With a huff of laughter, she lifts her head and meets my eyes. “Of course. And you missed me.”
It’s a statement, not a question, but I nod my confirmation anyway, dropping my head to claim her mouth. “I always miss you when we’re apart,” I whisper against her lips. Missing her is a familiar feeling, especially during the football season. I’m frequently gone, and while she sometimes comes along, she also has commissions and shows to work for plus her schedule of art classes that she teaches for fun and a bit more steady income. Not that she needs it, because my income is plenty steady—at least for now. Though if my shoulder injury doesn’t start getting better soon, I suppose that might not be true forever. But teaching art makes her happy. And what makes her happy, makes me happy.
“I miss you too,” she whispers back. “And even though this time was my idea and my fault, I’m really glad you’re here.”
I slip one hand down her back and grip a handful of her ass, tipping her hips so I can grind my hardening cock against her belly. “Me too.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Megan
After, I tell myself as Chris lifts my top, stripping it off over my head and tossing it to one side before he lowers his head to my chest. I’ll tell him after.
My tits are extra sensitive, and I gasp when he scrapes his stubble across the tops of my breasts, pulling the cup of my bra out of the way to gently tug my nipple with his teeth before sucking deep.
This is always the way we reconnect after an absence. Sometimes it’s hard and fast and raw. Sometimes it’s slow and sweet and sensual.
I have a feeling this time will be the latter. We’re both tired, worn out from the time apart and our own stresses. For him, I know it’s his shoulder. And I know the meeting today didn’t have the news he’d hoped for, which means he’s still got a long road to recovery. He hasn’t said much, but if it had been good news, he would’ve called me immediately. This reunion would be frenzied and joyful, instead of the way he’s clearly seeking comfort in my body.
I love being his safe place to land. His co-conspirator for hijinks. The one who celebrates the wins and grieves the losses.
And while this isn’t technically a loss, anything other than a win feels like one for him.
So we’ll reconnect, welcome each other home, and then I’ll share my news. I hate that I haven’t told him yet, that he doesn’t know, but I want him to be able to savor the moment, and he’ll be able to do that better after.
Soon we’re both naked, and I’m spread out on the bed while he kneels on the floor, his face between my thighs, licking and sucking and fingering me to orgasm. Then he stands with my ankles still over his shoulders, lines himself up, and sinks inside me. We both groan in pleasure, my oversensitive tissues stretching around him, aftershocks radiating through my core as he hits all those nerve endings again.
“God, Megan,” he says, his voice rough as he rocks into me with tiny thrusts, his hips plastered against the backs of my thighs. “I fucking love you.”
“Unghhh,” is all I manage to get out, because I’m too overwhelmed with sensation to form words.
With a soft chuckle, he folds my knees back toward my chest so he can lean over them and kiss me. I return his kiss enthusiastically, sucking his tongue into my mouth, writhing under him as he continues fucking me, each thrust slow and deep and everything I need right now.
He straightens up as his pace quickens, faster, harder, each punch of his hips sending him into my G spot, all my nerve endings so strung out and oversensitive that it’s not going to take much to make me fall apart around him all over again.
He growls, adjusting his grip on my legs, pounding into me, and I fucking love it when he gets like this—feral, unrestrained, powerful, the god-athlete in his prime, all cut, flexing muscle, and I almost wish there were a mirror off to the side so I could turn my head and see the divot in his glutes each time he flexes into me. But I’m so wrapped up in what I’m feeling that I don’t think I could focus on that anyway. All my attention is on our connection, on that magical spot he’s hitting over and over, each time making my muscles coil tighter and tighter, the tension almost unbearable.
When he finally sends me over the edge again, I come with a scream, the release as powerful as the tension that preceded it. He moves even faster, harder, prolonging the orgasm until he grinds himself into me, his grip on my thighs punishing, and he pulses inside me in time with my own orgasm.
His knees slump as he finishes, his muscles barely wanting to hold him up, but he reaches for something on the floor—his T-shirt—holding it against me as he pulls out so his cum doesn’t spill everywhere. “Be right back,” he mumbles, heading for the bathroom.
He comes back out with a warm wet washcloth a moment later, taking the time to clean me up, which sometimes feels awkward, but is always endearing. Then he pulls back the blankets and climbs into bed, patting the spot next to him in invitation.
I crawl up to join him, settling into his embrace, reveling in the warmth of his body, the spicy smell of exertion and sex mingling in the air. Enjoying the moment, not wanting to break the spell, I stay quiet. Just for another minute. I’ll tell him when we’re finished basking in the afterglow.
But I’ve been patient for a long time. And I really just want to spill the beans. So I wiggle out from under his arm—which is heavy and floppy like he’s just
