I groan, tipping my head back, letting him do whatever the fuck he wants to me, because I’mtoo far goneto stop him.He’s still hard, cock brushing against my stomach, but he’s not rushing. He’s not chasing anything.
“Love this,” he murmurs, breath skating across my throat. “Love you like this. Letting me. Letting me have it. Fuck, baby—”
I catch his chin gently, tilt his face up. “I know.”
Elias finally stops climbing me long enough to collapse at my side, still naked, still flushed, half-draped across my chest like I’m the world’s most possessive lounge chair.
“That was so good,” he drawls, squirming closer until his leg throws itself over mine like a territorial cat. “Like five stars. Would ride again.”
“Mm. Lucky me.”
He pinches my side. “You’re supposed to saythank you,husband.”
I glance at him. “Thank you, husband.”
He fuckingbeams.Like he didn’t just finger-fuck me into the best orgasm of my goddamn life.
We lie there in silence for a few seconds, long enough for the distant crash of waves to reach us, for the warm breeze to skim over our skin. Elias hums under his breath, a little off-key, tapping his fingers against my ribs like he’s thinking. Or plotting. With Elias, it’s usually the same thing.
“Hey, Cap?”
“Hmm?”
He lifts his head just enough to look me dead in the eye, that familiar glint sparking there—the one that always means trouble. “What’s my favorite post-game snack?”
I raise a brow. “You want me to list them in order of how high you are when you eat them, or just your top sober choice?”
He stares at me.
“Pizza with barbecue sauce instead of tomato. No mushrooms. Extra jalapeños. And a side of peach rings,” I continue, pitchingmy voice into a passable imitation of his, “because they ‘help me think.’”
He gawks. “Okay, but that was an easy one,” he mutters, flopping back down with his chin on my chest. “What about my least favorite gym day?”
“Stair sprints.”
“Why?”
“Because you tripped once, twisted your ankle, and then spent a week swearing the stairs had it out for you.”
He groans. “Ugh, okay—fine. But my favorite Reaper that’s not you?”
“Cole. Obviously.”
“Why obviously?!”
I glance down at him, deadpan. “Because he’s your best friend. You share gummy bears like war loot. You let him touch your hair. You cried when he got body-checked too hard. And he gave us the honeymoon lube bag—which you keep using.”
He gapes again, then narrows his eyes. “You stalk me.”
“I married you.”
“That’s not a denial.”
“I know everything about you.”
He makes a high-pitched sound and tries to hide his face in my chest. “No, you donot.”
“You want to test me?”
