Page 84 of Kicking Up Dust

“Thank you for letting me know,” I concede, pressing a kiss to the head of his cock. It twitches and I lick his precum off my lips while he groans. Taking advantage of the way he squeezes his eyes closed, I take him in my mouth.

“Fuuuuuuuuck,” he groans out, his hand moving from my chin to the back of my head, not pushing, just holding.

The edges of my lips do their best to curl into a smile despite his cock stretching them as I take him down further. When he hits my throat and I gag around him, he whimpers, thighs tensing.

“Don’t take me so far, baby. I don’t wanna come down your throat, I wanna come on your tongue.”

It’s frustrating, because I want to swallow him down, but he’s right. He was also right about the fact it didn’t take him long at all to start giving me all of the signs he’s about to come, even before he pants out that he’s close.

Once again, I take great pride in how well I’m able to wring orgasms from my cowboy’s body.

I pull up until only the head of his cock is between my lips, hollowing my cheeks and flicking my tongue along his frenulum until he’s swearing and clenching the bedsheets.

“Fuck, coming,” he warns unnecessarily.

The second he’s done, he’s got his hand on my chin again, pulling me off his cock and up to face him. The look Colt gives me as I part my swollen lips to show him his load on my tongue tells me we’re going to be doing this a lot more often.

“Get up on your knees and straddle my thighs,” he whispers, almost entranced as I obey him and he closes his legs to make it possible. He tilts his head back against the headboard and sticks out his tongue. This wasn’t exactly what I’d pictured but it’s much, much hotter. “Feed it to me, baby.”

I spit his cum back into his mouth, letting it fall in a long string onto his tongue. Before I even get all of it out of my mouth, I see it rolling down his tongue, toward the back of his throat. I press my lips to his urgently, wanting to share it before he can swallow it.

Colt groans, and we swap his cum back and forth between our mouths as it dilutes with our saliva. Eventually, we have to swallow and pull apart.

He looks at me with blown-wide pupils and rosy, wet lips.

“That was the hottest thing I think I’ve ever done,” he breathes.

I nod, equally transfixed. If not for the physical exertion sex would require, I’d be incredibly down to get on my hands and knees for him now.

“We’re doing that again one day, right?”

“We’re doing that again tomorrow night, pretty girl.”

FORTY-FIVE

COLT

Blair’s energy seems to come and go. Sometimes, she sleeps so long I feel like I need to put a mirror under her nose and watch for it to fog up. Others, I can’t get her to sit still. Or stay off a fucking ladder.

I come up behind her quietly as she slides a box of diapers up onto the top shelf of our daughter’s closet, not wanting to scare her until I’ve got my arms around her. She jolts when that happens, just like I knew she would.

“I thought I told you to leave ladder things for when I’m home,” I chastise her, holding her hand as she steps down off the stool.

Calling it a ladder is a bit excessive. It only has three steps, so it’s more of a stool than a ladder, really, but regardless she doesn’t need to be on it when no one’s home.

“Do you have the baby monitor turned on already or something?” she asks with a huff. “I literally just got up there.”

“No, but don’t tempt me.”

I pull her back against my chest, hands resting on her belly as we look over the nursery. It’s coming along pretty nicely. I think Blair’s really got an eye for design.

I’d made a mistake by showing her how handy I was at building things when I built her porch swing bed, because ever since then she’s just brought me pictures on her phone with her big doe eyes and asked me to make things happen. A very small part of me fucking hated Pinterest, but a much larger part felt particularly manly every time I could build something for her that made her eyes light up.

She’d had me completely redo the walls with flowery wallpaper on the top half and a sage board-and-batten trim on the bottom half. The Whittaker family crib—officially deemed safe by three different experts I’d had brought in to check it out—sat against one of the walls with a fancy baby monitor running up the wall and over the top of the crib.

What surprised me the most was that Blair had wanted to thrift most of the furniture so she could match the tone of the wood to the crib and rocking chair perfectly. She’d made me drive three towns over to snatch up a dresser she found online, just for her to then ask me to change the hardware on it and re-polish the wood.

It was worth it. The whole time I worked on her projects in the front yard, she lay on her porch swing bed and read her smutty romance novels with the breeze blowing through her hair, giving me a hell of a view.