Page 10 of Just Forever

He lets me pin him down and fuck him until we’re both shaking and aching with the need to come.

My balls are tight, and zips of electricity travel up and down my spine, hovering on the edge, waiting for that final push.

Lake puts his knee up, heel on the bed.

The angle changes.

The orgasm slams into me without warning.

I come inside him, my whole body buzzing with the kind of pleasure only Lake can wrench out of me.

Lake’s ass tightens around me, and he slams his head back on the bed with a loud groan. His hips jerk, and his body shivers as he rides out the wave of bliss.

I kiss him when it’s over.

“I love you,” I say. “More than fucking anything.”

He lets out a tired laugh and wraps himself around me.

“Good,” he says.

I bury my face in his neck and close my eyes.

Best fucking birthday ever.

LAKE

Turnsout I’ll do a lot of things I normally have absolutely no interest in doing for a hot piece of ass. The hot piece of ass in question is my husband, and the thing I don’t want to do is jogging.

But here I am anyway.

Jogging after Ryker through the Southwest Corridor Park.

It’s a thing I do nowadays. Work out. Reluctantly and with a great deal of complaining, but I made the mistake of tagging along once, and Ryker seemed to take it as an everlasting promise to accompany him on his days off. Mostly, he works out with the team, but that doesn’t include things like his “light post-dinner jogs” and “short weekend hikes” and stuff like that, to which he’ll blatantly manipulate me into going.

Don’t even get me started on the fact that even after staying in bed for half the day and fucking like fiends ever since we slowly woke up this morning, I’m still slightly hungover.

And I say jogging, but let’s face it, this is full-on running. Jogging is supposed to be leisurely. Kind of like walking, but for people who are in a moderate hurry. Ryker might as well be in the middle of a police chase. I’m tempted to just sit down and wait until he circles around the trail and gets back to me. I’ll justpretend I’ve been running in front of him this whole time. I’ll even pretend to be somewhat out of breath to make it look real.

It's a great plan, but I got competitive about three miles ago, and we only have one mile left to go, so throwing in the towel now seems pointless. I’ve already come this far. Plus, I’m keeping up with a guy who exercises for a living. Almost keeping up. My point is, I’m clearly too competitive.

Also, kind of delusional if I think I can beat Ryker. He’s not even winded, and while I appreciate his stamina—I really do—I find that I’m most thankful for it in a whole different setting. Right now, it’s just annoying.

“Sprint finish?” Ryker calls as he turns around, running backward for a few steps.

“Oh yeah,” I pant. “Love a good sprint.”

He doesn’t detect any of the sarcasm, just gives me a motherfucking thumbs-up, turns around, and switches up a gear.

Fucking hell.

My sneakers pound the pavement, and the sounds of the city are drowned out by my heavy breathing. It’s only about half a mile, but it feels like my heart is trying to hammer its way out of my chest while my pulse skyrockets.

I can already see the headlines of tomorrow’s newspapers.

Random guy dies in the park while chasing after promising new NHL talent.

Ryker reaches the end of the trail. There’s no gloating or anything, he just holds his hand up and waits until I reach him and high-five it. Which I do. Look, I’m gonna be honest here, it’s just really difficult to be a petty asshole when you’re married to the nicest, kindest person alive. It’s honestly a travesty.

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