“You can. You will.” His fingers work my clit faster. “Give me another one. Come on my cock again.”
“Grant—”
“Now, Heather. Come for me now.”
My second orgasm builds fast and hits even harder than the first. I’m shaking, gasping, barely holding myself up as waves of pleasure roll through me. I bury my face in the pillow to muffle my cries.
Grant groans behind me, his rhythm faltering. “Fuck, I’m gonna—where do you want it?”
“Pull out,” I manage to gasp.
He does, just in time, and I feel the hot splash of his release across my lower back and ass. He’s breathing hard, cursing under his breath as he strokes himself through it.
We collapse onto the bed together, both of us breathing hard. My legs are shaking and I feel boneless, completely wrung out.
“That was—” I can’t even finish the sentence.
“Yeah.” He kisses my shoulder, then my neck. “It really was.”
He gets up for a moment and comes back with a warm washcloth, gently cleaning me up. The gesture is so tender after the intensity of what we just did that it makes my throat tight.
“Thank you,” I murmur.
“Always.” He tosses the washcloth aside and pulls me against him, spooning me again. “We should probably get up soon.”
“I know.” But neither of us moves. We lie there for another moment, his arms around me, his breath evening out against my neck.
“I could get used to this,” he says quietly. “Waking up with you every morning.”
My heart does a little flip in my chest, but before I can figure out how to respond, his alarm goes off.
“Shit. What time is it?”
He glances at the clock. “Seven fifteen.”
“Shit!” I scramble out of bed, my legs still a little unsteady. “April’s alarm goes off in fifteen minutes and I still need to shower and make breakfast and?—”
“Hey.” He catches my hand. “Relax. I’ll make breakfast. You shower.”
“You sure?”
“Of course. I make a mean scrambled egg.”
I kiss him quickly. “You’re the best.”
“I know.”
The shower is quick and efficient, and by the time I’m dressed and heading downstairs, I can hear April’s animated voice from the kitchen.
“—and then the puck went flying into the stands and hit someone’s nachos! Can you believe it? Their nachos went everywhere!”
“That’s tragic,” Grant says solemnly. “A waste of perfectly good nachos.”
“That’s what I said!”
I walk into the kitchen to find them both at the stove—Grant scrambling eggs while April stands on her step stool next to him, buttering toast.
“Morning, Mom!” April grins at me. “Grant’s teaching me how to make the eggs fluffy.”
