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“Elton!”
“Yes, yes. I’ll put on Elton.” As if I never left, I power on the speaker and hit Harold’s playlist before turning to Austin, who arches his brow at me, slowly stalking me.
“Mommy and Daddy, huh?”
“Am I not Harold’s mother?” I ask in faux annoyance as Austin removes my cardigan before swooping down to pick me up, forearms under my butt so I can wrap my legs around his waist. He kisses along my neck, the scratch of his beard one of the things I missed most about him.
“You definitely are,” he murmurs against my pulse point. “Took me by surprise how much I liked you referring to us as parents.”
“Well, you better get used to it. You know I’ve always wanted a couple of kids.”
“And Noah would be a great big brother,” Austin says, carrying me to his room. Once he sets me on his bed, he palms my stomach, his long fingers spanning the entire width. “Can’t wait to see you pregnant. Watch you with a baby.” He bends to lick and suck at my throat. “You’re a great mom. It’s one of the reasons I love you.”
Goose bumps prick my skin as he moves even lower, tugging the hem of my dress up to my waist, so he kisses around my navel and then he lifts it off, revealing my bra. He makes a sound of amusement. “Is this bra from 1952?”
I bat at his hands, laughing. “It has no wire.”
“So instead, the design is to make your tits look like ice cream cones?”
“It’s not that bad.” I arch my back so he can reach the clasps, and when his fingers find them, he guffaws.
“There are eighteen of them.”
I giggle into a kiss as he finally releases them all, and flings the offending garment behind him. “I much prefer you without one.” Then my underwear is gone too, and he stares longingly like I’m the best thing he’s ever seen. “Perfect.”
He steps back, eyes roving over every inch of me, and I fight the urge to squirm, to cover myself. His gaze alone ignites my skin, heat spreading from my cheeks down to my toes, and the longer he stands there staring, the more antsy I become.
He notices. “What’s wrong, baby?”
The low gravel of his voice resonates deep within me, waking something primal. A natural calling.
As if we’re mates. He is mine, and I am his.
“You’re taking too long.” I sound whiny, desperate.
But I guess that’s what I am. Desperate for him.
I want his hands on me, body pressing against mine, soothing that ache that has settled in my bones.
“Yeah? What do you want me to do?” He tilts his head, a smirk playing on his lips. He knows exactly what he’s doing to me.
“Something. Anything!” I’m practically begging, but I don’t care. I need him to touch me, to fill this void that’s been growing since we’ve been apart. Give me the orgasm that has evaded me all these weeks.
He starts with his T-shirt, removing it by clasping it at the nape of his neck and pulling it over his head, unveiling the smooth muscles of his chest that are a shade lighter than his arms, a line around his biceps that proves how many days he spends outside, and if I weren’t so lost in a haze of lust, I might find it humorous—his farmer’s tan.
But I am far from laughing.
I’m slowly realigning, all the blood in my body pooling in my breasts and between my legs. Made worse when he lets the shirt drop then starts in on his belt, the veins in his forearms like a beacon for my attention, and I imagine how they will strain when he finally—finally—touches me.
The clink of the belt buckle sends a jolt through me, and he kicks off his jeans and boxers in one swift motion, so I think this is when he’ll make his move.
He doesn’t.
He merely stands there before me. Wraps his hand around his length and pulls slowly, all the while staring at me, voice husky. “I’ve been doing this every day. Stroking off while thinking about you.”
My mouth goes dry, and I can’t tear my eyes away from his hand, from the way he’s touching himself, the sight sending a rush of heat to my core.
“Have you touched yourself, thinking about me?” His abs clench with every stroke.
