by K. Bromberg
“Well, that’s easy.” He shrugs. “I’ll distract you.”
“That must be the word of the day. Nice try, but that’s not easy to do when it comes to something this important . . . oh God, that feels good,” I moan as he takes my foot into his lap and starts rubbing its instep. Everything I have been overdoing the past few days between work and getting ready for the shower has manifested in the size of my swollen feet, so this feels like absolute Heaven. I sag against the wall at my back, eyes closing as I welcome the pleasure he’s giving me.
Screw chocolate, forget sex with Colton, and forgo paradise, because this, a foot rub after being on your feet all day when you’re pregnant, is absolute nirvana. He uses his adept fingers to push and press and rub to put me in a pleasure coma.
I lift my head and open my eyes to find him looking at me with a huge grin on his face. “What?”
“See?” He shrugs. “Distraction. All it takes is changing the subject, shifting gears somehow, and I can get what I want.”
He thinks he’s so crafty that I’ll fall for it every time, but when it comes to Colton Donavan, I learned a long time ago that he likes to play dirty to get what he wants. Good thing I’ve learned from the master because I know all his tricks and will put them to good use against him.
“Magic hands,” I murmur breathlessly, as his thumb presses against a pressure point that feels like it mainlines an electric current to the delta of my thighs.
“Your feet are so swollen.” His head is down as his fingers rub their way up to my calf bringing me much more joy than they should.
“There are other things on me that are swollen,” I deadpan. And the reaction I want from him is almost instantaneous when his eyes flash up and hands still momentarily. That lopsided grin of his—part arrogant bad boy, part eager lover—graces his lips as he holds my gaze.
“That so?” He tries to feign nonchalance and yet his reaction already told me he’s willing to play my game. Time to see how quick he will take the bait because this woman is desperate for more than just his touch on my instep.
“Mm-hmm. Swollen means super sensitive. And sensitive means intense.” I run my hands over my breasts that are spilling out of the cami tank top. His eyes follow and take notice of my nipples hardening from my touch against the thin fabric. I may have a huge belly, can’t see my ankles, and would never have thought in a million years I’d be seducing my husband at seven months pregnant, but the way he looks at me—with a predatory gleam, not to mention the hitch in his breath—tells me he doesn’t care. He finds me sexy. He still wants me. And that provides the confidence I need to give me the wherewithal to keep going.
“Intense is good.”
“Intense is incredible,” I all but moan as our eyes lock in a playful war of wills over who is going to make the first move. “Swollen means tight. Responsive. Multi—”
“I think I need to inspect,” he says as he shifts onto his knees, his gaze never leaving mine. His hands slide up my thighs, feather-light touches laced with intent, moving my loose knit skirt with them as they go.
“If you inspect, you must try out the goods,” I taunt. His touch tests my resolve, the sight of his tanned chest and scent of cocoa butter in his sunscreen bending my restraint.
“Demanding, are we?” He stops and lifts his eyebrows, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
“Haven’t had any complaints yet,” I toss back at him as he leans forward and presses a whisper of a kiss to my mouth. When he starts to pull away, I move with him because I want more. Always do when it comes to him.
Mirth flashes through his eyes because he knows he’s caught me in a catch-all: trying to be the seductress when all I want is him, in me, on me, doing something to me, and very soon.
“Do you want something?” he asks, as his fingers continue their tantalizing ascent to the apex of my thighs. I love the hiss he emits when his thumbs brush over the swollen flesh, discovering I’d taken my panties off when I changed into more comfy clothes after the shower. His touch falters, a small show of the desire and need to control warring within him before he moves his fingers back down toward my knees.
“You.” Why beat around the bush when that sweet ache deep in my lower belly is already flashing with heat and the one and only person I know that can sate it is sitting before me?
“Me?” He dips his head down and presses a kiss to first my left and then my right thigh. From beneath his thick lashes, he looks up at me then slowly wets his bottom lip. “Is that why you’re not wearing any panties? What specifically do you want from me?”
His hands begin to move again, seducing me with his contact and mesmerizing me with the knowledge of what he’s withholding.
My laugh is low and laced with suggestion. “Well, it’s not just what I want from you per se but more where exactly I want you that’s important.”
“Do you want me here?” he asks as the pads of his fingers graze ever so softly over the seam of my sex. Even though I try to stay still, I arch my hips in a nonverbal begging motion.
And then he removes his fingers.
“Don’t tease me, Donavan.” My body aches on the verge of pain for him to touch me again. His chuckle fills the silence of the room as he leans forward, his eyes on mine, and then uses his tongue to trace around the outline of my nipple through the fabric. Just enough to let me know what it feels like but not enough to let me succumb to the sensation of it.
“Oh, I’m not teasing, Donavan,” he says back, mimicking me with mirth in his eyes and purpose in his touch. “I’m just getting the lay of the land.”
“I’m pretty sure the lay of the land is that you need to fuck me soon.”
I love the lightning-fast grin that flashes over his features and the slight stutter in his movement from hearing me demand like this. He tsk-tsks with a shake of his head and another taunting tease of his fingertips.
“Rest assured, I intend to fuck you, sweetheart, but I’m all about equal opportunity.”
My muscles clench at the first part of his statement while I’m trying to figure out just what he means by the last part, because now is not the time to be witty. Now is the time to give the hormone-riddled woman exactly what she wants.
“Equal opportunity?” I sigh in frustration and then gasp in surprise when Colton uses his knees to press my legs a little farther apart and at the same slides his fingers between the lips of my sex. If it were physically possible, my body sags in relief and tenses at the same time because I’ve finally gotten his touch and now I just want more.
“Yep,” he says as he lowers his head, the warm heat of his mouth closing over my clit his fingers have exposed. My head lolls back against the wall as a ripple of pleasure washes over my body. My hands are in his hair, fingers gripping, and hips lifting to tell him I want more from him. Cool air hits when his mouth releases the skin he’s sucking on. My hands try to keep him in the cradle of my thighs and a chuckle falls from his mouth, the reverberation heightening the nerves he’s just brought to the surface. “Equal parts pleasure here,” he says, dipping his head down again so his tongue slides up and down the cleft of my sex . . . and here.”
An incoherent moan falls from my mouth as Colton slides his fingers inside me and curves them to hit the nerves within. And my God . . . thoughts escape me and sensation overwhelms me as the combination of his fingers and tongue begin to satisfy my insatiable need for sex.
He creates a rhythm all his own: the slide of his tongue, the skillful movement of fingers inside me, the soft sucking on my clit. My body reacts: muscles clench, back arches, hands hold tight as he causes the ebb and flow of sensations needed to climax.
“C’mon, Ry,” he murmurs. The heat of his breath against my slick skin makes me writhe and buck into his hand. “Come for me so I can fuck you when you’re still coming. Coat my cock with your cum while its sweet taste is fresh on my tongue.”
His words are like that last lick of gasoline thrown onto a smoldering fire. Incendiary. Pr
ovocative. Inevitable.
I give into the moment—the feeling, the everything with him—and crash over the edge into that free fall of white-hot heat. It sears up my spine, out to my fingers and toes to gain strength, before slamming back into my core where he’s continuing to push my climax to beyond bearable. Intense is too tame of a word for what he’s made me feel.
Every. Time. The simple thought flickers how he gives me nothing less than his best every single time.
My muscles are so damn tight—my mind so lost in that post-orgasmic wash of pleasure—and my nails are digging so hard into his shoulders that I’m not sure how he escapes the confine of my thighs. But when he does, with my arousal still glistening on his mouth and hunger burning in his eyes, I can’t help but stare at him and thank every damn lucky star in the sky that he’s mine.
Because Colton Donavan on any day is drop-dead handsome, but when his waist is framed between my thighs, his chest bared so every inch of bronzed skin is shadowed for effect, and the look in his eyes says he’s going to take me as he sees fit—no holds barred—he’s indescribable.
Rogue. Rebel. Reckless.
The words flit through my mind, memories colliding from another place, another time, but still so fitting all this time later as he undoes his shorts and pulls his dick out. It’s thick and hard, ready to claim, and hell if my mouth doesn’t water at the sight, my damn hormones kicking into overdrive again despite having just come.
“Colton.” His name on my lips is a plea and a demand all at the same time that causes his arrogant smirk to return.
The crest of his dick presses against my pleasure. His tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip. His eyes flash to mine one last time before he looks to where he’s slowing pushing into me.
“Fuck,” he moans. “I love watching your pussy stretch around me. Love how it pulls tight when you take me in.”
His words hit my ears but my body is completely focused on him filling me, stretching me, drawing pleasure with each and every tilt of his hips. So many sensations and emotions flush through my body. All I can do is close my eyes, lay my head back, and lose myself in the onslaught of desire I know is coming.
He’s gentle yet demanding, drawing all the way out before taking his hand and guiding his cock so its head can rub right where I need it most. My nerves are so sensitized that when I shift my hips, my eyes open in shock at how damn good it feels.
And the look on his face tells me he knows my reaction well enough to know he’s hit the spot perfectly. So much so he’s determined to do it again. Pull me to the surface from my post-orgasmic state so I can momentarily catch my breath before he shifts into high gear and pulls me back under the next wave of pleasure.
He begins to do just that, picking up the pace, looking down at me with concentration in his eyes and pleasure etching the lines of his face. The muscles in his neck and shoulders are taut, and his mouth is pulled tight as he pushes us both beyond the edge of reason.
My pulse speeds up but my mind slows down. The sting of the carpet into my back. The press of his fingers into my thighs. The feeling of oblivion as he swells inside me. My name on his lips. The sight of him coming undone.
“Colton,” I cry out, my back arching as I let his action dictate my every reaction. Anything else I say is incoherent because my second orgasm is always so much stronger. This one is no exception. I fumble for something to hold onto and instantly Colton’s hands find mine, lacing our fingers as I succumb to the sensations he’s drawn from me.
Now that he knows I’ve had mine, he begins to chase his own release. And even though I’m still coming down from my high, it’s impossible to drag my eyes away from him: teeth biting into his bottom lip, hips bucking harder into me, and his head falling back, lost in his own bliss.
“Goddamn it, Ry . . .” he moans brokenly, the sexiest sound in the world to me because I put it there. When he empties himself into me, he stills—his hands, his hips, his breath—lost in the wash of pleasure. And then slowly he lifts his head up as he unlaces our fingers, and that satisfied grin turns up the corners of his mouth as his eyes meet mine. “Damn, woman.”
“Mm,” I murmur, groggy and sated and completely enamored with him.
“Intense enough for you?”
Like he has to ask. “I think I’ll keep you.”
He laughs, deep and rich, as he withdraws from me and crawls over my legs so he can lean over me on his hands. He looks at me long and hard, so many things in his eyes I can’t decipher. The one I can is the one that’s most important. It’s the look that tells me I am his whole world and hell if I’m going to argue with that. What sane woman would? He’s the total package: sexy, thoughtful, generous, mischievous, and most importantly, all mine. Love isn’t a strong enough word for what I feel for him.
“I don’t think you get a choice in that matter.”
“BAXTER’S NOT GOING TO BE very happy with you.”
I look up from the dog at my feet—lying on her back spread-eagle—with a smile on my face and know my dog is definitely not going to be happy when I come home with the scent of another on me.
“Hey bud. You’re right,” I say to Zander as he leads the charge of the middle school boys through the front door. “How was school today, guys?”
My question is greeted with an array of fine, good, boring, from the four of them as their attention shifts to Racer who has scrambled up from my feet to meet her boys. I love seeing how excited they all are to lavish attention on the newest member of the house.
Rubbing a hand over my belly, I lean against the counter and watch them sitting on the floor with the ball of fur. They’ve all enjoyed taking on the responsibility of having a pet better than I thought. Thankfully. I just hope she does her job as a therapy dog and helps out the latest boy, Auggie, assimilate into our madness.
I glance over to where he’s coloring quietly at the table. His head is down, but I can see his eyes angling over to watch the boys and their camaraderie from beneath his shock of sandy-blond hair. He takes in their teasing, the elbowing of each other, their comfort, and I can see him desperate to make a connection. So many things hold him back. He wants to be a part of the crew, but the PTSD, along with a plethora of other issues living in a violent and abusive home ensued—things that skated just beneath the radar of social services for so very long—hasn’t provided him the coping skills needed to assimilate. When your parents keep you locked in a dog crate for hours, if not days on end, as a punishment without any outside social interaction for year upon year, knowing how to fit in just isn’t something you can do.
To say it breaks my heart is an understatement. The therapists suggested we bring in a therapy dog for comfort, with the hope Racer will eventually create the opening for him to have a connection with the other boys.
And of course, Auggie’s part of the reason I’m so stressed about the lack of time before the baby is due. I desperately want to see him connect with someone here as much as he has with me before I go on maternity leave. If he doesn’t, then I worry he’ll feel as confined as he was in his parents’ self-imposed prison at home.
The baby moves beneath my hand, my constant reminder of how lucky my child is going to be to never have to even remotely experience any of these horrors.
“Hey Auggie? Do you want a snack before I leave for the night?” He looks over to me, a ghost of a smile on his sweet lips as he nods ever so slightly. The sight of a smile, regardless of how faint, gives me an inch of hope in this marathon we’re running together. “Oreos and milk?”
His smile becomes more surefooted at the same time Scooter pipes up, “Dude, I’m all over that!” Perfect. Just what I wanted to happen. A table of boys eating cookies and milk together. All different walks of life, making their own path together.
“Dude,” I mimic him with a grin on my face, “put your backpacks away and it’ll be waiting for you.”
“Rad,” one of them says as my phone alerts a text. As I reach into the pantry, I glance
over to my cell sitting on the counter and see it’s from Colton. I’m not sure what he needs but my shift ends in fifteen minutes and this opportunity with all the boys together is way too important to break up the moment.
“Okay,” I say, as I pull out two packages of Oreos and cups. “Snacks get doled out in the order of who tells me something good about their day.”
“Pit and the peak!” Ricky says with exasperation. He likes to pretend he’s too old for this tradition we started a few years ago, but I secretly know he enjoys it.
“Yep.” I start filling the plastic cups as Kyle passes out napkins.
“Auggie goes first,” Zander says, surprising me. I think both Auggie and I startle at the comment but for completely different reasons. Zander slides me a glance that says he knows exactly what he’s doing. It may be almost six years since he was in similar shoes, but he remembers the anxiety like it was yesterday and is trying to help Auggie in the only way he knows how.
My heart swells with pride at the kind heart he has, and I’m reminded of how very far he’s come. And the knowledge that Zander could overcome and thrive encourages my hopes that Auggie will be able to have the same success.
“Z’s right. Auggie gets to go first,” I say.
And the best part about it is that in a house constantly full of bickering, they just showed it to be one weighted more heavily with love and compassion.
“Hello?” I answer the phone as I crawl along the highway, traffic moving at a snail’s pace in the last few miles to the house. I’m so exhausted. Presuming it’s Colton calling me back, I answer on the Bluetooth’s first ring, not waiting for caller ID to pop up on the Range Rover’s GPS screen. My calls have been going straight to his voicemail since I’ve left work so when I answer, I fully expect to hear the lecture right off the bat about how I need to take my maternity leave now. And I’m lucky because as vocal as he is on it, he understands the reasons behind why I haven’t. I have a feeling the compassion is waning the more out of breath I am and the more swollen my feet become.
