It’s funny. I knew she wasn’t wearing panties, but feeling her like this, knowing she’s already ready for another round is something else.
“We had sex at least six times last night, and usually you’re out like a light after a session like that,” she continues.
She gasps when I graze her clit. Her hips jerk in my lap, and I don’t stop. Ineverstop when she needs me like this.
“Zach,” she breathes, clutching my shirt, her voice already wrecked.
I slide two fingers inside her until I feel her slick heat dripping down my hand. She’s fucking soaked for me. Always only for me. I start slow, curling my thumb over her clit, making her roll her hips and chase the pleasure.
“I want you,” she whispers.
God, I love when she says that. I need to hear it, because that’s the only time I know, without a doubt, that she’s mine.
I speed up, fucking her with my fingers, grinding the heel of my palm over her clit until she’s panting. Honey was ready for this before I even touched her. I know because the only time she drags herself out of bed in the middle of the night is to crawl into my lap and demand more.
And I always give it to her.
Always.
I press a kiss to her temple, my fingers working faster now. I know she’s getting close because her body tenses and her breaths come out in sharp, ragged gasps.
“Be a good girl and come all over my fingers,” I growl into her ear, “so I can lick you clean for breakfast.”
Her teeth bite into her perfect bottom lip, her brow furrows, and then she shatters. Loud. Wet. Glorious.
Honey comes apart in my hands, and I watch every damn second like I’m burning it into my brain. The way her eyes shut, the gasp where she forgets to breathe, the way she collapses against me like I’ve ruined her for anyone else.
Fucking perfect.
She barely catches her breath before her hand slides down, finding my cock through my boxers. Even half-asleep, she wants me.
I scoop her up out of the recliner, one hand under her thighs, the other holding her to me. She doesn’t even open her eyes. She just rests her head on my chest while I walk her through the kitchen.
“Can’t waste a chance with you, Honeycomb. Not when you won’t be here tomorrow,” I murmur as I take the stairs two at a time.
With every step to our bedroom (because it’sourbedroom, she just hasn’t figured it out yet), I start to feel a little bold with my confession, not that she doesn’t know all of this already.
“Coming here has made me realize how much I like having you by my side. When you’re not around, I feel lost, and I don’t know what to do with myself.”
Another few steps.
“I don’t want to live without your clothes in my closet. Your scrunchies in my bathroom. Your panties on my floor.”
Another few steps up the stairs now.
“You see me for who I am, and you make me want to be better. You’re the one thing that brings calm to my existence.”
When I get to the top of the stairs, I stop and say, “I love you, Hunniford Sanderson, and there’s no one else in this world I want to call my wife than you. Move in with me. Please.”
I lick my lips, smiling because, yes, I’ve asked her to move in with me before, but this is the first time I really hope she says yes.
When I’m met with silence, I glance down and laugh softly—she’s out cold.
My most heartfelt speech, and she slept through the whole damn thing.
Figures.
As per usual, my words are wasted. At least my love for her isn’t.