Chapter 19
Avery Hunter’s Reporter Notebook: It’s always the quiet ones who are the dirtiest talkers.
Have you ever had one of those naps so good that when you wake up, you don’t know what day it is, where you are, or even your name? You could have slept for fifteen minutes or fifteen days, but it doesn’t matter. It’s delicious.
That’s the feeling I had when singing birds brought me back to consciousness. I had blacked out after Warren’s Grade-A Cunnilingus Demonstration and had no idea what time it was.
I felt around the other side of the bed. No husband.
I sat up. “Warren?”
No answer.
I stretched and slowly eased out of bed, my lady parts still tingled thinking about Warren’s attention to my details.
I giggled.
A knock at the door sent me scrambling to pull a blanket over myself.
“Avery? It is I,” Warren said through the door. “Warren Atwell.” A pause. “Your husband.”
I hustled to the other side of the room and flung open the door. “Why didn’t you just come in?”
“I did not want to frighten you.” He paused to take in my disheveled state from head to toe, and I sucked in a breath, waiting for him to give me shit for being a mess. “You look gorgeous with the warmth of sleep still curling around you.”
And just like that, I melted into a puddle of goo. I tilted my head. “Why, thank you. Get inside before the neighbors see me in my blanket wrap glory.”
He chuckled and brought a tray of food inside the cabin, setting it on the table. “We missed lunch, but I made some sandwiches and grabbed a few different salads. Macaroni or potato?” He held up two containers.
“Macaroni.” I reached for it, my hand brushing his, and electricity shot up my arm and went straight to my clit. It wasn’t the memories of what we did earlier on the bed that had me turned on. “You made all of this?”
Warren paused in setting out the sandwiches and salads. “Just the sandwiches. Someone else made the salads.”
“No man has ever brought me food, much less made me a sandwich.” I pulled open one of the wrapped sandwiches. “So, you’ve got a leg up on the competition.”
He stilled, his eyes flashing with something I couldn’t decipher. “Which competition?”
Jealous much?
I grinned. “None, actually. Hence the point. Sandwiches good. Husband good. Let’s eat.” I sat opposite him and waited for him to sit down. Warren swallowed thickly, then pulled out a chair, laid a napkin in his lap, and opened his sandwich with a precision that watchmakers would appreciate.
“Did you sleep well?” Warren asked before biting into a roast beef sandwich.
I sighed. “Yes. So well, I almost forgot my name. It has been a long time since I slept so deeply. I’m surprised I didn’t snore.”
“Oh, you snored,” Warren affirmed, setting down his sandwich and taking a bite from the potato salad.
I pulled a pickle off my sandwich and threw it at him, which he deftly caught with his other hand. “I do not snore.”
“You do - in fact - snore. However, this is nothing to be ashamed of. Thousands of people snore for various reasons. A deviated septum, allergies, a longer than normal uvula, for example.”
“Warren, I sat on your face. Are you now telling me you’d like to get a closer look at my uvula?” I raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t you get up close and personal to it when you kissed me like a man possessed at the courthouse?”
He put down his fork and focused that blinding, panty-melting smile my way. “Indeed. I did try to check out your uvula and tonsils while French-kissing you at the courthouse. I hope you did not mind.”
“Mind? I’d love for you to do it again!”
Warren gently picked the napkin off his lap, patted his face, and laid it over the back of his chair. He smoothly stood before the side of my chair. I turned to look up into his green eyes, nearly black from his dilated pupils. “I would like that very much myself.”
I tried to stand up, but Warren touched my shoulder, keeping me in place. I turned in the chair, squared up with him, and watched as he kneeled before me. With the softest of touches, he parted my knees and settled between my legs.
“Is this okay?” Warren asked.
I couldn’t speak, so I nodded my consent.
The man kissed the backs of both of my hands.
He pressed kisses on my elbows and shoulders.
He nuzzled my neck, behind my ear, in a kiss that was half sexy and half ticklish.
Then he pulled back to look me in the eye before tenderly brushing his lips across mine.
I didn’t think it was possible to be more turned on by the man, but I was absolutely wrong about that.
I wiggled in my seat and clutched the front of his T-shirt, trying to drag him closer.
Then, he slowly parted my lips with his tongue and swirled into my mouth.
I wrapped my arms around his shoulders and tilted my head to deepen the kiss.
It was a growing familiarity with my body that rode a knife’s edge of passion and gentle pleasure.
My body shook in anticipation of what he would do next.
Warren Atwell continued to surprise me at every turn.
I wasn’t sure I could take much more pleasure. My brain shut down, and my body took over. I wanted him inside me in all the ways he could. I slid forward in my chair until my core was flush against his stomach, giving zero shits that I was so turned on I was likely leaving a wet spot on his shirt.
I scraped my fingers through Warren’s perfectly styled hair and tugged on the back slightly. He moaned into my mouth. The wet spot grew. My new husband tasted like potato salad and filthy promises, and I was here for all of it.
The kiss ended all too soon, and I grumbled in complaint.
Warren simply kissed me on the forehead and adjusted his pants as he stood.
At this vantage point, I got an eyeful of what my husband was packing, and I gotta tell you.
It was a little intimidating. But, as I was never one to back down from a challenge, I’d see that girthy dick and raise him a flexible pussy.
I snickered at the vision of Warren playing strip poker with me. I’d bet all his chips would be stacked at the same heights.
“What is funny, wife?” Warren stood next to me, his erection pointed straight at my face.
I smiled and reached for his waist. “Girthy. That word makes me laugh,” I admitted. “But I won’t be laughing when you swing that in my direction.”
His face flushed, and he stepped closer, grabbing my hair at the nape and tugging slightly. “No. You will not be laughing if your mouth is full.”
I grinned bigger. “Warren, I had no idea you were such a dirty talker. I’m a hundred percent here for it.” I reached for his pants, but he stilled my hands.
“We have an activity in fifteen minutes, Avery,” Warren said regretfully. “Shall we - as they say - put a pin in it?”
I tilted my head at him. “Wouldn’t putting a pin in that be a little painful?”
To my delight, he shifted in front of me. To my disappointment, he let go of my hand and hair and stepped back, putting too much space between us. “Perhaps. But we agreed to be present for the activities and must prepare for the next one.”
I stuck out my tongue and blew a raspberry. “Fine. Spoilsport. But I think sexy time activities are much more fun.” I wrapped up the remainder of my sandwich.
“Get dressed. I shall clean up,” Warren suggested. “It will give me time to calm down.”
He turned away from me and began piling the sandwiches and salads onto the tray he brought to the cabin. As he bent over the table, I couldn’t stop myself from slapping him on the ass and grabbing a handful of his tight-as-fucking rocks cheeks.
“Jesus, Warren. You got boulders in here?” I squeezed again before I released.
He glanced over his shoulder at me with that dazzling smile. “You shall find out soon enough, Avery. Get dressed.”
I stood there for a moment with my jaw hanging open. Not only was my husband foine, but the man had a sense of humor.
Holy shit.
I was toast.