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“Ick.”
“Exactly.”
“I fucking hate racist people, especially the ones clutching their pearls and rosary beads while they actively hate other people for simply being born a different color or nationality or religion or sexual orientation than they are. It’s gross.”
If I wasn’t already madly in love with this man, that outburst might’ve put me straight over the top. “I agree. I’ve experienced my share of it, but never with anyone as close to me as his parents were. They’ve ‘come around’ over the years, but I don’t have much time for them. It was a source of contention with Mike, who told me I needed to be more forgiving toward them.”
“I hope you said fuck that.”
“Many times, thus the contention.”
“It was ballsy of him to ask you to forgive them for being racist.”
“I thought so, too, and I told him so. But I also felt for him. They were his parents. He was stuck in a tough position.”
“No, he wasn’t. You were his wife. He chose you and brought you into his family knowing full well how they were. He should’ve always taken your side with them.”
“You’re racking up the points this morning, my friend.”
“I hate racists. I fired a guy for making a racist joke at the office. No questions asked. He was gone.”
“You’re turning me on.”
“Stop,” he says on a laugh.
“No, really. You are.”
“Is that right?”
“Uh-huh.”
The next thing I know, he’s moved us so he’s on top of me, gazing down at me with the intense eyes that see me so clearly.
“I like waking up with you,” he says gruffly as he kisses my neck and slides into me for the third—or is it the fourth?—time since we got home last night.
I wouldn’t give Wynter the satisfaction of knowing that Gage’s big hands and feet are a true indication that he’s big all over, but as my sore flesh stretches to accommodate him once again, I can’t help but think of her commentary and giggle.
“What’s so funny?”
“Wynter was trying to get me to confirm that you’re big all over, but I wouldn’t. You’re just reminding me of that.”
He pushes deeper into me, making me gasp from the impact. “Is that right?”
“Mmmm-hmmm.”
“Are you complaining?”
“Not at all.”
He never breaks eye contact as he makes love to me.
I don’t think I blink even once as he gazes into my eyes, making me feel like we’re joined body and soul. My heart aches with love for him, a love that’s already so deep, it’ll wreck me all over again if I lose it.
That can’t happen.
We’re so perfect together in every way, especially this way, which he proves to me with not one, but two orgasms in the span of five minutes.
“You feel better?” he asks.
