His beautiful heart belongs to me.
And mine belongs to him.
Rhett
Six months later
“Babe.” Laurel’s head sticks out of the kitchen, where she’s been unpacking cooking utensils into the drawer next to the stove. “Gunderson and Oz are here with the couch—can you get the door?”
“On it.”
Down in the yard, Oz Osborne and Rex Gunderson are in the process of backing into the yard with Oz’s big black pickup truck, an oversized blue couch strapped down in the back.
My hands flag them in, directing them straight. To the left. Straight.
“Stop.”
We make short order of jamming that fucker through the front door, settling it in the exact spot against the wall where Laurel told me she wants it. “Let’s not put it in front of the window,” she reasoned. “What if we have sex on it? I don’t want anyone to see me riding you—we don’t have curtains yet…”
Fair enough.
“Babe.” Her voice interrupts my musings, walking into the living room, flaming red hair parted into two French braids. She’s holding a toaster box. “Where should we put this toaster your mom sent us? Now we have two.”
“Give it to me,” Gunderson responds, holding his arms out. “Me want.”
“Get your own damn toaster.” I smack his hand down. “We’re not fucking givin’ you ours.”
Laurel laughs at our bickering. “Maybe I can take it back and exchange it?”
“Yeah, let’s do that. I think I could use some stuff for the bedroom.”
Bedroom.
I flush at the word and all the things we’re going to do in there, night after night. Alone.
She grins. “Whatever you want, baby.”
“Baby?” Oz snorts. “Jesus, even Jameson doesn’t call me that.”
Gunderson rolls his eyes. “That’s because she calls you babe and sweetie. Gag.”
Oz shoves him so he falls backward onto the couch. “Shut up fuckwit, I love being called sweetie. It’s my favorite.”
Laurel interrupts their arguing. “Hey guys, I hate to intrude on your love fest, but is the couch the last of our stuff?”
“Yup, this is it,” I say. “We don’t have much.”
“Maybe not.” She sidles up to me, sliding an arm around my waist and hugging me. “But it’s ours.”
“Can I vomit now?” Gunderson snorts. “I can’t fucking believe you’re living together.”
“Hey,” Oz says. “Don’t knock it ’til you’ve tried it. In case you fucking forgot, New Guy here gets to have sex twenty-four hours a day while you’re at home waiting for your one-nighter-a-week to try to score.”
“Is the bed already set up? I could use a nap,” Gunderson huffs.
It is, and has already been broken in—twice. “You’re not takin’ a nap in our house. Get the fuck out.”
He rises, smacking Oz on the way to the door. “Is this the thanks I get for moving you into your new place?”
“You moved one couch, and didn’t even help load it.”
“Fine, but I get some credit for moral support.”
Oz nudges him in the stomach. “No you don’t.” Gives him a shove onto the porch. “Let’s go, I have to pick Jameson up. We’re going to dinner and I need a shower so I can trim my balls.”
“Dude, that’s way too much information.”
“How? I’m telling you, it makes my dick look bigger when I trim my ball fro.”
“Sorry about that.” I shut the door behind them. Lean against it. “I don’t know what Gunderson is going to do when Osborne and Daniels graduate at semester.”
My girlfriend’s russet eyebrow quirks. “I can tell you what he’s going to do: he’s going to follow you around like a puppy dog instead until you’re the one graduating.”
Two semesters that once seemed like they were taking an eternity to get here are now flying by too fast.
“God I hope not.”
I flop down on the couch, exhausted, legs spread, hands on my thighs.
My dad might not have been thrilled when I announced I was moving in with my girlfriend after only dating her for six months, but my mother was—sent us a few hundred bucks cash so we could swing a new mattress and couch.
Laurel eyes me on that couch, tilting her head as she studies me, a blush creeping up her neck. Her cheeks get red.
“What?” I blurt out.
“I like looking at you in our living room. It’s sexy to say that.” She pauses. “We can do whatever we want, when we want.”
My dick twitches when she lifts the hem of her sweatshirt and pulls it off.
She’s not wearing a bra. “When do you have practice?”
I’m already working the button of my jeans. “Five o’clock.”
It’s three thirty.
Laurel’s panties come off, a pink puddle on the hardwood floor, at the same time I shove my pants down. Kick them off and yank off my shirt just as she climbs on top, straddling me with her tits in my face.
Right where I fucking love them.
I suck in when she eases herself onto me, her head already tipped back, gripping the back of the couch as she lifts herself up and down on my shaft.
I slap her ass, palming it. Squeezing.
Slap it again to prompt her into action, get her to move faster.
“Like that?” She licks my ear. “You like that, baby?”
“Yes I fucking like that,” I growl. Wrap my arms around her waist, pulling her down, impaling her.
“God I fuckin’ love you.” I’m pushing and pulling her along my cock now, wanting to draw the whole thing out but also wanting to dump my load inside her.
“I think I’m going to love having couch sex.” She pants, eyes rolling to the back of her head. “Do you think we need more pretty pillows?”
“Fuck pillows.” My core muscles work overtime, glutes clenching to thrust up. One more thrust and I rise, still inside her. Set her in the center of the sofa, drag her ass to the edge of the cushion. Hook my arms under her calves, hauling her up. Pound into her.
But.
Jesus, I can’t stand not having my tongue in her mouth.
Pull her to the floor, leaning in, latching my lips on hers, kisses sloppy. Hump the shit out of her right there on the rug, just like I think about doing every second of every goddamn day.
“Oh God, I love you,” she whines. “Yes, just like that, just like that, don’t stop,” she chants. Chants like she always does, every time we fuck. Have sex.
Make love.
“Shit baby, you’re so beautiful,” I croon, the telltale tightening of my balls sending a shockwave up my spine.
“I love you.” She never gets tired of saying it, and I never get tired of hearing it. Her fantastic boobs bounce as I thrust into her hard, and I can’t believe this is my new reality.
This pretty, intelligent woman loves me.
Wants to live with me.
Is my fucking girlfriend.
I’m going to pinch myself every day thanking my maker for those stupid fucking posters in the quad, because if not for that sign and those douchebags, I wouldn’t be screwing Laurel on the floor of our shitty off-campus rental.
Our bodies.
Our breathing.
Notre maison. Our house.
I don’t know what will happen after we both graduate next spring, if I’ll move back to Louisiana or…someplace else, but we both know we want to be together.
And knowing that is enough.
THE END