His Plaything(28)

Last night, I had loved feeling Nixon's weight on top of me. Watching his face and knowing he was watching mine, kissing deep, sharing our breath, his tongue in my mouth echoing the movements of his cock. We had been lost in each other. Being bent over this way felt … primal. Different, but just as good. The shower's warm spray pattering down on us just added to the illusion, as if we were mating in a summer rainstorm. Every position and scenario had its own unique flavor, I was quickly finding out, and I looked forward to exploring them all with Nixon. White-hot pleasure coiled in the pit of my stomach, tighter and tighter, ready to shatter, and I moaned, “I'm coming! Oh God, come inside me!”

“Yes, ma'am,” he growled. His fingers bruised my hips and his cock throbbed inside me. We stayed like that for a minute, Nixon thrusting slowly, letting me savor every warm aftershock as he rode out his orgasm. I could feel his broad, muscled chest heaving against my back. There was something incredibly erotic and sensual about the feel of his hard body pressing over mine.

Craning my neck, I looked over my shoulder and grinned at him. Not a shy or uneasy smile, like I'd been wearing the few days before, but bright and toothy and real. He gave me the same look right back.

Then I turned around completely and pushed him away, laughing, feeling almost giddy. “Now I have to shower all over again,” I mock-scolded. Before he could ask, I added, “And no, you can't help. At least let me make my two other classes today. We only get three excused absences and I don't want to blow them all on sex.” No matter how insanely amazing that sex is.

“Okay, damn. Toss me out, why don't you?” With a crooked smile, Nixon gave me one last peck on the lips and stepped out of the shower. “I'm going to go make breakfast.”

“I like my eggs sunny-side up,” I called cheerfully after him. My dry spell was officially banished; I'd had more orgasms in the past twenty-four hours than in the six months before. Making up for all the time I'd lost—years of tepid sex and frustrated celibacy—was sure going to be fun. And deep in my heart, there was a small hope for even more. A sense that this thing between me and Nixon, whatever it was, might really become something more than just physical.

Maybe that was just wishful thinking. But I wanted to wait and see.





Chapter 13

Nixon



After Avery came back home, we spent the rest of Tuesday together, then Wednesday morning and evening. A few hours here, a few hours there—whatever time we could steal between Avery's classes. Even though we were sneaking around snatching quickies like a couple of high-schoolers, I hadn't felt so relaxed and contented in years. It was amazing how, just a few short weeks ago, the thought of someone invading my space had made my blood boil. Now I was happy that Avery had moved in—and even happier that she had come to trust me.

On Thursday afternoon, we took advantage of Avery's morning-only classes to cuddle on the couch for the rest of the day. Some stupid reality show about cake competitions was playing on TV, but neither of us were paying much attention. My feet were propped up on the coffee table. Avery was lying in the crook of my arm, head pillowed on my chest, breathing like she was half asleep as I stroked her hair. Just how do women get their hair so damn soft, anyway? Special shampoo? Something to do with estrogen?

“I've been wondering about something,” Avery mumbled without opening her eyes, and for an absurd moment I thought she'd read my mind. “Where did you learn to cook?”

I flexed my fingers into the wavy locks, running my nails gently over her scalp, and felt her shiver a little. “In the service.”

“For real?”

I looked down at her. She probably couldn't see my raised eyebrows, but she could feel me shift position slightly. “Yeah, really. Is that surprising?” I asked.

“Well, you know.” Her hand made a vague motion. “Most people think cooking is girly. I figured you'd be … ” She let herself trail off.

“What, too manly to know how to feed myself?” I teased. “You have to learn practical skills in the military. Sewing, cleaning, laundry, ironing, first aid, stuff like that. I mean, who the hell else is going to do it?”

“I always thought there was … I don't know, staff or something to cook for you guys.”

“Sometimes there are. But when you're on a remote mission, holed up in a cave or trekking through the jungle, knowing how to make MREs edible comes in real handy.” I chuckled. “It's always funny to see new recruits get their rude awakening. Especially the super 'hoo-yah!' meathead type guys. They thought service was going to be like real-life Call of Duty, all guts and glory … boy oh boy, you should see their faces when they figure out that their mommies didn't come along with them. Always brightens my day.”