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A life.
A future.
A new family.
As well as an extension of the existing one.
One that Savannah had fit into seamlessly. As had her mother, who had taken to having a bunch of mom friends who loved to cook like she’d been searching for them her entire life.
It all just… worked.
It was time to make shit official.
“Don’t let him jump on you!” Savannah called a second before the Golden Retriever came bounding into the kitchen, all limitless energy, and dirty-ass paws.
“Digging in her Azaleas again?” I asked him, clucking my tongue.
“Yes, he was,” Savannah said, coming in with a small basket in her hand, full of an unbelievable amount of quail eggs, since she’d just collected them the day before. “And if he doesn’t stop, he’s going to end up on his Grandma Giulia’s doorstep with a note around his neck, telling her to keep him forever. And then what, Verb?” she asked the puppy, whose actual name was Verbena. I still wasn’t entirely sure how she’d talked me into that. It probably involved nudity. “Then those mean cats of hers are going to chase you all over the house until you’re whimpering on top of the dining room table again.”
At that, Verb sat, ducking his head a bit, giving her the big eyes.
“Whoops,” she said, grimacing, realizing what she’d done. She’d said the “g” word to him.Grandmaalways meant a visit from one of his two favorite people in the world—my mom, or Savannah’s mom. Who each spoiled him as if he was a human grandchild. He got presents under the tree at Christmas, and baskets on Easter. Sunshine made him homemade dog treats. They both took turns picking him up to go on walks or beach trips.
“Maybe later,” I said, tossing a carrot toward Verb, who, luckily, only had one brain cell, and said brain cell could not think about food and his grandmothers at the same time.
“Oooh, you’re cooking,” Savannah said, placing the basket on the counter. “That smells amazing,” she declared, washing her hands, then coming up behind me, her arms going around my stomach, giving me a squeeze. “What are you making?”
“Ravioli,” I told her.
“My favorite,” she said as I stirred the sauce. “Should I be topless and on the counter right now?” she asked, throwing back to the last time I’d made her ravioli from scratch.
“Always,” I said, and she pulled away.
I expected a laugh.
But when I heard silence, my head turned, finding her stripping out of her dress, letting it fall to the floor, leaving her in nothing but her panties.
Her head tilted, giving me a sexy little smile.
“How long do we have?” she asked.
I didn’t give a fuck if the sauce burned.
I didn’t care if the entire fucking house burned down.
I turned, reaching out, dragging her against me, sealing my lips to hers.
Our hands were hungry then, touching, grabbing, pinching.
My fingers dragged down her panties, and my fingers were inside of her, driving her up, getting her ready for me even as her hand toyed with me through my pants before freeing my cock.
Then I was inside of her, fucking her against the counter, bringing her up and through an orgasm once, twice, before her tightening walls were dragging my own climax out of me, leaving us panting, bodies close.
“Stir the sauce,” she murmured, giving me a soft, sex-sated smile.
“In a minute,” I said, reaching into my pocket.
Was it maybe a bit unconventional to propose to a woman after fucking her in the kitchen while cooking her dinner, with your cock still buried inside of her?
