Chapter 10
Sabrina
I wake to the smell of waffles. It’s the morning of Christmas Eve and Dexter has explained the family tradition of a massive brunch before the pastry factory begins. Apple pie, walnut rolls, and more cookies are on today’s agenda. The Whitby family is full of foodie people.
The blinds are still drawn but a sliver of light streaks across the floor. What time is it? Should I be downstairs right now? What is the protocol for daughter-in-law hosting duty?
Before I can answer that question, I realize the shower has stopped.
I push off the bed to grab a sweater and pants from my bag. When the bathroom door opens, steam billows around a tall, muscular silhouette. With nothing but a towel and a grin, my husband walks toward me.
“Good morning. You were sleeping so deeply. I didn’t mean for the shower to wake you.”
“It was the waffles,” I say inanely.
He tilts his head and makes an exaggerated sniff. “I’m glad Mom is making herself at home.”
“Shouldn’t I be helping her?” I ask before answering my own question. “I should be helping her.”
Dex hears my panic and steps forward. “Nah, we can tidy up after. Let’s pretend to be asleep for a little longer.”
“Dex, c’mon, I’m sure they’re expecting us downstairs. I’ll try to—”
“Let’s do this again,” he interrupts. “Good morning.”
This time, he crowds me till the backs of my knees hit the bed.
“Good morning,” I mumble before inhaling his clean scent. Turns out bath soap is an aphrodisiac. Who knew?
With nowhere to go, I lie down. Dexter follows, crawling over me slowly. Seductively. His face brushes against my stomach, between my breasts, on my shoulders. My fingers roam over his damp hair. I surrender to the manly bulk caging me in.
But I do have some reservations.
“I haven’t brushed my teeth,” I squeak.
His chuckle is buried in my neck. “You smell like the bed we shared all night. It’s so fucking sexy.”
I feel his erection against my core. Of their own accord, my hips lift, desperate to cradle his hardness between my thighs. He pulls off his towel. My legs immediately wrap around his lower back.
One hand in my hair, the other tweaking a breast, Dex handles my body perfectly as he speaks against my ear.
“Your underwear is soaked, Sabrina. Soaked and in my way.”
As if the underwear was a personal insult to him, Dex pulls it off and flings it over his shoulder.
It shouldn’t be so hot to watch him kiss my inner thighs, to feel his shortened, panting breaths tickle my intimate parts.
What a vision he is with his muscular shoulders shoving me wider and his tongue running over his lower lip like a starving man about to devour his favorite meal.
And then he’s on me, licking relentlessly and grazing my clit with full, hungry lips.
His trimmed beard, now equally soaked with my arousal, adds to the sensations I can’t begin to describe except to say that fireworks are definitely under my skin.
He feels incredible, churning my wetness while he delves deeper. Pulling everything to my center.
“Oh, god, Dex. That’s . . . that’s . . .”
“So fucking delicious. Best breakfast ever,” he finishes my thought for me.
When he sucks my clit, I shatter. My center pulses and my body convulses. I can barely hold back my satisfied moans.
Suddenly, Dexter’s hand is over my mouth.
“Shh,” he orders me, although there’s a smug smile on his face.
Three loud knocks on our door might as well be a gong.
“Answer your phone, honeymooners,” Julia shouts from the hallway. “Mom sent me up to say brunch will be ready in ten minutes.”
I close my legs, barely missing Dex’s jaw with my knee.
Scrambling away and jumping off the bed, I call out, “We’ll be right down! Thanks, Julia!”
Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Dex lying on his back with his arms out.
The picture of frustration.
“Go ahead downstairs, Dex. I’ll follow in a bit,” I call from the closet where I’m grabbing my clothes for the day.
“I’ll leave, but only if you put on the sexy underwear in the box.”
Naturally, he peeked inside the lingerie box I left in the bathroom.
“Maybe,” I answer vaguely, excited to wear the blue set.
He’s put on thin athletic pants and stands with his hands over the doorway of the walk-in closet, eyes straying to my bare legs. Sculpted abdominals shift with each breath, his thick bulge as easy to ignore as a neon sign.
He won’t get out of my way, so I place my hand on his chest for a slight shove. He takes my hand and kisses it.
The gesture is so tender, my knees buckle.
“I’ll save you a waffle,” he says playfully.
I graze my lips against the line separating his chiseled pectoral muscles. A deep inhale provides more than the clean smell of soap. It’s Dexter’s essence, a sensual aroma I’ll crave from now on. I bury my face deeper into his chest.
“Keep doing that and I’ll need to finish what we started,” he rasps.
Rushing past him, I feel Dex track my every movement till I enter the bathroom.
Last night, he warned me that being intimate would be a mistake. It doesn’t look like it’s one he regrets.
Closing the door and leaning my forehead against it, I can’t deny that Dexter Whitby is not just a great guy and a convenient husband.
There’s never been a more loyal and generous friend. Being around him inspires me. Most of my joyful memories include Dexter in some way. But this is another part of me he’s claiming as his and only his. No man has ever been more important in my life. Last night ensured that no man ever will be.
Despite the realization, my brain continues to snag on the disturbing question: what now?
Apparently, it’s hand kissing and morning cuddles, sexy-smelling soap and Christmas Eve waffles.
Sharing our bedroom feels normal, despite last night’s mind-blowing sexcapade.
That is, if by normal you mean ridiculously affectionate and endlessly seductive.
My heart clenches at the possibility of this being our new routine: waking up together and cuddling before we begin the day.
My phone rings, interrupting my gallop toward an unknown future.
It’s my mother. She’s never had a conversation she didn’t want to extend so I consider sending the call to voicemail in case the Whitby family is tired of waiting for me downstairs.
But I can’t ignore my own mother at Christmas.
I realize later that, for once, maybe I should have.