“I told you a long time ago, Freckles. I’m a simple man. Feed me, fuck me…”
“Financially support your increasingly expensive addiction to gourmet nut milks?”
Jericho snickered. “Nut milk.”
“How did I marry such a child?” Atticus asked fondly even as he ground his ass against his husband’s half-hard cock.
Jericho’s groan vibrated through him, warm and sinful, and Atticus felt his own breath hitch. Jericho always reacted like Atticus was some kind of miracle he didn’t quite deserve, and Atticus never knew what to do with the way that made his chest ache.
“Nut milk is objectively funny at any age, Freckles. Besides, I believe my almond milk falls squarely under the ‘feed me’ category, thank you very much.”
“I’m tempted to crack a joke about having some ‘nut milk’ for you but I don’t want to encourage you.”
Jericho bit his earlobe. “This slutty little waist is encouraging me to put you on all fours so I can drill you until you sound like one of those scream queens.”
Atticus scoffed. “My waist is not slutty.”
“You’re shaped like a Dorito, Freckles. Broad shoulders, flat stomach, slutty, slutty, slutty little waist, perfect ass, great legs. I’m gonna start making you wear baggy clothes. Don’t want to share any of this.”
Jericho’s voice was a low growl, possessive and amused, the exact tone that always made Atticus’s knees feel shaky. He loved that Jericho never tried to hide the hunger in him. He loved even more that Jericho aimed every drop of it at him.
Atticus blushed. “You get more ridiculous every day.”
“Your ears are turning bright red.”
“Go find a movie,” he said, shaking off his husband like a dog might shake water off themselves. “I’ll make popcorn.”
Jericho groaned, like leaving Atticus physically pained him. “Fine. But you will be fucked full before the night is over. Just know that.”
Atticus had always known that. He could count the amount of nights they’d gone without sex on one hand. Jericho took both the ‘feed me’ and ‘fuck me’ part of their informal vows almost as seriously as the love, honor and cherish parts of their actual vows. Maybe moreso. Though Atticus admitted he felt plenty loved, honored and cherished when his husband was buried inside him.
He watched Jericho retreat toward the living room, broad shoulders rolling under his worn black tee. Jericho paused once to glance back at him—hungry, affectionate, possessive—before disappearing around the corner. Atticus’s heart squeezed painfully. God, he adored that man. He adored their ridiculous life, their chaotic children, their messy, loud, perfect home. Sometimes it felt so surreal he worried he’d wake up and find it was all some coma-induced fantasy.
He rolled his eyes at the notion and tried to put the idea of sex away...at least for now.
He’d grown used to prepping himself as part of his daily routine, knowing that it paid to be…ready…at all times. Jericho’s “feed me, fuck me, love me” schedule was predictable in its own chaotic way, and Atticus preferred to be prepared rather than caught off guard with a lust-drunk husband. He made the popcorn, as promised, grabbing Jericho a beer and himself a sparkling water before heading back into the bedroom.
The hall was dim, the only light a soft glow from the sconces that the decorator had insisted were ‘ambience lighting,’ though were now used so the kids wouldn’t run into the walls during late-night bathroom trips. The house felt warm, lived-in, blankets everywhere, cat toys shoved under furniture, and afaint lavender scent from the twins’ diffuser drifting down the hall. It was impossible not to feel a little sad they were leaving.
When he entered the bedroom, Jericho took the beer he offered, then set the popcorn down on the bed before patting the space between his raised knees. He watched as Jericho cracked the beer with practiced ease, taking a long pull before setting it on their side table beside the very obvious bottle of lube.
Atticus hid a smile as he made himself comfortable, his back to Jericho’s firm chest, his head resting against his shoulder. He was bigger than Jericho in both height and weight, but in his arms he always felt small. Jericho had a way of folding around him like gravity, like Atticus’s body was the center point his own curved toward. Jericho was such a predatory creature, pulling him against him to nuzzle his neck within seconds.
“You could at least hit play first so we could pretend this isn’t all just part of some seduction scene.”
“Why pretend, Freckles?” he asked, dragging his hips back so Atticus could feel how hard he was already.
Jericho made no attempt to hide anything, not his desire, not his moods, not the way Atticus affected him. He was shameless, and Atticus secretly adored it. He’d spent far too much of his life secretly worried about the ulterior motives of others, what they thought of him, whether he was passing as a person convincingly, whether he was doing well enough for his father and brothers to acknowledge his part in the family.
“Are you ever not horny?” he asked.
Jericho scrunched up his face as if contemplating the question. “There’s usually a brief, thirty to sixty minute recovery period directly after we fuck where I feel temporarily sated.”
Atticus huffed a laugh. “You’re ridiculous.”
Jericho held him tighter, his mouth right against his ear as he murmured, “You love that I can’t get enough of you.”
“I can neither confirm nor deny said allegations,” Atticus said, snuggling back into his arms.
