Page 9 of A Taste of His Angel
Sherman
I’m giddy, flush with pleasure as I make my way to the kitchen to grab Miranda’s clothes so she can get dressed before Barbara and Kimora show up. I’ve kept her inourbed and beneath me for a solid three hours, ready for round after round, discussing what our future will look like between orgasms. Maybe our parents will think it’s foolish how headstrong we are, running at full speed into a family we’ve only just dreamed up, but that’s ok. It doesn’t have to make sense to anyone but us. Besides, there’s absolutely no going back now—a fact that leaves me feeling even giddier.
I scratch my temple, looking around the kitchen, wondering where in the hell Miranda’s clothes ran off to.
“Looking for these?”
I spin around at Barbara’s deep chuckle from her seat in my recliner in the living room. I must have skipped right past her, caught up in thoughts of my angel and her belly potentially swelling soon with my child.
“Jesus, Barbara.” I snatch the clothes from her, hiding them behind my back, grateful that I pulled on my own clothes—now uncharacteristically wrinkled—before leaving the bedroom. “How did you get in here?”
Barbara tips her head toward the kitchen. “You always forget to lock the back door.”
I won’t be making that mistake again, knowing I need to be more mindful now that Miranda will be living here.
“Kimora will be here in about ten minutes to help set up, so if you don’t want the rest of the office to find out about you and Miranda, I suggest she get dressed quickly and hightail it out of your bedroom.”
I don’t question how she knows the clothes belong to Miranda.
“Oh, they’re going to find out, alright,” I say with a smirk and a heart full of pride as I move toward the hallway. “Considering this just turned into an engagement party.”
Barbara gasps behind me, and I lock the bedroom door as soon as I step inside. Miranda is standing in a towel, her skin damp from a quick shower while I fetched her clothes. I toss them to the side and sweep her into my arms.
She laughs, trying to lift her legs around my waist. “Another round already, sir?”
I lay her on our bed and tug her towel away. She rests her hand on her belly, wearing my university class ring on her left ring finger until I can get her a proper engagement ring. I strip and climb on the bed to kiss a long line up from her ankle to the sweet center of her.
“One more taste of you, angel, and then maybe I’ll be ready to let you out of bed for a few hours,” I say with a grin, watching my angel’s eyes roll back when I tease her clit with the tip of my tongue. “But only maybe.”
Epilogue
Miranda - 17 years later
Now that the big Aquaculture conference has wrapped up, I’ve taken a day off from my job as the Special Events Manager at a nearby hotel to visit my husband at work. I’ve planned my timing perfectly when most of his staff are out to lunch, nostalgia blooming as I walk the firm’s halls. It was with Sherman’s support and encouragement that I bucked the career my parents had planned for me and went into the hospitality industry once we were out of the baby and diapers and strollers and car seats and sleep deprivation stage of our lives, and I’ve been all the happier for it.
Bumping Sherman’s office door open, I let it swing shut behind me as I slow my steps to exaggerate the sway of my hips that have grown rounder after the birth of our three children—Shayla, Bailey, and Autumn. “Good afternoon, Mr. Fischer.”
My handsome husband swallows, fiddling with his navy blue tie. “I’ll call you back,” he barks into the phone, abruptly hanging up on a client, dropping the phone in its cradle on his desk with a noisy clatter. “You’re a sight for sore eyes, angel.” He motions for me to come closer, a smile growing wider. “What are you doing here?”
“Thought I’d surprise you.” Stepping around his desk, I set down my quilted insulated tote bag and remove the hot covered pie dish along with several plastic forks and plates.
Sherman rolls back his chair when I nudge his legs. I kick off my sandals, hop up on his desk in front of him, and work the lid free, steam rising from the freshly baked cherry pie I made just for him.
Sherman licks his bottom lip, even as he pats his stomach with a groan. At fifty-two years old, with a thicker waistline and blond hair that long ago turned silver, I find my husband as attractive as I did the first day we met. If anything, I’m even more obsessed with him after seventeen blissfully chaotic years of marriage, hosting more block parties, birthdays, and company-wide get-togethers at our house than the hotel does conferences.
“You know I’ve done good sticking to my diet this time around,” he says, staring at the pie with a hungry expression as he rolls his chair forward.
“Oh yes, I know. You’ve been very, very good, sir.”
Sherman moans, cutting his eyes to mine, even hungrier.
I tug his tie, spreading my legs so he’ll roll all the way forward. “The pie is refined sugar-free,” I whisper in a sultry tone, licking his bottom lip with a hum.
“Yeah?”
I slowly drag my ankle-length linen skirt up my legs and lean back to rest my bare feet on the arms of his chair. “With gluten-free crust.”
“Is that right?” Sherman circles my calves, then slides his hands up, pushing the material further up my thighs. Gripping my hips, he tugs me to the very edge of his desk. “What about the whipped cream?” he asks, lips brushing the inside of one knee while he hooks a finger under the white fabric of my panties.
