Page 111 of Jinxes and Drumsticks

“Right,” I say... “I guess I did kind of forget...”

He kisses my forehead. “No worries. You’ve had your mind on other things. Understandably.”

But now that the conversation has come up, my mind does drift off to a mental image of Damien stomping around the shop with a kid wrapped around each leg. I picture him, all tatted up and half asleep, staring down at a digital thermometer with a concerned frown. Of piggy back rides and tiny drum sets and spellwork in the kitchen.

I might not have a uterus but I do have ovaries and they are intrigued.

“I think... I think I like that idea,” I say. “Fostering and maybe adopting... if it makes sense for the child placed with us. And I still have my ovaries. We could see about having a surrogate, too, if the ethics don’t check out.”

“Guess we had the children talk anyway,” he says with a gravelly laugh.

“In record speed. I’ll be expecting my engagement ring in twenty to thirty business days,” I say.

“Don’t threaten me with a good time. I think I owe you for the surprise ownership tattoo,” he says, gathering my plate of food out of my hands and setting it aside before kissing me into the couch.

“I thought you wanted me to eat,” I say.

“Yeah, but now you’re talking about the future like you’re going to keep me around for a nice long time, so I need to make out with you.”

I laugh into the kiss, then surrender to it, letting him cage me beneath him. It’s gentle and careful, this kiss. Not the usual ravenous devouring I’m used to, though I think I can feel him holding back in the subtle tremor of his abdominal muscles. It’s slow and languid and fills me up with something warm and liquid and lovely.

“Talking about kids doing it for you?” I ask as he breaks for a moment to kiss down the side of my neck.

“You do it for me,” he says. “All the time. Every day.”

“All this over a bit of future planning?” I hum out. “Wait until you see my budgeting spreadsheets.”

“Mn,” he growls against my collar bone. “I love when you talk dirty.”

I laugh again, losing my focus when he kisses the upward slope of my breast.

“Maybe I just have a thing for MILFs,” he says. “Or maybe I just fucking love you so much that it’s hard for me to control myself. Maybe I’ve been trying to be a good boyfriend for almost a week after spending another week thinking of nothing but fucking you, thanks to those filthy photos you’ve been sending me.”

“Maybe, maybe, maybe,” I breathe out as he kisses my breasts where they meet over my sternum.

“Is this okay?” he asks me as his hands smooth up my sides, catching the hem of my shirt and drawing it upward.

“Mhmn,” I respond as he reveals my breasts to the cool air. He takes one of my nipples into his mouth and lathes it with gentle caresses of his flat tongue. The contact is somehow both soothing and stimulating all at once. He treats my ignored breast to the rhythmic, soft strokes of the roughened pad of his thumb, the ring I made him cool against my warming flesh.

“I’ve wanted to spoil you since before I left, Little Bird,” he says. “It’s so fun to play with you, when we do. I like that you let me handle you rough—let me break you and put you back together—but all I’ve been thinking about lately is how badly I just want to treat you like a goddess and worship you like a proper supplicant.”

“I missed you,” I sigh.

“I missed you so fucking much,” he echoes as he kisses just over my navel.

I tense up a little bit as he lifts my body up from the small of my back and hooks his fingers into my pajama bottoms. “Damien—I haven’t showered,” I stammer out.

“I don’t care,” he says as he tugs down my waistband, pausing to press his forehead to the little tuft of my pubic hair as he exhales with relief. Like he’s found a meal after starving for days. “Of course you’re not wearing any panties, you perfect woman,” he gusts out against my already slick center.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to—” I ask as I squirm in his grasp.

“Lillith, you’re just going to have to accept that I’m obsessed with every version of your mind and your body that I can get,” he says as he presses a frustratingly chaste kiss to the hood of my clit. “You smell... like you. And I fucking love you, Lillith.” The next kiss is slower, wetter—his lower lip ring catching on the surface of my clit. An involuntary tremble rolls through me like a cresting wave. “I love you when you’re happy, I love you when you’re sad.” Another opened mouth kiss. “I love you when you’re dolled up for me and I love you when you’re fresh out of bed after rotting for five days.”

He punctuates this by curling his tongue inside of me, shocking me enough that I gasp and clench around slick intrusion of his tongue. He moans, pressing his nose all the way up to the mound above my center. He coaxes his tongue in and out of my entrance, fucking me slowly with it, the undulations hard to think around.

“Oh—fuck,” I whimper breathlessly.

He moans in agreement before slipping two fingers inside me. He begins an alternating rhythm between his fingers and his tongue, making it so I’m somehow always filled by him in some way. His ministrations have me winding up so quickly that I’m already about to come after only a few seconds.