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He settled himself in the cradle of her thighs and lined them up, then one of his hands cupped her other breast, because holding them was as much for his own pleasure as hers.
“You love my tits,” she whispered, and that made his cock flex as he pressed into her.
“They’re just begging to be fondled.”
She arched into his touch, and the angle of his entry shifted, his cock pushing against her inner walls. “Oh my God.”
“Jesus, you’re tight like this.” He squeezed her tit even harder, and she spasmed around him. “Don’t fucking make me come.”
“I’m not doing anything.”
“No? It’s just your perfect little tits, hmm?”
She moaned, and he made a matching growl before pulling her tight against him, mashing their torsos together. Hard, rough. She shook as he rocked his hips, burying an extra inch somehow. It was so good, always so good.
He paused once he was fully buried, that careful way he had of checking in and making it good for her. But it was perfect today, exactly the right fit, so she dug her heels into his ass and urged him on. "Please. More."
After that it was rough and fast, dangerously so, but she got there first, despite her best efforts. And then he followed, flooding her with his seed triumphantly.
“There’s my wife,” he whispered. “Right where she belongs. Beneath me in our bed.”
“Mmhmm.” She found his mouth and kissed him softly, the perfect way to mark the start of the Christmas holidays. Two weeks of family time would follow, but this moment was just for them.
He rolled off her then, disappearing just long enough to get a washcloth. When he returned, she blinked her eyes open, surprised that she’d maybe drifted a little.
“We should go get a tree,” she said sleepily.
He wrapped her in his arms, his chest warm and strong against her back.
“Soon,” he promised, his voice a deep rumble she heard all around her as she sank into a warm, sated drowsiness.
“Laney? Kyle?”
Kyle heard his mother-in-law’s voice clearly, but it still took him a minute to realize why.
She was downstairs.
And they’d fallen asleep.
Naked, in a loft that now almost definitely smelled like sex. Fuck.
“Hey!” he called out, sitting up with a start. “Be right down!”
Laney didn’t stir.
He threw the blanket over her naked form and fumbled for his jeans. Socks, he needed socks. Bare feet were a dead “we were having sex” giveaway. His t-shirt was next, then he bounded through the archway between their bedroom and the landing at the top of the stairs—he really needed to put a door on the loft, why had that fallen down the project to-do list?
Claire Calhoun was busying herself in the kitchen, unloading a grocery bag. But she paused long enough to give him an amused look. “I thought you were going to get a tree?”
He cleared his throat, intent on not looking embarrassed. He was in his forties and they’d been married for a decade. “We had a nap instead.” He glanced at the neatly wrapped tubes she’d just set on the counter. “What’s going on?”
“My oven just died, and we’re decorating Christmas cookies tonight. Since you’re here, I’ll get them in the oven, then you can take them out. Ten minutes, maybe eleven. Keep an eye on the edges, make sure they don’t get too brown. When you take them out, remove them to a wire cooling rack.”
“Do we even have one of those here?”
She opened a cabinet below the counter and pulled one out.
“I guess we do,” he said dryly.
