Page 29 of Pucking the Grump

“Yeah, but I made you come really hard, so I’m forgiven.”

“You sure did.” I sigh and curl against his side. His fingers tangle in my hair, rubbing slow circles into my scalp. And for once, I don’t fight the comfort of his touch, his affection.

I let myself relax into his body, into the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath my cheek. I’m actually halfway to a little cat nap by the time he says, “My tongue is missing your pussy, though.” He presses a kiss to my forehead. “Next time, I want to taste you before I fuck you.”

I hum, my eyes still closed. “Planning the next time, already?”

He shifts on top of me again, kissing a slow path down my neck, lazy but promising.

I crack a lid, deciding maybe naptime can wait.

“Oh, Bossy,” he murmurs as he kisses my breast, just above where my nipple is pulling tight again. “I’m planning on a lot of next times. Stay the night?”

My heart clenches. This is the dangerous part.

Not the sex or the secrecy, but these intimate moments. The sleeping over, the breakfasts the next morning, the way it feels so right to bust his balls for taking longer to do his hair than I do mine.

The way we just…fit, like I’ve never fit with anyone else.

And tonight is more dangerous than any night that’s come before. If I stay, if we go for round two or maybe even three, will I be able to keep all the mooshy things I’m not ready to say under wraps? Or will I tell him I’m in love with him while he’s buried in my pussy and escalate our “complication” status to a whole new level?

“Please,” he adds after a beat, his tongue flicking across my nipple, summoning a gasp from low in my throat. “I need someone to help me eat my leftover lasagna before it goes bad. And then I need this pussy again, from behind, while you claw at the sheets.”

I should go. I really should.

But I think I’m already too far gone.

“First from behind,” I whisper. “Then lasagna, then shower, then maybe we’ll do some tasting before bed. But no tasting right now. I’m too messy down there.”

“You’re never too messy down there,” he scoffs, and then he proves it.

And somehow, I manage to keep my secret under wraps as I come, then come again, before padding into the kitchen to pet Barb while Stone heats up lasagna. But it isn’t easy, which means it’s time to do some serious thinking about where we go from here.

But not tonight.

Tonight, I’m too exhausted from orgasms to do anything but stagger straight to bed after our shower and collapse.

The moment Stone drops Barb on the mattress at our feet and curls around me, I’m out, falling into a deep, peaceful sleep as he kisses my neck and promises to make pancakes tomorrow.

Chapter 8

Stone

Sunlight creeps across my bedroom floor, painting golden stripes on discarded human clothes and one sparkly pink dog tutu.

Barb must have wiggled out of it sometime in the night. I would check—I can hear my baby girl snoring some very cute Chihuahua snores from her spot at the foot of the bed—but I’m currently incapacitated.

The most beautiful woman in Portland is using my chest as her personal drool collection device, and I have zero urge to remove her.

I like her drool.

Love it, even.

I just love her.

Not that I’d be dumb enough to say that out loud.

Well, not dumb enough…yet. But by the time Remy came on my cock for the third time last night, I was getting close. Close to telling her that I have zero interest in coming inside of or anywhere close to another woman.

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