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After washing my hands to remove the chemical residue, I turn around, and the most luscious view greets me.
Mia’s ass.
Practically on display as it teases me, peeking from under the hem of my shirt, hidden by a pair of silky pink panties. The muted glow from the fridge outlines her silhouette. Bent at the waist, she rearranges the leftovers and Mom’s pre-cooked meals to get at the strawberry chiffon pie we made this morning.
Like my body isn’t mine to control, I’m propelled forward with my hand twitching.
Smack.
“Oof!” She yelps at the sudden contact my palm makes with one of her plump cheeks.
Instead of protesting, she tosses the most alluring look and drinks me in, sweeping her gaze over my shirtless chest and nibbling her lip.
She wiggles her ass, then resumes moving shit around to get the pie at the rear of the middle shelf. Before she retrieves it, I rest my hands on the swell of her hips and dig my fingertips into her curves. Then I do the stupid guy thing that’s hard coded into our DNA since prehistoric times— I pump my hips and drive myself against her.
If you’re wondering why we do this, allow me to shed some light on the subject.
When a male first gets his driver’s license or passport, he’s pulled aside to learn the importance of this courting ritual. From that day forth, if a person you’re involved with bends over in your vicinity, it’s your masculine duty to grab her from behind and thrust against that ass.
So it is written.
So it shall be done.
Giggling, she removes the pie while I grab plates and silverware.
Once we’re seated at the table with our plates full of yummy goodness, I hover my fork in front of her mouth. “Are you ready to have your mind blown? This is the first moment of the rest of your life.”
She licks her lips and studiously gazes at the perfect bite I’m offering her. I loaded all three decadent layers for my tiger, having taken the utmost care to achieve the perfect filling-to-topping-to-crust ratio for her first bite. We’ve got the light and fluffy strawberry filling made with fresh strawberries from nearby Plant City, graham cracker crust, and homemade whipped cream.
In a word…exquisite.
“Nice job keeping the expectations in check,” she mocks with a pointed eye roll. “If this pie doesn’t blow my socks off, cause a spontaneous orgasm, and then do my taxes, I’ll be sorely disappointed.”
“Hush and taste it before I spank your ass.”
“Do you want me to taste it or not? Because now I’m getting mixed messages.”
My dick twitches, and I lower the fork. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
Her cheeks instantly redden. “For you to spank me?”
Nodding, I launch my brows skyward. “Yeah. Would you?”
She slants her head. “Were you eavesdropping on the girls’ table tonight? I thought I was the only creeping creeper among us.”
My shoulders shake with silent laughter, and a lightness surrounds us. I can’t believe we’re joking about her snooping past with no trace of discomfort in my chest.
And I do believe it’s in her past. For the most part.
“No, but we had a related discussion at our table.”
“Hmm.” She shrugs and feigns nonchalance. “To answer your question, yes. I would very much like you to do that. Just not now, because this pie is about to fold my laundry or something equally impressive.”
My heart speeds up, pumping blood so forcefully that it threatens to shatter my rib cage. Never expected the idea of spanking a woman to excite me, yet here I am— already half-erect and rapidly inflating.
“After you taste this dessert perfection and see the error of your cake-loving heathen ways, we should talk. Lots of stuff. So much stuff. The spanking topic and a few others. Assuming you aren’t too tired. Now, open up for me, baby.”
“Yes, sir,” she purrs with a saucy wink.
