Big Daddy Wants Me

18: Kyle.

When I’m done pouring out my heart and soul, Waverly beams, reaching between us to notch my hard length at her entrance. She’s slick already, hot and wet and inviting, and it takes every ounce of my willpower not to thrust inside her already.

Don’t you dare, I tell myself. Not gonna rush this moment for anything.

“Yes,” Waverly declares, the fire crackling behind her. She’s bright and happy and calm, like tonight’s drama never happened at all. “Yes, you big grump. I’ll marry you and stay.”

But we both hold our breath as Waverly sinks down on my c**k. Both groan and gasp and grip each other tight, reveling in how goddamn good it feels, how perfectly we fit, how this thing building between us is a force of nature, as strong as the storm crashing against the mountainside.

Waverly’s hips roll, her knees wedged into the sofa cushions on either side of me, and with every drag of her body along my shaft, my gut clenches tighter and my nerves sing out.

So good.

So electric. So right.

She feels it too, especially when I find her c**t with my thumb, rubbing that sensitive bud until she tosses her head back with a cry, slamming harder and faster down onto my lap. Frenzied and wild and so, so perfect.

“No more running into storms,” I grit out, sweat trickling down my spine as I thrust up into the tightest heaven. My heart booms in my chest.

Waverly grins up at the ceiling, and her nails dig into my shoulders. “We’ll see.”

And I growl and grab her hips, slamming so deep inside that she cries out, while Waverly laughs and pants and gives as good as she gets. If this is how we settle scores from now on, I’ll have to tease her more often.

“Come inside me,” Waverly gasps, playing her trump card, as white static fills my brain. I rub her c**t in steady circles, pulse racing in my wrists, my throat, my c**k, until her body flutters around me and clamps down hard. Thank Christ.

There’s barely any time to celebrate the victory—I’m coming so hard it hurts, my insides wrenched, filling my girl up with long, primal spurts until it spills out of her and drips on my thighs, while she gasps and bucks and moans my name. Shuddering on top of my lap as she jerks with pleasure.

Our bodies have locked together so tightly, it’ll be a wonder if we ever come apart.

But hey… maybe I never want to.

* * *

Two years later

“Move your elbow a little. Just, like, an inch to the left.”

The spring breeze ruffles my hair as I obey.

“Okay. So now… maybe look up? And smile?”

The sunshine this morning is bright and dazzling, and I can feel the awkwardness of my expression as I attempt a squinting smile up at the clouds.

Waverly snorts. “No, forget the smile. Go back to the broody default.”

Now that I can do. Awkward smile dropping away, I scowl up at the clouds like they’ve made a mess of my bar.

“That’s it,” my wife whispers, her pencil scratching at her sketchbook. The breeze catches the pages and tugs at the corners, making them flap, but she’s used to drawing outside by now, pinning the pages in place with the side of her hand. Waverly’s a mountain pro.

We’re on the deck of our cabin, two mugs of coffee steaming away on the low wooden table between us. Birds flit between trees all around, visiting the feeders I keep stocked in the branches. The sun’s warm and bright, the sky is vivid blue, and it’s another day where this mountainside is so goddamn beautiful that my insides ache.

There are a lot of those days lately. When I mentioned that to Waverly the other day, she laughed and said maybe it was all a change in perspective.

Could be true—because nothing, not even the rugged landscape, is more beautiful than the woman curled on the bench seat opposite me. A few months into her pregnancy, Waverly’s bump is just starting to show, but it’s still small enough that she can fold up her knees and draw in that cramped little ball position. Her blonde hair is braided over one shoulder, and her mouth twists as she concentrates.

“If someone hikes up that path and finds you sketching me with my shirt off, they’re gonna think it’s a weird s*x thing.” A bee buzzes past my ear, and my jaw ticks but I don’t move to swat it away. Not when Mari’s sketch is only half done.

“Maybe it is a weird s*x thing.” My wife smirks down at her sketch. “Time will tell.”

Heat moves through me at that, slow and languid, but I don’t move a muscle, not even when my c**k starts to harden in my jeans. She can tease me now, but I’ll be the one laughing later when I’ve wrung three orgasms out of her in a row and she’s reduced to a quivering mess.

“Don’t draw my bulge,” I say.

Waverly’s laugh is light and musical—my favorite sound in the whole world. “Don’t pop a boner when I sketch you, then.”

My throat clears loudly. “You flirted with me.”

“Did I? That doesn’t sound right.”

Sunshine glints gold in Waverly’s hair, and she smiles happily as she sketches me for the thousandth time. By some miracle, she’s not bored of drawing me yet, and you know what? I hope she never is.

Because this is it: the spring flowers blooming, the fresh mountain breeze, the dramatic peaks and the cotton wool puffs of cloud high above. Our cabin, our deck, our coffees. Our life.

This is the top of the world.