“Yeah.”
“And your mom’s at work?”
“She just left.”
Cary started pushing up Shiloh’s skirt.
“What are you doing?”
He was unbuttoning her jeans. “If you won’t marry me, we can at least have sex on this couch.”
“I said I’d marry you! No asterisk!”
Cary was pulling down her jeans. They were stuck on her hips. “Marry me tomorrow.”
“No!”
He stopped, with all eight of his fingers curled into the waist of her jeans. “Do you want to have sex with me on this couch?”
Shiloh giggled. “Yes.”
“No asterisk?”
She kicked him. “Just do it already.”
“Just do it already,” he mocked. “We’re not even married, and you’re already tired of me.”
“Why are you in such a good mood?” she asked, sincerely.
Cary picked up her left hand and kissed it.
Cary sat on the couch with Shiloh on his lap. (He sat on his T-shirt, which she thought was funny and also conscientious.) He’d never gotten around to taking off her dress.
They’d been having sex so often—whenever they were alone—that Shiloh didn’t have time to fully charge her anxiety in between. She felt sort of half-dressed all the time. Only half wound up.
She leaned forward on Cary’s cock and arched backwards, their fingers intertwined, rocking.
“I feel like I’m doing a lot of work,” she said.
“Does it feel good?”
“Yes.”
“Then it’s still just your primary duty.”
“Cary...” She was breathless. Because itwasa lot of work. Because it was hot in here. Because it felt so good.
“Yeah.” Cary was sweating.
“I’m sorry my house is such a mess.”
He slouched deeper into the couch, pushing up his hips. “S’fine.”
“Does it drive you crazy?”
“No.”
“Will it drive you crazy to live here?”
