Page 19 of Marked With Love

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He opens the door, letting me in. I spot Gremlin stretched out on the back of the sofa. He sits up when we enter. I go straight for him.

“Hello, darkness, my old friend. We meet again.” I scratch his head.

“And who is this?” I spin around at the sound of a woman’s voice to see a tall blonde in the kitchen.

The mom.

Well, shit.



“Sorry, she came over without warning.”Morgan is surprised and not in a good,My god let me rip your clothes offkind of way.

“That’s no way to talk about your mother. You’re going to give Morgan the wrong idea.” Mom strides over and takes Morgan by the shoulders. “You look sturdy. I know wide hips aren’t in fashion these days, but you need hips for childbearing.”

“I thought it was ovaries and a womb that were necessary for childbearing,” replies Morgan.

She hasn’t run away yet. I take that as a positive sign, but since I don’t know what will come out of my mother’s mouth next, I opt to shut this whole operation down.

“Mom was leaving. She just stopped by for the containers.” I reach over and lift Mom’s hands away from Morgan’s shoulders and then gently nudge the older woman toward the front door. Mom moves reluctantly and slowly.

“Your lasagna was delicious,” Morgan makes the mistake of saying.

Mom halts in her tracks and turns back to her. “I can teach you how to make it if you like.”

“Morgan doesn’t cook. It’s against her religion.”

“What religion is that?”

“It’s not a religion. It’s more laziness. Or maybe that is a religion. Like, the house of lazy with the patron saint—who’s really lazy?” she wonders.

“Sloth?” I suggest.

“I think that’s one of the seven deadly sins. Can you have a religion based on a sin?”

“That does seem a bit profane. How about alligators? They just float around all day. That seems lazy.”

“Patron Saint Alligator, House of Lazy.” She wrinkles her nose. “It doesn’t really flow off your tongue.”

“I’m going to go now,” Mom says. “I’m definitely not needed here.” She slips out the door with a big smile on her face.

“Alone at last,” I quip. Now I’m the one wearing a smile. “I stopped by your house to see you this morning. That’s how I got your phone number.”

“What a coincidence. I came over here to see you.”

We stare at each other for a hot, awkward second. I move first, but she’s fast. Our mouths collide somewhere between the entry and the camel-colored leather chair I bought at an art fair. It was made in the '20s and is sturdy as a rock. I slide my hands under her ass and settle her on the back of the chair. Her legs bracket my hips, making space for my engorged cock to press against her jean-covered pussy. Heat sears through the layers of our clothes.

With a small tug on her hair, I angle her head back to deepen our kiss. Need prickles along the surface of my skin. I want her. So badly. Her mouth is hot and velvety soft, a preview of what her pussy must feel like.

I rock against her, desperate to have more. My hands find the hem of her shirt. I skim my fingers just under the fabric and along the bare skin above her waistband. She moans into my mouth. With her hands on my biceps, she tries to lift her body to get closer to me. She’s got an ache between her legs that needs appeasing.

“I’m gonna paint you,” I growl as I tear away from her mouth.


I reach between us and press the heel of my hand against her pubic bone. She gasps.

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