Page 12 of Bunking with the Lumberjack

Her breasts spilled free—heavier now, darker nipples tight and begging. I palmed them gently, thumbs brushing the sensitive peaks while she fumbled with my jeans. The zipper rasped down. She shoved denim and boxers to my thighs in one impatient push. My cock sprang free, thick and aching, the head already slick.

Her hand wrapped around me—warm and firm—and I groaned low in my throat. She stroked once, twice, then leaned forward and took me into her mouth.

Hot. Wet. Perfect.

Her tongue swirled around the head, then slid down the underside as she hollowed her cheeks and sucked. I threaded my fingers through her hair, not guiding, just holding on while she worked me with slow, filthy pulls that made my balls draw up tight.

“Stop,” I rasped after a minute, my voice wrecked. “Baby—stop, or I’m gonna come down your throat, and I want to be inside you when I do.”

She pulled off with a wet pop, lips shiny, eyes dark with want.

I nudged her thighs wider. She braced her hands behind her on the table and leaned back, her belly rounded and beautiful between us. I lined myself up, rubbed the head through her soaked folds once, twice—teasing—then pushed in slow and deep.

She moaned long and low as I filled her, inch by inch, until my hips met hers and I was buried to the root. So tight. So hot. So fucking wet.

I leaned down and caught her mouth in a messy, open kiss, tasting herself on my tongue while I rocked gently inside her.My hands slid up to cup her breasts, thumbs circling her nipples. She whimpered into my mouth every time I pinched lightly.

I straightened and looked down at where we were joined—her pink lips stretched wide around my cock, glistening. Then I saw her hand drift between us. Two fingers found her clit and started rubbing slow, tight circles while I was still buried deep.

The sight snapped something in me.

“Jesus, Hartley,” I growled. “Look at you—touching yourself while I’m fucking you. So damn beautiful.”

I pulled almost all the way out, then slammed back in—hard. She cried out, her head tipping back.

I set a punishing rhythm, my hips snapping, my cock driving deep every time. The table rocked beneath us. Her fingers moved faster on her clit. I could feel her tightening around me, fluttering.

“You feel so fucking good,” I told her, my voice rough. “So wet for me. So tight. You gonna come again, baby? Gonna come all over my cock while I fill you up?”

“Yes—God—yes?—”

I leaned down again, sucked one nipple into my mouth, and grazed it with my teeth. She arched, her fingers flying over her clit. I straightened, gripped her hips, and fucked her harder—deep, relentless strokes that made her breasts bounce and her belly quiver. Her moans turned desperate and broken.

“Come with me,” I ordered. “Let me feel you—fuck—come on, Hartley?—”

Her whole body seized. Her inner walls clamped down like a vise, milking me as she came with another cry, her nails digging into my forearms.

The sight, the feel, the sound of her—it ripped my own orgasm out of me. I buried myself as deep as I could and came hard, pulsing inside her, groaning her name while pleasure roared through every nerve. We rode it out together,shuddering, gasping, until the last aftershock left us both trembling.

Afterward, we stayed at the table—her sitting on the edge, me standing between her legs, our foreheads together, breathing each other’s air.

The banana bread timer went off, and neither of us moved.

“We should get that,” she murmured.

“We should.”

Still, neither of us moved.

Through the kitchen window, the mountains were catching the last of the afternoon light, the ridgeline glowing amber and gold. Somewhere across town, our son was pulling Magnolia’s hair and laughing about it.

In a few months, there’d be another baby in the house—another round of midnight feedings and color-coded schedules and Hartley running our lives with the same quiet efficiency she’d brought to everything since the morning she’d walked into my life with a rolling suitcase and reorganized my kitchen before I’d finished my first cup of coffee.

I kissed her forehead. She hummed against my chest.

“I messed up your drawer again,” I said.

She leaned back and gave me the look—the one I’d been provoking on purpose for five years because it was my favorite thing her face did.

“You do that on purpose.”

“Prove it.”

She laughed, and the sound filled the kitchen the way it always did—warm, real, the best thing in a room full of things she’d made better.

I’d never been a planner. I still wasn’t. But standing in the kitchen of our home, in the life Hartley had organized around us, waiting for banana bread to come out of the oven while our sonplayed across town and our daughter grew in the space between us—I didn’t need a plan.

I just needed her.

And neither of us was going anywhere.