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“Not yet.” He tightened his grip on my waist, his left hand sliding around and cupping my breast, squeezing it firmly as he thrust a half-inch deeper. My need grew, ballooned, the sweet jab of his cock taking me closer, his thrusts growing quicker, and one hand slipped off the window as I started to pant.
“Beg me,” he demanded.
“Please.” I kept one hand on the glass, and gripped the back of the couch with the other, as it began to rattle against the window frame.
“Please what?” he bit out.
“Fuck me harder,” I cried, my legs tightening, my back stiffening as I rocked against him, finding a little of the depth I needed as I took it from his cock.
“Deeper,” I begged, as his hand journeyed up my chest and wrapped around my neck.
He squeezed just enough and I broke, my nipples aching, my body flexing as pleasure spiraled out from his cock in pounding, beautiful waves. I screamed out from his hand as I stiffened, keeping my body rigid as he finally buried himself inside with a dozen, fifty, a hundred deep and punishing strokes.
I needed every one and once I came down from the orgasm I bucked into each one, riding him back, my hand leaving the window so I could push against the top of the couch and fuck him harder.
I took the second orgasm, pounding my hips against his in a furious rhythm that took me where I needed to go and then pushed him over the edge. He pulled away from me and flipped me over, kneeling before me and pushing back inside, cradling my chest to his as he came, his breath hard against my mouth, our kisses stolen between gasps as he delivered a half-dozen shots of Olympic-worthy cum deep inside of me.
I don’t know if anyone was outside watching, and at that moment, I didn’t care. I wrapped my legs and arms around him and kissed my husband. I pulled my hips tighter against him, pulled him deeper into me, and tried not to think about the best positions for conception after sex, or the fact that my ovulation window had already passed. Maybe we were frantic and desperate for money, and I was hopelessly barren for children, and we had just put on a show for half of the neighborhood. It didn’t matter. Together, we were fucking dynamite and I was naive and in love enough to believe that trumped everything else.
* * *
The wedge of chocolate was gone, as was the box of graham crackers. I hunted them down and found both in Wayland’s crate, strips of the crackers’ blue box in tatters around him as he feigned the sleep of the innocent. I stood above his crate and watched as he opened one eye, then snapped it shut.
“Bad!” I crouched and crawled into the crate, collecting the trash and putting it under his nose, then smacking the floor of the crate. He licked a layer of graham cracker crust off his nose in response.
Working my way back out, I hefted to my feet, my knees cracking. “Bad!” I said again, in as stern of a voice as possible.
Though, if I had to choose between a box of graham crackers or an uninterrupted sex session—Wayland had made the right choice. The last time we’d gone at it in the living room, he’d sat by the recliner and stared at us, panting loudly from his run through the yard. We’d had to move to the guest bedroom, just for privacy.
In the kitchen, Easton was rummaging through the marshmallow bag.
“So, s’mores are out.” I stepped on the garbage lid release and dropped the damage in the can. “Wayland ate the crackers.”
“Here.” He turned, a chocolate and marshmallow stack in hand. “They’re almost better without the cracker.”
I popped the combination in my mouth, then chewed, nodding in half-agreement. It felt less healthy, though—when working through the ingredients—losing the carbs and sugar of the graham cracker wasn’t a bad edit. Maybe. There was little to no point in trying to make a s’more less nutritionally devastating.
We stood side by side in front of the sink and ate our way through two more in silence. I thought of the pros and cons list I’d made at the open house, the page still buried in my planner. I’d intended to bring it up tonight, but under the influence of sex and sugar, I really just wanted to curl up beside him and go to bed. I washed my hands and rose on my toes, kissing him on the cheek. “I’m gonna go get ready for bed. You coming?”
“Yeah. Let me take out Wayland and clean this up. Don’t fall asleep without me.”
“I won’t.”
In the bathroom, I flossed, brushed my teeth, and removed my makeup. Studying my reflection in the mirror, I turned my head to one side, then the other, looking for the wrinkles that the women at today’s open house had so joyously removed. None yet though I could see the start of crow’s feet. Babies, according to my sister, would hasten the process. She didn’t understand my “rush” to get pregnant.
