Page 62 of Better Daddy
“That’s it, sweetheart. Give me another one. Come all over my fingers.” I give her another one, and she cries out at the intrusion. “Fuck, Sloane, you are so bloody tight. You’re going to strangle my cock.”
She nods violently. “Yes, that, please now.”
With a shake of my head, I position my mouth over her clit and suck again. Fucking hell, I want it too. I’m desperate to slide home again, to bury myself in my wife, but she needs to come again first.
I drag my thumb through her pussy, collecting her arousal, then drift down her perineum and over her arsehole. “Gonna take this again too.”
She cries out again. My wife loves anal.
I push in and play, fucking chuffed that I’ve now had all my wife’s holes. With my lips sealed over that bundle of nerves, I finger her pussy and thumb her arse until she’s a wreck, squirting into my mouth and crying out my name.
Only when I’ve wrung every last delicious drop of her orgasm from her do I climb up and press my mouth to hers, making sure she can taste what I’ve done to her.
“Mine,” I snarl into her mouth.
She claws at me and wraps one leg around me, trying to force me to fuck her.
“Then show me,” she pants. “Be my husband, Sully. Fuck me.” Her words are desperate now. Exactly like I need them.
And when I sink into her, just that first inch, finally feeling the tight heat that I’ll never not crave, I kiss her in the exact same way. Desperate to hold on to this moment. Desperate to hold on to her. The only woman I’ve ever loved. And the only one I ever will.
Chapter 22
Sloane
The gentle hum of breath slipping past my husband’s lips is a balm to my soul. So familiar and yet so foreign. I haven’t awoken to that sound, or to his face buried in my hair, in far too long.
I’m naked, my skin pressed to his, not because I stripped out of my clothes, but because I fell asleep almost immediately after he wrung the third orgasm from my body.
With his arm wrapped around me, he holds me tight to his bare chest. The sweetest and most excruciatingly familiar detail of all is the way his fingers are intertwined with mine. Yes, for years we were one of those weird couples who held hands while we slept. At least as the night began. My sleep stripping often meant we didn’t stay that way for too long. But the moment Sully stirred, he’d twine our fingers and press a kiss to my shoulder.
God, we used to be so sweet.
It takes effort not to get ahead of myself. I’d forgotten about this gentle, devoted side my husband possesses. There was a time when he’d work so late that I’d be asleep long before he got home, and he’d be up with the sun and back to the office long before my eyes even opened.
Though he’s literally wrapped around me, I can’t help but miss him with a ferocity that makes it hard to breathe. I slip my hand from his as I ease out of bed, and once I’ve found my robe, I rush out of the room. I need space. I need air. I need to get a grip on the emotions crashing over me like a rogue wave.
Shit, shit, shit. I stand outside the door, sawing in harsh breaths and blowing them out again. Only when I no longer feel like I’m suffocating do I remember that it’s Christmas morning. That thought is followed by a sinking sensation, because we forgot to come out and put the presents under the tree. I scurry down the hall, hoping like hell the boys aren’t awake yet. It’s quiet, but that only means there’s a 50 percent chance that T.J. is sleeping. It’s just as likely that he’s getting into mischief. As I skid into the living room, I pull up short, struck by the sight before me.
Beneath the enormous tree sit piles of beautifully wrapped gifts. Stockings embroidered with the boys’ names are propped up close by, along with a pair of bicycles, one green and one blue.
Tears fill my eyes, making the scene blur. I’d like to blame my stupid hormones for the reaction, but it’s so much more than that. It’s genuine affection and joy, because Sully and Cal are both coming into fatherhood in a way that has my heart squeezing tight.
I may have run from my feelings moments ago, but I won’t any longer. Sully is trying. I need to let him.
According to the clock on the stove, it’s just after five. Knowing T.J., he’ll be up soon, so I might as well get my day started.
As soon as I step into the bathroom, I notice something is different. My stall is glowing.
Intrigued, I pad closer, my slippers scuffing the tile floor. When I pull back the curtain, I gasp. The entire back wall is covered in Christmas lights. Maybe more so than the tree in the living room.
I snort. Or maybe it’s a sob. The sensation rushes up my throat as tears spill down my cheeks. With my hand cupped to my mouth, I take in each detail. The pink lava lamp T.J. and Sully gave me last night is lit up, sitting in the corner, on top of a tufted white cushion.Beside it is a creamy chenille rocking chair with one of those stools that sway along with it. The cold blue tiles are now hidden beneath a pink rug the exact shade of the curtain.
It’s still a handicap bathroom stall in a shithole apartment, but somehow, it’s magical.
“Merry Christmas,” Sully says from behind me, his voice thick with sleep.
I don’t even startle at his presence. Subconsciously, I knew he’d be there.
