That last bit was because he tossed me over his shoulder.
When I bounced on the bed because he threw me there, and when I became mesmerized after he took off his shirt, he said, “There’ll come a time when I can’t carry you, so might as well do it now.”
I dragged my eyes from his chest to his face. “What time will that be?”
He shrugged a broad shoulder. “Forty, fifty years from now.”
Forty or fifty years.
Of him and me.
I smiled.
He grinned.
Then he pounced.
So my man was going to carry me to bed every time he intended to fuck me there, and that was going to last forty or fifty years.
I wasn’t going to complain.
No way.
Not ever.
Parents Part One happened in the Arizona mountains.
It was mid-afternoon.
Mom and I were in cardies, wool socks, with throw blankets over our legs and hot cocoa cocooned in our hands. Robbie and Mom’s mut, aptly but not creatively named Mutt, was snoozing on the deck by Mom’s chair.
We were all cozied up, enjoying a breathtaking show.
Then it got even better.
It was cold, but Gabe was getting hot, I knew, when he pulled off his shirt before he went back to chopping the wood at the end of the yard (if you could call it a yard, it was mostly a vast space cleared of trees so Robbie could do things like chop wood in it, drive his ATV through it, or start a fire safely in their massive, rock-edged firepit in it).
“Oh my,” Mom whispered when Gabe bared his chest.
“Mm-hmm,” I hummed.
We sipped cocoa.
“It’s good Robbie is all in to promote fire safety by dragging all the downed trees on your property here so he can chop them up,” I observed.
Robbie and Gabe chopped.
“Oh yeah. It sure is good my man does that,” Mom agreed.
We sipped more cocoa.
Robbie said something that made Gabe smile.
Robbie returned his smile.
“Oh my,” I whispered.
“Mm-hmm,” Mom hummed.
