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Ithurtscoming this hard. Like I’m turning inside out. On and on and on it goes, flooding my girl’s pussy until it drips onto the tiles beneath her ass. And I’m half feral, hunched over her like a beast, my teeth bared and my cock still twitching inside her, but Clem props herself up onto her elbow, then pets my beard with a happy sigh.
“Do you think Meg heard us?” she asks, voice hushed.
I snort. “No point whispering now. Not after wailing like a pretty little banshee.”
Little fingers pinch my side. I grin down at the shadowy figure of Clem, only a few inches away but nearly swallowed up in the gloom. Night fell while we were going at it.
We both hiss as we pull apart. I’m sore and sticky as hell, and I bet she is too.
“Come on.” My knees crack as I push to my feet, and I reach down to scoop her up.
“The hose?”
“No, baby.” I kiss her nose. “We’re goin’ up in the world. All the way to the shower.”
* * *
Two years later
I drop another box of books on the coffee table, glancing around the chaos of Meg’s new apartment. She’s only had the keys for two hours, and already it looks like a hurricane blew through. Stacks of books teeter on side tables; a jungle of rangy plants wait in their pots by the balcony doors. Clothes lie twisted on the sofa, and a dumbbell sinks between the armchair cushions.
Spring sunshine cuts through the room, clean and bright. Blossoms cling to the trees down in the street.
Clem wanders over and tugs on my sleeve. “How much more?”
“Eight more boxes. Take a rest, okay? Don’t lift anything.”
My sweet little wife is here on the strict condition that she doesn’t lift anything heavier than a pillow. Maybe I’m being paranoid, but Clementine’s already so small—and with that baby bump, she somehow looks tinier than ever.
It’s habit by now to check her over: red hair, braided over one shoulder; one of my old t-shirts swamping her bump; cut off shorts and flip flops. She looks the same as most days, and the effect on me is like clockwork: I swallow hard, my body warming.
Not now, asshole.
We’re moving Meg into her new apartment—not christening it on her behalf. Even if the rooms sound empty right now.
Clementine props herself on the sofa arm as I clear her some space. Who put this dumbbell here anyway? “Agnes and Meg ran down to the store on the corner for supplies. They said they’re making tacos tonight.” She fiddles with her braid.
“Sounds good.”
It does, too. Meg’s cooking skills magically got way better once she met Agnes in her grad program. Apparently the way to a Scottish girl’s heart is via the stomach.
I can relate. The only thing better than my wife alone is Clementine smothered in warm toffee sauce, begging me to lick her clean.
She plucks at her borrowed t-shirt, and I can’t miss the mischievous glint in her eyes. “You think they’ll be gone long?”
Ha. So damn tempting. “I think you’re pushing our luck, Clementine. How about I cut you a deal?”
Slender fingers toy with her braid. She slides onto the space I’ve cleared her with a soft sigh. “I’m listening.”
“If you don’t test my self control for our whole time in this apartment, we’ll take a detour on the drive home. Go park up by the riverbank and steam the windows.”
“What, and give the gators a show?” She’s smiling, eyes sparkling. So goddamn cute. So sexy.
I scratch my chin. “If there are any pervert lizards around, then sure. They’ll get a freebie.”
Clem bursts out laughing. And as Meg and her girlfriend charge inside, laden down with supplies, I raise my palms to show our innocence. With me standing by the coffee table, there’s at least three feet between us.
Meg still gives me the evil eye. She likes to complain that she’s scarred from finding Clem’s sports bra dangling from the trellis two years ago.
