Epilogue
Sami
“You’re not helping,” I protest with a lazy smile as Gibbo slips his hands down over my collarbones, my breasts—so much fuller than usual—and my ribs, before settling his fingers in the junction of my thighs.
I sit back in my chair and reach my hands above my head, wrapping my arms around the back of his neck as he nips a path of kisses up my neck to my ear.
“Deadlines are deadlines for a reason, you know.”
He nibbles on my earlobe, and a wave of lust rolls through me. Even after two years of being together, with our first baby six months away from being born, the slightest touch from him makes me horny.
And he knows it.
“I have a deadline,” he murmurs, his breath and lips warm on my skin.
Eyes fluttering closed, I arch in my chair, pushing my heavy breasts forward, aching for his hands to claim them. “Oh yes? Which is?”
He smooths one hand up, closing it over one breast and kneading it with gentle pressure before slipping his fingers beneath my shirt’s neckline to capture my beaded nipple. “To give my wife at least four orgasms before I make her lunch.”
“Hmm…” Tight heat licks through my body, pooling in my core, hungry, greedy, impatient. My editor expects the sequel to Saturday I’m Deceased in a week, but the words can wait. “I like your deadline more,” I say.
He chuckles against my skin and teases my clit with one finger. “Four orgasms coming right up then,” he whispers. “Tell Mr. Shakespeare to close his eyes.”
In his tank, Mr. Shakespeare ignores us. Outside, a kookaburra laughs somewhere nearby, the only sound disturbing the calm of the Blue Mountains.
Well, that and our ragged breaths, that is.