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“Yeah, seriously, Mo.”
She lifted a finger to trace the scripted ‘Mo’ on my ribs, on the side of my body where biology class taught us was where your heart sat closest to your chest wall.
Now that she was distracted, I pushed her onto her back again, leaning over her once more.
“You like it?”
“Yeah, I like it,” she whispered, a small smile on her face.
“Wherever life brings us, you’ve been a part of mine for a long time. You mean a lot to me.”
“I love you, Porter Prescott.” Her voice was quiet, the sound of her voice hardly cracking through the whispered tones in the dark. I leaned down and pressed my lips against hers, resting my hand on her stomach over her shirt.
When her hands threaded into my hair, holding my face to hers, her tongue pushing and pressing against mine, I let my hand slip down under the top of her jeans, under her panties, and into her wet folds.
She separated her legs to give my fingers more access, but the movement tightened her jeans against my hand.
No big. I didn’t need my wrist.
I let my fingers play over her sensitive nub, rubbing circles over her as her mouth frantically fought against mine.
We may not get as much time together during the day starting tomorrow, but I knew Mo would take what time I could give her.
This was how our relationship had always worked.
It would continue to work this way, I was sure of it.
