Page 26 of Twin Babies For The Grump

I tighten my grip on his neck. There’s no way for me to get leverage like this. The most that I can do is lay back and take it.

Owen gives it to me good and hard. Each roll of his hips has pleasure shooting up my spine and twisting in my belly. The couch thumps against the floor as it shifts. When orgasm takes me, it’s hard and fast and sudden, and I shout as my nails scrape over his shoulders hard enough to leave red marks behind.

It doesn’t take him long to follow after me, cum hot inside of me. Sweat drips from his chest down onto mine, and he plasters open-mouthed kisses all over the sides of my shoulder, the curve of my neck. It’s fumbling, when he pulls out of me and settles on top of me, head to my belly, just under my chest, and still settled between my legs.

With a pleased hum, I curl an arm around his shoulders and run my hand over his back. As it turns out, the wine and the motorcycle ride were great together.

I’m still feeling pretty good when I wake up in the morning, though that might just be due to Owen kissing the planes of my belly. He’s making his way up my chest, and just as I get out a sleepy-sounding, “Good morning.”

He makes it to my face and catches his mouth with my own. I can still taste the faint traces of wine on his tongue from the night before, and even though I’m not tipsy any longer, I can’t help but sigh and moan into the kiss, more than a little in love with the way that it feels.

Owen is sexy and strong and good with his hands and his mouth and his dick and—well, he’s good all the way around. But it’s more than that.

There’s something about him that just clicks with me.

From the moment we met at that bar, it felt like things were supposed to go this way.

I know that he can be a grump with the employees, but I think that’s just because he’s struggling to understand the difference between the fast-paced business back in San Francisco, and the much more relaxed pacing of a winery.

It’s something that I keep meaning to talk with him about. I just never seem to have the chance.

None of that really matters now though, because there’s a hand groping at my tit, and fingers pinching my nipple.

This is certainly not the time to start asking after his business managerial styles!

I sigh, shifting and pressing up into the touch, basking in the fact that, as much fun as it had been half tipsy, it’s even more fun this time around.

Chapter Eleven

Owen

“Comeon,Tipsy.Let’sget you all fed,” I say, leading the way through the kitchen, both dog bowls held aloft in front of me. The two dogs trot behind me, their claws clacking over the ivory tile.

I’ve pulled on a pair of soft gray sweatpants for the morning though I didn’t bother with a shirt.

When Tess is out of the shower, I’m going to jump in and get one myself. I had debated on joining her, but the dogs had been demanding. Considering that I kept them locked in the spare bedroom last night, feeding them first is the least I can do.

The moment that I sit the two dog bowls down, they descend on them. Tipsy inhales his food, the tag of his collar hitting the edge of the bowl. Blanc eats a little more slowly, dainty like the lady she is.

“Told you that I would make it up to you.” I give both dogs a scratch in the ruff and then turn to make a pot of coffee. Before long, the scent of coffee bubbling richly into the carafe fills the room. I turn to get a mug and realize that Tipsy is gone—and in the same moment, hear a squeal from the bathroom.

I dart out of the kitchen and into the hallway. The bathroom door is pushed open, just enough for a dog to slip in… And for Tipsy to come out of the bathroom, running full force, with the dark red towel in his mouth.

“Tipsy,” shouts Tess. “Get back here!”

Tipsy runs into the living room and leaps up onto the couch. He drops the towel, and then very carefully positions himself so that he’s lying on it. I try to bite down on my laugh, but it doesn’t work, and I’m soon laughing so hard that I have to lean against the hallway wall.

Tess sticks her head out into the hallway, one arm up over her breasts as if I haven’t already been up close and personal with them several times. She scowls. “Tipsy! Bring that back here!”

“I don’t think that he’s going to listen,” I say, laughing. “He’s pretty content out there.”

“He’s horrible,” says Tess. “A rotten little thief.”

But she’s struggling hard not to laugh too, as she pulls back into the bathroom. The door clicks shut. Blanc, finally having finished her food, comes out into the kitchen and makes an almost questioning sound.

I reach down and give her a scratch. “Don’t worry, Blanc. Tipsy’s just being rotten.”

Stepping back into the kitchen, I finish getting the mugs out. I’m in the process of pouring myself a cup when Tess comes out of the bathroom, her wet hair tied up in a messy bun.

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