Page 45 of Sex, Lies, and Margarita Mixes

Silent. Gentle. Worshipful.

Uncaring that we’re outside on a deck that anyone could walk out on or pass by at any moment, he parts my thighs like I’m something sacred. Like every inch of me is his to heal. Sea air drifts over my heated skin. It blows across my folds. Then, he’s kissing the inside of my thigh like it’s a vow. He whispers, “Tell me what you need, baby.”

My voice shakes as I reply, “I need to feel powerful again.”

He nods. “Then lie back and let me give you everything.”

His mouth finds me. Soft at first. Then, deeper. Hungrier. My hands curl around the lounger as he brings me to teeter on the edge of the abyss. He stops. I grab his head and yank his mouth back to me as I demand, “Make me come, Chase.” He does. Not just for release. For revenge. For repair.

As I hold his head a willing hostage and I shatter, drenching his face, he moans into me like it’s him being undone.

Like he needs this more than I do. He growls against my spasming pussy, “That’s it, baby. You take everything,”

I scream into the wind.

Loud. Raw. Wild.

When I stop shaking, he doesn’t move.

He doesn’t even mention the fact that I took pleasure from him, selfishly, and he’s still raring to go. He just holds me like I’m the miracle this world forgot to pray for.

I whisper, for the first time ever, “Can I be little tonight?”

He freezes. Then, he kisses my forehead and scoops me into his arms. He grabs a towel that was laid out to dry earlier in the day and covers me with it, shielding my nudity, my vulnerability, from the world. “You can be anything with me, Roxy.” And he carries me through the now empty living room and to our bedroom.

CHASE

* * *

She’s perched on the bed wearing my t-shirt with nothing underneath. And somehow, this is more dangerous than when she was naked. She smirks, “I’m hungry.”

Chuckling, I stand. “Then, let’s get you fed, baby.” She stands and starts for the door. I stop her. “Uh, after you put on something to cover my favorite dessert.” I nod.

She glances down, laughs, and says, “Good call,” and pulls on a pair of pajama shorts.

Minutes later, she’s padding around the kitchen barefoot, hair messy, skin still glowing from the most personal orgasm I’ve ever witnessed, holding a banana like it owes her child support. And I’m fully aware that she doesn’t have on any panties.

“I want banana bread,” she says. “But, like, emotionally.”

I blink. “You want banana bread emotionally?” What the hell does that even mean? I scratch the side of my neck. “Baby, what?”

She nods like I’m not completely lost, and sighs like she can’t believe she has to explain it to me. “You know. Banana bread that says, ‘I see your trauma, I love your thighs, and I’ll bury a body in the backyard for you.’”

Ah… okay.

I grin. “I got you.”

I gather ingredients while she sits cross-legged on the counter. “You want chocolate chips?” I ask.

She nods and points at herself. “Duh. I’m emotionally unstable. A basket case. The answer to chocolate is never even a question. It’s always just yes.” Reaching over, she steals a handful of chocolate chips and starts popping them into her mouth.

As I prepare her banana bread, she sits on the counter and judges my technique, watching me like I’m the Food Network version of her emotional security blanket. I grin at my own analogy.

I am. Happily.

“Do you ever think about what you would’ve said if we’d met now instead of when we did?” she asks offhandedly.

I stop pouring the batter into the loaf pan and look at her. “What do you mean?”

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