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“I’m tired of using toys,” I say to no one. I’m usually incredible at multitasking, but I can’t enjoy it when I’m having to do the work and the dirty talk to myself.
The garage door hums with a rhythmic clatter as it opens, followed by a distinct, metallic click. He’s returning home after touring Japan for the iconic brands that he represents, like Louisville Slugger, Rolex, and Wilson. Even during the off-season, there aren’t many days to relax.
Bolting through the house, I find my soon-to-be husband in the mudroom with his luggage in tow. “You’re home! You’re home!” I leap into his arms, wrapping my legs around his waist, and the faint smell of cinnamon drifts through my nose. When our lips part, the taste electrifies my senses as he moves the Big Red gum to the inside pocket of his cheek, letting our tongues tango.
Wilson Shepherd has loved cinnamon gum since we were just kids playing two-hand touch in the field, between our houses.
“You’re late. We only have an hour,” I say, eager to be with him.
Wils holds me with one arm, grinning from ear to ear as he turns his hat backward. “I’m early, remember. I took a different flight so we would have time to”—he sweeps his lips over mine—“be together one more time.”
One more time seems so final.
A thud sounds against the hardwood floor as he drops his duffel bag, and he sits me on the counter. I pull his quarter zip over his head, but there’s another layer beneath—a button-down. “Why are you wearing so many clothes?” I ask, frustrated that I can’t get to his body quicker.
I struggle with the little shell buttons as he assists me by working on my jeans. “Why wear jeans so snug? They’re like a snake’s skin. I thought you wanted this to move faster,” he teases as I squirm to slip out of them. He removes my jeans and the teeny strip of lace underneath them, and then swiftly discards them over the kitchen chair.
“I was reviewing the seating chart when I heard the garage door open.” I sneak a peek at my smartwatch and realize we’re down to fifty-seven minutes. “Remind me why we agreed to forgo sex for three weeks before the wedding.”
“This is why.” A sexy rasp escapes his throat. His lips graze along the column of my neck. “I missed you so damn much.”
The next button reveals an undershirt. He has to be kidding me. “A T-shirt, too? What’re you doing to me?”
“Because it’s December in Chicago, but I love it when you’re eager.” He glides his thumb and forefinger through my folds. “The anticipation has you so wet and glistening like snow. Are you ready for me, babe?”
Wilson’s body is exquisite. It’s not only the washboard abs; his obliques and back muscles make me weak in the knees, too. I intend to worship at his throne tonight.
My navy blue cashmere sweater sticks to my skin as he peels it over my shoulders and dips his head into the sensitive area of my neck, nipping and sucking. Skipping down to the shiny gold fastener of my bra, he playfully nuzzles around before using his teeth to release the clasp.
I almost push him toward my legs as he continues to fondle and bite my breasts. His large palms keep my legs spread as he drops to his knees.
“So ready,” I pant.
“I noticed,” he whispers, plants a soft kiss on my inner thigh, then repeats the same gesture on the other side.
My body aches for him in ways I can’t explain. Maybe it’s his attention to detail. He flattens his tongue and moves it to my center, causing my stomach to heave toward him. “Oh, God.”
“That’s quite a compliment,” he murmurs in a low, guttural tone, and I can’t help but thrust my center into his face. “Now that’s my good girl.”
He sucks my cream-colored nub, creating the perfect amount of suction against my delicate skin. He buries his head so far between my legs, all I can see is his hat and the brown hair curling up under the edge.
The sides of the cap scrapes over my thighs, casting goosebumps on top of my skin, providing me more friction. “I love your hat between my thighs. Please … please bring this hat on the honeymoon.”
His tongue swirls but stops when my hands press on his hat, driving him deeper. He makes me crazy.
With the precision of a drone strike, he bombards his target over and over. Unable to think, my core tightens. He adds a finger inside me, and it’s more than I can handle. I try to stave it off, but my inner walls seize, and I have an undying orgasm.
Wils stands up from the floor, using the back of his baseball hat to wipe away my juices. A fresh set of tingles courses through my body when he declares, “This hat is never to be washed. You know how superstitious us baseball players can be.” He winks, flashing me dimples that saturate my soul every time.
“I do. Will it be your good luck charm, Mr. Shepherd?” I ask seductively, letting my fingers travel over my breast.
He swallows hard as he drops his pants, and I’m mesmerized by his length and width as if it’s our first time. But he’s a prime example of God’s rule of proportions. If there were a diagram in biblical texts, it would be of Wils. He’s gorgeous, not bulky, and every muscle is cut like a flawless diamond.
He slides me off the counter, and his erection presses into my stomach as we sway back and forth, kissing tenderly. I’m three weeks away from marrying the boy I’ve crushed on since I was nine years old—my brother’s best friend.
During those younger years, I never imagined the intimate activities in the kitchen, but now it has become one of my favorite places. Wils positions his hands on the counter, using his imposing frame to surround me.
Gently, he gathers my hair, draping it over my shoulder, allowing it to cascade over my breast. His hand roams across my back, planting tender kisses along the way. “I need to be inside you, soaking in your heat. You’re driving me out of my mind.”
