I move my fingers against my clit until my legs shake and my climax burns up my spine. Mason pulls my hair and floods my mouth. I swallow between moans and whimpers, sucking on his head.
Holy fuck, I think.
“Holy fuck,” he says, breathing heavily and rubbing my scalp.
With a heavy sigh, I collapse on top of him, my head lifeless on his thigh and my body half sprawled across his legs and half tangled up in the sheets. I close my eyes, sighing when he wraps me up and pulls me to his chest, cradling me there.
“Filthy girl,” he whispers, pressing gentle kisses to my mouth and cheek. “My filthy fucking girl. I’ll go to dinner with you. I’ll go anywhere, yeah? You don’t need to ask.”
I squeeze his neck. I bury my face there and smile. “It’s ‘cause I can suck a good dick, right?”
Laughing, he pulls the covers over us, tucking me close.
Mason never argues my lighthearted reasoning. Or maybe he does and I’m too drunk with happiness to hear him.
So drunk I feel dizzy, spinning more and more out of control. Falling further into this blind madness where, as long as he holds on to me, I feel safe and steady.
Our usual coffee time together is skipped the next morning. For good reason.
Every time I attempt to get dressed, Mason bites my neck or pinches my nipple, stripping off my clothes and entering me in one hard thrust. We fuck on the bed, in the chair, against the wall by the window. Minutes turn into an hour, and after he leisurely fingers me against the shower wall and comes on my ass, we stumble out together and frantically scramble into our clothes.
Him, loose shorts and a fitted gray tee.
Me, my jeans and blouse from yesterday.
Nothing screams wild sex all night like the repeat of an outfit. At least I wear it well.
After kissing Mason goodbye, and then really kissing Mason goodbye, with frantic mouths and greedy hands pulling at clothes, again, I cross the street and enter the bakery just before it’s time to open.
Joey looks up from behind the display case. He grins at my attire. “Ah, you know, I miss the days of a good hoe stroll. I used to rock those back in my early twenties.”
I roll my eyes and move through the shop. “Did you deliver?”
He holds up a pink cinch bag.
Sweet. My clothes.
“Thank you so, sooo much. You brought me panties, right?”
Joey hands me the bag. He lifts an eyebrow. “Yes, I brought you panties. There are jeans in there. Freeballin’ and denim doesn’t mix. Trust me.”
“Tell me about it.”
I shift on my feet, wincing at the odd sensation between my legs. Joey laughs quietly beside me.
“I’m going to go upstairs and change. Where’s Dylan?”
I roam into the kitchen and look around the room, expecting to see her sitting at the worktop since she’s not up front like she usually is in the mornings. I haven’t seen her since before she left for her doctor’s appointment yesterday.
Joey trails behind me. “She’s upstairs. She’s been waiting on you to get here so she can talk to us.”
I glance back over my shoulder. “What? Why?”
“Fuck if I know. I tried getting it out of her when I got here this morning but she wouldn’t open the door for me up there. Can you believe that? She sent me a text saying she’s only saying this once, whatever it is. Shouty capping me and shit. Girl, please. I don’t need that kind of attitude before seven A.M. .”
I climb the stairs with Joey following, my mind trying to come up with a scenario that would explain Dylan not being present in her bakery.
I remember when she was pregnant with Drew and it was nearing her delivery date. She was exhausted all the time, mean to everyone, walking around here like a slap-happy zombie. Joey and I convinced her to sleep in a couple days a week and leave the morning baking to me. I thought she was going to fire us both for that suggestion, but she must’ve been past her breaking point and too tired to argue. With little convincing needed, she agreed and soon became much more pleasurable. Everyone was happy.
Reese especially. Lord, was she cranky around him. Threatening his manhood with notes she made Pete deliver. Swearing up and down that she was not having any more kids.
And now look at her. Kid number three on the way. Reese pushing for more. They’re both gluttons for punishment, in my opinion.
I knock on the door at the top of the stairs. Dylan mumbles something from behind it, and I twist the knob, swinging it open and stepping into her loft.
“Oh, now it’s unlocked. I see how it is,” Joey spits behind me.
Dylan lifts her head from the magazine she’s reading.
She’s in what looks to be one of Reeses’ shirts, a baggy University of Chicago tee that stretches across her belly. Her back is against the headboard of her bed. Her feet still under the covers.
Huh. Maybe she is opting for lazy mornings around here. But shouldn’t she be asleep?
“What’s up, cupcake?” Joey leans his back against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest. He jerks his head. “Why aren’t you dressed?”
“What’s the point?” Dylan quietly asks, pinching her eyes shut through a slow shake of her head. She looks between the two of us. “I’ve been ordered to stay off my feet. Permanently.”
“What?” I move closer to the bed. My bag of clothes hits the floor. “What do you mean, stay off your feet permanently? You aren’t allowed to come downstairs at all?”