“Remember that deal we made?”
“Hmm?” Chance closes the fridge, after checking on the status of things for the third time in five minutes (some things never change) and captures me in his arms, backing me up against the butcher block counter of the kitchen.
“Our deal,” I remind him.
“You mean the one where you give me mind-blowing head any time I’m in the mood? You make it kinda hard to forget your terms, baby.” That wink gets me every time. He gives it to me twenty times a day, and still, I melt. Gooey for this man.
“I just thought you’d be taking advantage of it more.” I try not to sound self-conscious.
In the couple of months since we made that deal—the new deal, as we’ve come to call it, since our old one is over now—I think he’s only come to find me and take me up on that maybe once or twice a week on average?
We worked out giving ten minutes of tablet time to the kids, keeping themselves occupied while we sneak away for adult time. So far, it’s been pretty successful. Sometimes there’s even time leftover for him to show me what he can do to me in just a few minutes. It’s just not been as frequent as I figured it would be?
I mean, probably part of that is because we’re back to a healthy sex life. It’s not like our schedule suddenly allows for daily sex, but we make a point to fit it in at least a couple times a week almost every single week, as best we can.
But still, unlimited head, whenever he wants it, at the drop of a hat? I really expected to have developed new muscles in my cheeks and throat by now.
He chuckles. “Has it crossed your mind that your incredibly—” he gives me a peck on the lips, “talented—” another peck, “mouth—” a soft kiss, “keeps me sated for days on end?” His brows raise, eyeing me down, and I blush under the compliment, his intent stare.
“I’m not one of the guys in your romance novels, baby, I don’t generally need to have sex four times a day.”
I roll my eyes, regretting telling him the storyline to my last mafia read. He holds my neck, traces my jaw with a thumb as he continues. “But if those incredible fucking pregnancy hormones have changed you forever and you do…I’m definitely not complaining. I just might tap in Ranger or Lo, or one of their friends from our treasure chest, for backup once in a while.”
His fingers come up to brush my cheek affectionately, and my face warms under his touch, blood heating, always responding to him even in innocent gestures.
“Guess what?”
I sidestep him to regain my concentration. My eyes squint at him. “What?”
“I have a surprise for you. Now that the quarter is over, that bonus I told you about is gonna hit on the next paycheck…What do you say we plan another trip to Vermont this fall with it?”
I plant a big kiss on his lips, grinning against them. “That sounds perfect. And I might have a surprise for you, too, mister.”
The cutest look of excitement washes over his face.
“A surprise for me?” He places a hand to his chest.
I nod, eyes sparkling up at him.
“Have I been a good boy?” He nuzzles my nose with his, placing a sweet kiss on my lips.
“A very good one.”
I pull my phone out, hiding it from his view, tapping away until his phone buzzes in his pocket.
He narrows his eyes on me, pulling it out, playful skepticism across his features.
He taps to accept the AirDrop, and his face falls. He pulls the phone quickly to his chest, and his cheeks heat with ablush.
“Di!” He whisper-shouts. “What did you do?”
I shoot him one of my saucier looks. “Why don’t you scroll through those pics and see for yourself?”
He peels the phone away from his chest, just the top of it, hands wrapped around both sides like blinders to make sure no one else can see it. We’re alone in our kitchen, but I appreciate the caution regardless.
“I—You—” He does his best impression of Gunther, number thirteen, which we’ve managed to keep alive for three freaking months now (I know, I know, thank you very much), jaw dropping, closing, then dropping again. His thumb swipes, over and over again, and his jaw drops more with each one. On one, his head tilts to the side, eyes clouding over as he realizes what he’s seeing.
“It’s called a boudoir photoshoot,” I tell him. Something for his spank bank that also wouldn’t ruin me if our phones ever got hacked.
