Not a bad thought.
She agreed.
I rested over her, tangling my hands in her hair, tasting her kiss, watching as every fucking thrust pushed her body into the bed. Her breasts slammed against her. I’d rut her until they hit her damn chin. But Shay grabbed them instead. Held them.
Offered them.
I bit her nipple just as her pussy clamped against me.
And the world imploded.
Her cries fueled me. Her twisting, aching, heating body. Again and again, wave after wave of her heat gripping me, pumping me, testing the very limits of my willpower.
Christ, I was only human. I had no idea what kind of blessed angel this woman was, but it didn’t matter. I was going to lose myself inside her six ways from Sunday and never regret a moment of the biggest mistake of my life.
I gripped her hips, pulling her even closer. Everything in me tingled, tightened, and for a single, blissful second, the headache faded.
Shay bucked.
I might have died there. I’d survived conditioning, combat diving, land warfare training, and two tours of the most dangerous places in the Middle East, and now my heart would give out while fucking the most beautiful woman in the goddamned world.
I grunted. Shay gripped me. Her voice purred my name.
I emptied in her, tensing in utter delight.
Three hard thrusts, a mew of delirious pleasure from her, and I rolled away before our heat caught me on fire.
I peeled off the condom and threw it to the floor. Shay panted beside me.
She tossed an arm over her face. It hid her eyes but not her smile.
“Guess I know why they call you Hard,” she said.
My cock jerked at the sound of her purr. She was a damn siren. I’d explode if she just whispered something dirty in my ear.
“Ain’t seen nothing yet, baby.”
“SEALs do have endurance, don’t they?”
That we did. I reached back into the nightstand and ripped another wrapper with my teeth.
“You want some more?” I asked.
Shay pushed herself up, looking me over with a quirked eyebrow, bitten lip, and exposed, slickening pussy. She shoved me onto the bed and jerked my cock before grabbing the rubber.
Then she straddled me, rubbing my cock along the dark petals that teased me with her promise. She bobbed only on the head, groaning as I stretched her with the first few inches of my length.
“I want you to fuck me until I forget my name,” she whispered.
I did too, but not for the same reason. I grabbed her hips and shoved her down my entire shaft. She moaned for me.
She’d be hoarse by the end of the night. I grinned.
“Let me show you how I earned this nickname.”
Who served shrimp puffs at a funeral?
The Franklin family.
White linens in a reception hall? A lowered disco ball that played the Funky Chicken during the invocation?
The Franklin family.
The DJ pumping mad hymns while the choir two-stepped?
Yep. Franklins.
Or what was left of us.
The last few members of my family now included two cantankerous great aunts, a couple distant cousins who let their kids play tag around the coffin, and my sketchy uncle who liked to give people hugs for a few seconds too long.
At least they were distant relatives. Ever since Momma died, I survived on my own, without gossiping cousins or the wrath of Great Aunt Ruth’s cane. I managed so far alone, and I handled myself perfectly fine. The only tough time was Christmas, but it wasn’t like Dad had been around anyway. The gift delivered by his secretary didn’t count, not while he was off enjoying his new family.
To make it easier, we split the unused reception materials between the funerals. Dad’s bride-to-be, a woman I never had the chance to meet, was laid out the day before him. Her sisters arranged everything, including first dibs on the wedding supplies. She got the flowers and coffee. Even worse. They swiped all the cutlery too.
We, of course, had the wedding soup.
So, after an hour of slurping through mugs of reheated broth and meatballs, the funeral director ran to Walmart, found spoons, and we cut the wedding-turned-wake cake.
Which was weird.
We removed the little figurine toppers at least. And, in someone’s foresight, they tugged the fondant off and scribbled condolences on the top layer in the darkest aqua-marine icing gel they could find.
Sorry For Your Lots Loss
It worked for our purposes.
Champagne wasn’t appropriate, but neither was the extended family dropping wedding gifts by the casket like Dad was some sort of Egyptian Homeware Pharaoh taking toasters and expresso machines to the afterlife. Just another headache to send back with ridiculously involved explanations. Yes, we’re having a funeral…I guess you can bring your +1 if you really want.
About the only thing that kept me level-headed and calm during the whole ordeal was the one completely wild and unpredictable night I had earlier in the week.