Page 117 of Big D!ck Energy

She exploded. Her body clamped around me, and it pulled my own release from somewhere deep, a wave that crashed through me, blinding. I drove into her one final time, my voice joining hers as I emptied myself, shuddering.

I collapsed over her, forehead against hers on the cool counter. Our breaths mingled. Her hands stroked my back, gentle now.

After a long moment, I pushed up to look at her. Wild hair. Flushed skin. A satisfied smile spread across her face.

“Still want to talk about schedules?” I murmured against her mouth.

She pushed up onto her elbows and looked at me for a long moment. “Schedules later.”

“Schedules later,” I agreed.

She pulled me back down, her cheek finding the curve of my shoulder, and I pressed my lips to her hair.

Everything else could wait.

CHAPTER 34

TROUBLE IN PARADISE

DAVINA

It was hard to believe I'd been married for four months—almost five.

I sat curled up on the couch in Dallas's living room, our living room, I had to keep reminding myself, laptop balanced on my knees, the outline for next week's podcast episode glowing on the screen. Big Girl Panties had exploded since the viral episode with Dallas, our listener numbers tripling in ways that made my business brain very happy and my introverted soul very tired. Which meant the pressure to deliver quality content had tripled too.

This week's topic: “Reclaiming Space, Why Taking Up Room Isn't a Crime.”

I'd been working on the intro for an hour, trying to find the right balance between vulnerability and humor. The episode would tackle the way plus-size women were conditioned to shrink themselves, physically, emotionally, and professionally, and how knowing they deserved space in the world was important.

The morning sun streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, and the house smelled like Dallas's cologne and the coffee I'd made an hour ago.

Ricky was sprawled across my feet like a tiny, snoring blanket. He'd worn himself out barking at a particularly threatening butterfly earlier and was now recovering.

The house was quiet without Dallas. He'd left for the gym two hours ago, pressing a kiss to my forehead and promising to bring back smoothies.

My phone buzzed.

Brooke: On my way! Traffic is a nightmare.

Davina: Take your time. I'm still wrestling with the intro.

Brooke: Wrestling. Ha. Married to a wrestler. I see what you did there.

Davina: That was entirely unintentional.

Brooke: Sure, it was. Be there in 15.

I smiled and set the phone aside. Brooke and I had a full day of podcast prep ahead, the episode outline to finalize, listener questions to sort through, and the fan meet-and-greet logistics for next month that had somehow become my personal organizational nightmare.

The doorbell rang.

I frowned. Brooke knew the door was open.

Ricky's head shot up, ears rotating like tiny satellite dishes, and he launched into his standard alarm sequence.

“ARF ARF ARF ARF ARF!”

“It's fine,” I told him, extracting my feet from beneath his warm body. “Probably just a delivery.”