Page 165 of Merry Christmas, You Filthy Animal
Thankfully, she goes over at the same time, calling out my name and contracting around my cock, prolonging my orgasm and providing me with the best feeling of my life.
It takes a few seconds for us both to come down off the high, but once we do, I slip myself out of her and then help her stand tall, keeping my hand around her throat and turning her around.
I let out a deep breath and capture her lips, kissing her for a few moments before I slide my hand down her backside and bring her in close for a hug.
“You make me come so hard,” I whisper. “Almost blacked out.”
She kisses my wet chest and then places her chin on my pec while staring up. “Same.”
She’s so fucking beautiful.
She’s sexy.
She’s funny.
She’s awkward in the best way.
The entire package, and I’m so goddamn lucky.
We finish cleaning her off and then turn off the water. I wrap her up in a towel, and then she grabs one for me from her cabinet. As we dry off, we steal glances at each other, both smiling.
I slip my boxer briefs back on, and she heads up the stairs, where she slips on an oversize T-shirt and that’s it. What I prefer.
“You know, I took time picking out my outfit for tonight.” She grabs two bowls from her cabinet. “And I wore it for, like, five minutes while you were here.”
“Which means you did a good job picking it out, because it made me want you that much sooner,” I say as I move in behind her and kiss her exposed neck while she ladles soup into the bowls.
She sets the bowls to the side and turns to me, her finger going into my chest. “Listen here, Mister Kissy. We’re going to eat this soup without any funny business, understood?”
“Where’s the fun in that?”
“The fun is that I worked hard on this soup, and I want to show you that I can cook. Therefore, I need you to eat it.”
I lean down and press a kiss to her forehead. “I appreciate you cooking for us, and I want to respect that. Is there anything I can do to help?”
Her expression is sweet as she says, “Can you grab us drinks, and I’ll toast the bread? Do you want to eat on the couch or at the counter?”
I glance over at the counter and say, “The counter has too many memories at the moment, so couch.”
“And the couch doesn’t have memories?” she asks, a raise to her brow.
“You’re right. How do you feel about eating outside?”
“Unfavorable,” she says.
“Yeah, same. I’ll stick with couch.”
She brings the bowls over and starts toasting the baguette she got for us to dip into the soup while I fetch the drinks, going with iced tea for the both of us.
I bring the drinks over just as the bread is done toasting, and she joins me.
She takes a seat next to me, and I’d prefer for her to be on my lap, but then again, we’re eating hot soup here, so best we stick to our own areas of the couch.
I blow on a spoonful of the soup and then taste it, impressed with the flavor. Cheese, garlic, broccoli—hell, it’s really good.
“Betty, this is really fucking delicious.”
“Really?” she asks, hope in her eyes.
