Page 88 of Good Guy Gabe

We both let out huge sighs of relief, and then Bradley says, “Why the hell didn’t you ask someone about your contract?”

I cringe and look away sheepishly.

“Fucking millennials. Go see the team therapist and explain it to her.”

“Yes, sir.”

I groan as Joss straddles me and takes hold of my cock. “Why do I get the feeling that you’re trying to keep me here all day?”

Not that I’m complaining, but she’s got a list of stuff she insists has to be done today, and instead, it’s nearing noon and we haven’t even gotten out of bed yet.

“I think we should test the frame while it’s under warranty, Mr. Starting Center For Three More Years,” she says, as though it’s the most reasonable thing ever. As soon as I told her what my next bonus will be, she took me bed shopping so we could finally get her mattress off the floor.

It’s a fresh start for us both. Out with my bachelor furniture and the emergency stuff she got when she had to sell everything. Out with Cora’s dressing studio — which is getting moved to the barn, where I’m betting the quilting crew will love it anyway, since some of them do dressmaking on the side — and a complete makeover of the nursery. When the new furniture arrived yesterday, the first thing we did was move the urn to a special cabinet we ordered specifically for it. There’s a spot for the baby blanket she made beneath the urn, and I’m having a plaque engraved. We’re moving on, but there will always be room in our home for his memory.

But this moment is about us and Joss’s obvious deception.

And I’m going to take advantage of it.

“Ma’am, you weigh 148 pounds. We’re never going to be able to test the bed like this.”

She glares at me for giving the exact weight that we got from her appointment two weeks ago, so it’s probably not even accurate anymore. “What, you think I can’t make this bed shake?”

I grin and grab her by the waist. She might be nearing the 150 mark, but she’s still featherlight in my hands as I pluck her off me, set her on her hands and knees on her side of the bed, and smack her ass.

She squeaks and looks back at me. I love the way she looks like this, her ass and pussy on display for me, her face rapidly reddening, a fire in her eyes that never existed before the big disaster, but I love it. I’m not going to say what I did was the right thing or a good thing, but the baby isn’t the only right or good thing to come out of this. There’s a temper to Joss, a passion I don’t think she let herself feel before. There’s a bite to her words when she says, “Don’t you do it!” that makes the tease so much more worth it.

I slide a finger into her pussy and crook it.

“No!” she screams, but if she really meant it, she could pull away. I’m not holding her in place.

And I’m only teasing. She’d love to force us to waste more time today stripping the bed. Again.

Instead, I bite her ass cheek, give it another smack, and mount her roughly enough I bet she regrets telling me to stop fingering her so soon.

She groans and drops her head into the pillows, and I take hold of the wrought iron headboard and give the bed the test it deserves.

It survives with barely a squeak, which is actually a little sad until I remember that one day, in only a few years, we’re going to have at least one kiddo running around who’s going to start questioning the sounds coming from mommy and daddy’s room.

I drag Joss out of the bed — again, to protect the bedding — and haul her into the shower. It’s barely big enough for me,let alone us both, but I make it work while I plot a complete remodel. I have a feeling, or at least a hope, that we’re going to outgrow this apartment someday, but I’m going to spoil us both until then.

She tries to distract me in the shower, but I refuse to let her drop to her knees when I’m not even sure she’s going to be able to get back up. She’s in a playful snit by the time we get out, huffing off to make coffee, shaking her ass the entire way down the hall. She’s taunting me, trying to distract me for another half hour, and my dick is definitely interested, but I tell it to shut up. “It’s not going to work!” I yell at her. “You want to tell me what you’re up to now?”

“Of course not!” she calls back, which isn’t even a little bit of a denial that something is going on. And listen, I know I shouldn’t be getting irritated that she’s hiding something from me. I deserve it. But my nerves are still recovering from my meeting with Bradley. She’s going to be the death of me.

What a wonderful death it will be.

“We should make pancakes,” she continues, meaningIshould make pancakes. “I’ve got this new—oh no.”

I head down the hall to the kitchen in no rush. Her tone isn’t saying disaster so much as I’m about to run to the grocery store for maple syrup. I only ask, “What’s wrong?” when I see her looking out the window at the barn.

The grass, brown and dormant but clear of snow since the recent warm spell we’ve had, has been spray-painted. In great big neon pink letters, it says LEAVE WHORE. Surrounding it is a bunch of weird wire frames. I’m not sure I’ve seen anything like it, but then I look closely at one and see something in it.

“Go back to your bedroom and call the cops,” I say softly, not wanting to alarm her too much. “Stay there until I come get you.”

“But—”

“Please, let me take care of this.”

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