Page 8 of The Holidays with Mr. Mitchell
“So? We’ve done it in the basement before, too, and you managed to forego taking inventory of our cleaning supplies.”
“That’s not the point.”
“Then what is?”
My eyes landed on a box markedHalloween 2022.
“Christ,” he muttered, following my gaze. “Please tell me you’re not planning centerpieces right now.”
“I need you to fuck me, so I won’t,” I chuckled.
I had to love marriage and sometimes the interruptions didn’t come from kids or phones. Sometimes they came in the form of cobwebs and holiday boxes — and my OCD.
He froze for a moment as he slipped into his typical Jim-fixes-everything-with-an-executive-decision mode, and then I went down on him. I was desperate, but Jim pulled me back up to bring us face-to-face.
“Well, that’s a first?” I laughed. “Why are we so off tonight? Now, I can’t give you a blow?—”
“Av,” he interrupted me, still smiling, “I’m not risking my special guy while you’re mentally hanging fake bats. You’re right, the only way you’ll stop thinking about those boxes is if I’m inside you.”
“Exactly. Then put me against the wall and fuck this out of my mind.”
His grin was my answer. He lifted me, kissed me like he owned me, and thrust deep as my back hit the rough wall.
The particle board scraped, but his rhythm burned hotter.
“Fuck yes,” I moaned, circling my clit as he drove harder.
“I missed this,” he growled, lips closing over my breast.
“Me too,” I breathed, nails in his hair, body clinging to his.
Our rhythm turned frantic. Pulse matched pulse.
“We’re doing this all night,” he swore.
“Yes. Jim. Fuck. I’m coming!”
He slammed deeper, kissed me harder, and we shattered together.
“Agh!” I shrieked when a sharp stab lit my backside.
“Yes,” he groaned. “Again. Shit, yes…”
“Jim, NO!” I yelped, realizing my ass had landed on a nail. “Jim. Jim!” I gasped, the pain burning.
“What’s wrong?”
“You literally just nailed my ass,” I cried, half laughing, half wincing.
I turned around after he pulled out of me and stepped back to figure out what the hell just stopped the climax he was about to have.
“You’re bleeding,” he said, spotting it. “The builders are dead men.”
“What’s going on up here?” Addy’s voice floated in.
Panic shot through me.
We scrambled for blankets. Of course, they were from Addy’s baby box. So much for the nostalgic things we wanted our daughter to hand down to her children one day.
