Page 44 of One Bride for Three Single Dads

“We are Southern gentlemen,” Boone shrugs. “A lady deserves certain treatment, don’t you think?”

“Oh yes, absolutely,” I smile, wondering in vain when the last time anybody even opened the door for me who wasn’t one of these guys.

The Southern gentlemen thing is mostly a myth. Guys sure do love to brag about it when they do something good, and then forget about it the other 99.9 percent of the time.

But not these fellas. A girl could get used to this.

Boone is patient and good, but definitely looking at me with the hungry eyes of the last puppy to get fed. I grab my glass of wine and take a sip, just to coat my tongue.

He smiles at me as I reach out and cup his cheek in my palm. I love the sandpaper scratchiness of his five o’clock shadow.

“Would you mind turning around?” he asks shyly.

My eyebrows go up.

“I don’t want you to get too sore,” he explains.

“How thoughtful,” I comment.

Turning around, I let him position me across the back of a chair. He folds my arms in front of me, guiding my hands to the armrests. In moments, I am stable enough to hold myself up, comfortable enough to do it for quite a while.

Slowly, I feel my skirts sliding up over my thighs. I can hear the zipper on his trousers. I hear the fabric whooshing softly as it hits the patio.

Closing my eyes, I focus on the sensations. The light evening breeze slipping over my freshly shaven thighs. The coolness of the slate under my bare toes. The tickling as Boone reaches between my legs, stroking the velvety skin of his dick over my sopping-wet channel.

I thought I was sore, but I was wrong. I am hungry for more.

With his hands on my hips, he guides himself into me. It takes my breath away when he slides across the surface of my G-spot. His cock must be curved a little bit.

I have never felt anything like it.

My hips are activated, twisting and rolling in time with his slow thrusts, even as they begin to get faster right away.

“Oh... Oh wow! Yessss!” I call out.

Better than a vibrator, the curve of his meat at this perfect angle sends me absolutely skyward. Soon he is fucking me fast and hard, the sound of our squelching skin filling my ears.

My orgasm builds inside me, filling like a glass orb with golden effervescent liquid. It fills and fills, getting bigger with every thrust. Finally it overflows, shattering, bursting into a million pieces behind my eyes, blinding me.

My toes curl against the stone. My hands grip the armrests. Boone grips my ass and plows me relentlessly, even through the orgasm, shouldering me into even new heights of sensation.

He comes like a firehose, dousing my insides and splashing back out and down my thighs. I hear the drips hit the flagstones. It is a beautiful sound.

Trembling, shuddering, quaking… I just slump over the back of the chair. Boone slips out of me, and I try to catch my breath. In a few moments, something else warm slides between my legs, and I realize someone is bathing me. Someone went to get a warm washcloth and is currently wiping up the trails of sex, cleaning me up as sweetly and tenderly as a person can.

Maybe I am just cross-eyed with post-orgasm bliss, but that gesture is so sweet I feel like I could cry.

Imagine my surprise when it is Harrison.

I twist around slightly, forcing myself back to standing. He gives me a little help as he folds the washcloth away and drapes it over the arm of the chair.

“More wine?” he asks me softly as he kisses the top of my forehead.

“More everything,” I sigh.

“Already?” Ambrose asks with his eyebrows raised.

I chuckle as I settle into a seat, holding the stem of my wine glass as Harrison refills it for me.

---