancy chocolate, I feel a man's eyes on me. And not just any man. A man who is broad-shouldered, in a plain white tee stretched tightly across his ripped chest — all muscles, all strength. And when I look at him, even for a moment, my pulse quickens.
I know just how out of my league he is, but still, his eyes rake over me. Feeling the power he holds with just one look, I adjust the hem of my bathrobe. It hits mid-thigh and suddenly seems way too short. Why didn’t I think to put on pants before I left my bedroom? Maybe because I shouldn’t have to. After all, this is my house too.
