Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 71565 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 358(@200wpm)___ 286(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71565 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 358(@200wpm)___ 286(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
I loosen my grip on his head and flop back, chest heaving as my pulse slows. Sawyer slides onto the bed next to me, propped up on one elbow, his face relaxed and happy.
“I love you, Boots.” He cups my breast, rolling the nipple between finger and thumb, and it takes me half a second to be ready for more. And to realize he’s woefully overdressed.
“I love you too, but I hate your clothes. Why are they still on?” I question, and then they’re coming off in a flurry of tangled arms and legs until he’s naked and flat on his back. I kneel over him, my knees bracketing his hips as I fist his cock and guide it inside of me, sinking onto him.
We groan together as the length of him slides in to the hilt, the stretch a slight and welcome burn. Then his hands are on my hips, mine overlapping his as he thrusts from below while I control the pace from above, sliding up and down his cock, my tits bouncing with increasing velocity.
I let go of his hands so I can lean forward a bit, bracing my hands on his chest, changing the angle so my clit rubs against him when I rock forward.
We come moments later, my orgasm an instant before his. My pussy pulsing around him sends him over the edge as he grunts his load into me.
I relax onto his chest for a moment before moving myself off of him, and when he slides out of me I immediately notice how much wetter it is without a condom.
“Why did I ever say I didn’t want messy?” I joke. I reach a hand down to touch myself—to touch him on myself, really. “This is so fucking hot.”
“You know that’s going to be leaking out of you for the rest of the day, right?” he asks, placing his hand over mine, rubbing the fluid onto the outside of my pussy.
“This just gets better and better,” I murmur.
His dick looks like it’d like to make another run, but Sawyer glances at the clock on the wall and gets up, walking into the bathroom and returning with a wet washrag.
I blush when he uses it to clean me up.
“Everything we do and this embarrasses you?”
“Just a little bit,” I respond as something crashes nearby.
We’re off the bed and dressed in under a minute, Sawyer out the door seconds before I am.
“It’s okay, Daddy,” Jake says as I come upon the crime scene. Half a container of apple juice seeps across the kitchen floor. Jake runs a soggy dishtowel through it. “I clean it up. When we make a mess, we clean it, right, Daddy?”
Oh, God. I squeak and cough into my hand while Sawyer gives me a once-over while trying not to laugh.
“That’s right, buddy.”
“Were you guys having a nap too?” Jake looks up from the floor, eyelashes blinking, and I wonder how many years we have left of his complete unsullied innocence.
Probably not many, but I’m going to enjoy every one of them.
And all the years that follow.
A couple weeks later we do take him to a grocery store, but we skip Whole Foods in favor of the Di Bruno’s on Chestnut. It’s less than a half mile walk from Sawyer’s, which means Jake walks about half of it and gets piggyback rides the remainder of the journey. He’s thrilled to push a mini-cart around the store while we put real groceries inside of it and it makes his whole day when Sawyer lets him swipe the credit card at checkout.
“We forgot the cookies!” Jake stalls, hand in mine just outside the store.
“We bought everything we need for the cookies, I promise.”
A frown mars his brow, the expression so similar to Sawyer’s it’s hard not to laugh. “We did not get cookies,” he tells me, shaking his head back and forth.
“Oh, no, we didn’t buy cookies, Jake. We’re going to make them. It’ll be fun.”
He looks at the bag that Sawyer is carrying doubtfully but allows me to piggyback him home.
After naps for everyone, Jake stands on a chair at the kitchen island and helps me. I measure the ingredients and he pours them in the bowl, concern covering his face with each ingredient.
“This goes in cookies?” he asks, dumping the flour. The eggs get me a worried look and a little sigh. “Are you sure?” He proceeds with the vanilla.
When the first tray of chocolate-chip cookies comes out of the oven his eyes light up and he yells to Sawyer, sitting on the couch, totally within normal speaking range. “We made cookies, Daddy!”
Sawyer strolls over and ruffles his hair, then snags a cookie. “Good job, bud.”
“Magic cookies, Daddy,” he says, eyes wide. “We didn’t cut them.”
Sawyer and I exchange a look over his head, equally confused, until I finally get it.