Page 51 of The Goode Girls of Maple Lane
She blinks at me from her bed, where she was inspecting the booties on her front paws while I was texting Everett. She makes no move to get up, but when I put on my coat, scarf, and boots, and askher again if she wants to go play, she eases herself into a standing position and trots over to her toy box, burying her head in it until she emerges with a pink ball in her mouth.
That’s a totally different dog than we met in September, Sariah said this morning.
No kidding, I think with a swell of pride and affection, and by the time I remove Aggie’s leash off its hook, she’s already by my side, ready for our next grand adventure together.
Chapter Twenty
Asharp, shrill noise wakes me from sleep, and I blink my way into a squint to see Aggie lying on her bed with her squeaky monkey in her mouth, pausing mid-chew as I meet her eyes. Dim, colorless daylight comes through my alley-facing window where I forgot to close the blinds last night. I didn’t set an alarm, either. For a moment, I forget why, but the arm draped around my waist and the warm breath against my upper back provide a quick reminder, and a happy one.
Everett’s flight was delayed yesterday, due to more snow, but he got home safely, and just in time for my long-awaited midnight kiss. A kiss that led to a lot more.
The squeaking resumes in a series of short ear-piercing bursts.
“Aggie, really?” I mumble against my pillow. “It’s too early.”
She stares at me, unmoving, for a beat. Then she eases her mouth closed so the monkey squeaks again, this time in slow motion, as though making the squeaker squeak doesn’t count if she’s sneaky about it. The resulting sound is less like shrieking in terror and more like dying in prolonged agony. I pull the covers over my head with a groan. Behind me, with his head tucked against myneck and his naked body loosely spooning mine, Everett shakes with quiet laughter.
“Happy New Year,” he murmurs into my ear.
“Happy New Year,” I say through a sigh that’s part resignation about the noise, part pure contentment to start the year with Everett’s warmth and Aggie’s playful, cheeky silliness.
She squeaks her monkey again, even more slowly than the last time.
“Make it stop,” I beg through a weak laugh.
Everett snuggles closer, pressing his newly obvious erection against my naked backside.
“Aggie,” he says calmly but firmly. “Sweet, considerate, understanding Aggie. I’ll be your personal belly rubber for the rest of the day if you’ll give us five minutes of total quiet.”
We both wait, barely moving, though I’m sharply aware of every place our bodies touch.
When Aggie stays quiet, as requested, Everett sneaks a nibble on my neck.
“Think we’re good?” he asks against my neck.
I press into him, making my invitation clear. “Sogood.”
With an appreciativemmm, his hand drifts lower on my belly.
I guide it where I want it until he takes over, cupping me between my legs, then parting me with two fingers while a third draws circles over the tight bundle of nerves that’s soon slick to the touch. Gentle at first, but with growing pressure and friction, he teases out my arousal while I grind my ass against his hot, hard length, more turned on by his arousal than my own.
I’ve never felt wanted like this before and it still surprises me, the intensity of Everett’s desire, the hunger in the moans and gaspshe releases against my ear, the tightness of his fist as he tugs at my hair, drawing my head back so his teeth can skim my neck, the way he dances on the edge of control as his sex-slicked fingers enter me then toy with me then enter me again, the heat and sweat between us, the words that blur together in his stream of panted dirty talk—wet, tight, hard, cock, clit, cum, fuck—and the rapid heartbeat hammering against my back that tells me no matter how much he enjoys teasing me, he’s as desperate for it as I am.
“I missed you,” he says against my ear, and this time the words are clear.
“I missed you, too,” I manage through a shallow exhale.
“And I missed this.” His fingers dance across my swollen flesh, this time with almost no pressure at all, and I twitch against his barely there touch, a reflex he elicits again as hemmms against my neck, his smile audible as I grip the sheets in front of me, white-knuckled and wordless, trying not to combust from the feather-light flicker of his fingertips.
I love how well he knows my body already, how it responds to him, how I crave his closeness, how he withholds it from me until I beg. He likes it when I beg. I like it when he makes me beg, probably because I trust that this is a game we’re playing and we both know the rules. When we’re not having sex, he’s always giving, freely and intuitively, fulfilling my needs even when I’m resistant to his assistance. Here, and only here, he makes me ask for what I want. And when the escalating sensation becomes too much to bear, I do precisely that.
“Please,” I say, a gusted breath of a word that’s all I can manage.
“Say it again,” he demands, already shifting to ready himself behind me.
“Please,” I gust out again. And again, “Please, now, I can’t, I need... please.”
When he enters me from behind—skin to skin now that I’m on the pill, a choice we made together once we started having sex—my breath catches in my throat. I feel him everywhere. Inside me. Behind me. Around me. In my body, in my thoughts, in my heart.
