Jericho was growing weary of the conversation. He wanted to stop talking about mundane things and focus on fucking the mad out of his husband. But he wanted to rile him up just a tiny bit more before he did. “Was that it, Freckles? Jagger’s bizarre culinary curiosities had you giving our children to literally the lowest name on our parental telephone tree? Honestly, I would have preferred you’d just paid security to keep them downstairs.”
Before Atticus could answer, he speared his tongue against his hole, probing with intention, earning a low moan.
“You think that was what broke me?” he managed, sounding a little breathless “That was just the final straw. Let’s see. First Jagger hid the remote—which I still haven’t found. Then Jett dropped an entire gallon of orange juice. How did he get to the orange juice, you might ask. While I was on a phone call–with the head of the FDA, I might add–he convinced Jagger to get on all fours so he could use him like a step-stool. Then one of them–which one, I’m not sure–locked Boots on the balcony for who knows how long.” He looked back over his shoulder, his tone growing smug as he said, “Oh, and they broke your PlayStation.”
Jericho winced. He wouldn’t lie. That one hurt. “Damn. How?”
He buried his face between his husband's cheeks once more.
“He—um—Oh, fuck.” Atticus took a sharp breath as Jericho sucked and licked at him, then fucked his tongue past that first tight ring of muscle.
“He what, Freckles?” Jericho teased.
Atticus moaned like a whore, still trying to ride Jericho’s tongue. “He…force-fed it his very melted, very greasy grilled cheese.”
Gross.
“You tried to sneak Swiss cheese onto his sandwich again, didn’t you?” Jericho asked, disapproving. “You know he doesn’t like food with holes in them.”
Atticus sounded somewhere between horny and irritated as he said, “He didn’t mind donuts last week, or the bagel he ate at the deli two weeks ago. Now all of a sudden he hates food with holes in them. You can’t just arbitrarily make up rules like that. Besides, it melted. There were no more holes,” Atticus said.
Jericho slapped Atticus’s ass, watching with satisfaction as it jiggled, a perfect handprint blooming pink on his snowy white skin. “But he knew. He’s smart. You can’t just trick him.”
“I trick them into thinking they’re Mario Kart masters every night,” Atticus muttered. “This whole conversation is absurd.”
Jericho laughed once more. “Welcome to having children. Speaking of, how long do we have, exactly, before said kids come home?”
Atticus picked up his phone and glanced at the time. “Forty minutes, tops.”
“Enough time for me to tongue fuck youandbreed your greedy little hole. Damn, and it's not even my birthday.”
“Less talk, more action,” Atticus said, reaching back and pushing Jericho’s head down.
He laughed low, returning to the task at hand. “So greedy. From pillow princess to bossy bottom. I approve. Why don’t youjust sit on my face, Freckles, then you can just do all the work yourself.”
Atticus practically purred as Jericho tongued at his balls, then said, “The last time I did that, you almost died.”
“Fuck yeah, I did. And I’d do it again,” Jericho promised.
After that they fell silent with Jericho spending a good solid twenty minutes eating Atticus out until he started begging. “That’s enough. Please. I need more. Can I touch myself? Will you fuck me?”
Jericho smiled. Atticus only started asking for permission when he was too far gone to be embarrassed, when he would do literally anything Jericho demanded of him. He’d beg, plead, debase himself in any number of ways just to get Jericho inside him.
And it was the sexiest thing he’d ever seen.
“Not yet, Freckles. Throw me the lube.”
Atticus made a sad noise that almost had Jericho caving. He listened as the drawer opened, then a bottle hit the top of his head and rolled to land at his shoulder.
Before Atticus, Jericho could never have imagined a life as domestic as theirs. Even with two kids, their sex life was still hotter than ever. They just had to be trickier about it. Sex in the shower, bending Atticus over the bathroom sink, fucking in Jericho’s office at the garage or in any number of rooms at the annual Mulvaney holiday parties.
Jericho would happily spend the rest of his life cooking dinners, watching murder documentaries and raising two wild boys with his fussy, bowtie-wearing husband. He honestly couldn’t think of anything better.
He got to his knees and coated his fingers, then teased at his hole, without pushing in, watching as Atticus tried to get them where he wanted them. Only when he made a noise of frustration did Jericho relent, thrusting two fingers deepwithout warning. Atticus rewarded him with this breathy little cry he’d never admit to.
“Is that better, Freckles? Feeling nice and full yet?”
Atticus fucked himself on Jericho’s finger. “I can take another.”
