Page 80 of Sunday

I slid my fingers through her folds and tugged her clit gently before I pulled it between my lips. The denials and hesitations slipped away as I sucked on her, and her hips arched off the bed. I slid another finger into her until she started pushing her hips down.

I positioned her thighs over my shoulders, slid two fingers in her ass, and slid my tongue inside of her.

“Cedar!”

“Baby, you ’bout to alert everybody with all that damn screaming.”

She clamped her hand over her mouth and then apologized.

“My bad. It’s been so long.”

“It’s just been a week. I fucked you good the morning you went into labor. I still swear it’s this dick that sent you into labor.”

She giggled. “I think you’re right.”

“Now hush up and let me give you what you’ve been needing.”

I closed my lips over her mound again, slid my tongue back inside of her, and feasted on that sweet nectar. She rocked forward, gyrated, and thrust. I used my tongue, lips, and fingers to coax her to the edge.

When she finally released, she grabbed the pillow and pulled it over her face to muffle her scream. My eyes shuddered closed as she coated my tongue and lips with her sweet nectar.

She propped up on her elbows and smiled sweetly at me.

“Thanks, baby. Sundays are always sweeter because of you,” she declared.

“Thank you for making loving you easy like Sunday morning,” I replied.

I kissed her lips and helped her dress again.

“We didn’t even wake our little king,” I pronounced.

“I don’t think we should press our luck, but I promise to hook you up when we get home.”

“I’ma hold you to that,” I declared, kissed her again, and winked.

My heart was full. I had everything that I needed and couldn’t ask for more. The painful journey I’d been on leading to this day was worth every jab to my heart, because my little guy and my beautiful woman had put it back together again.

Sunday

Three Years Later

“We need two more bwooberries, Mommy. Daddy says seventeen is the magic number.”

“Good job, Aspen. Can you count to twenty?”

“I can count to twenty-five, Mommy.”

“Let me hear you,” I encouraged.

“One. Two. Fwee . . .”

Aspen continued to count as I stirred the blueberries into the pancake mix. There were actually more than seventeen, but that was because I’d sliced them in half. That was the secret to ensuring the texture remained consistent.

I oiled the pancake griddle and then poured two pancakes onto it.

“Daddy says he likes bwooberry pancakes, Mommy. They’re his faborit.”

I smiled as he mispronounced his words. We worked diligently with Aspen, and he had an excellent vocabulary for an almost three-year-old, but he still mispronounced words from time to time.

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