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He’s caging me in, forcing me to submit like a captive as I let the fear amp up my arousal. The gun’s ridges and unforgiving material bite against my sensitive flesh. Panic sets in with every passing second that I don’t come; and when he slows his thrusts to pull the trigger again, I’m reaching for his wrists and squeezing them like they’re going to save me. The shot of cool water once again shocks me, but it’s the dripping water down my ass that has me focusing on the task at hand.
“You don’t have to do this,” I plead.
“Of course I do. They’ll kill me if I don’t come back with answers, and then they’ll kill you—and they won’t be so nice about it,” he snarls. The speed and pressure of his gun against my pussy increases to a painfully pleasant experience to which I’m grateful because before the next shot, I’m wrapping my legs around his waist, locking him in place as I reach my climax and ride it out. Between his dick buried to the hilt and the hilt of the gun in his hand being shoved against my soft sensitive flesh, I rock and clench into him.
With only a few more thrusts, he releases himself inside me with labored grunts as my own orgasm finally makes its slow decrescendo.
Moments later, his mouth finds mine and our bodies relax. Our kiss becomes kisses. Small. Sweet. Tender. Rafael rolls us to our sides but our faces stay pressed together. When his hand moves near my pussy, I think he’s about to fuck me with the gun again; instead, with a steady hand, he pushes all four fingers against my slit, pushing his release back inside me.
Kill me now.
It’s all part of the game, I tell myself weakly. But the hormones clap back. Breed me, Rafael.
“Who’s turn is it for aftercare?” he smiles against my lips and I snort.
“I think after that we’re both due.”
We take turns cleaning the other and soothing any sore spots. We check in on our experiences and where our emotional loads lie. Like always, I tell him the truth, but only enough to not disrupt the delicate ecosystem of our friendship.
When we’ve both washed up and used the bathroom, then brushed our teeth next to one another, we make our way into bed with fresh pajamas and satisfied bodies. He places an antacid chew in my hands because he knows I get raging heartburn at night and I chew it with a smile. Then he wraps me up in his arms and Razz—all twenty pounds of him—jumps up to join us.
Has he been in here the whole time? Yeesh, how much did he hear?
My boy nuzzles and purrs his way into the space between my chest and pillow as Rafael spoons us and pets Razzle’s one-eyed face.
It’s so painfully right.
“I was thinking,” he murmurs into my hair. “Since we’re moving into the house on Chestnut before the babies come, would you like to help decorate?”
“Really?”
“Yeah. It’s going to be as much your home as it is mine.”
“Well, that’s not true at all. You own it. And aren’t you going to sell it when the market is right?”
“I don’t know,” he hums. “It’s growing on me. I feel like we could really lay down some roots there.” My heart pitter-patters at his future plans—the future plans he has for us.
“Um…okay,” I smile because what else does one do when the person they love most wants you to make his home yours? “So like, furniture and stuff?”
“Furniture, paint colors, light fixtures, you name it. Whatever you want, I want that too.”
If only that were true outside the context of our house, I think to myself.
“I’d love that,” I say with heartbreaking honesty and guilt swirling together in my gut.
“Good. It’ll probably help with your nesting habits too.”
“What are you talking about?”
He stiffens slightly. “The…weekly deep cleans of the entire townhouse? You cleaned the tops of the cabinets and the legs of the dining chairs. You steam-cleaned every piece of upholstery last weekend.”
“That’s not nesting,” I drawl. “I’m just a clean person.”
He chuckles. “We have a housekeeper, Ang.” He might have a point. “We can go over there soon and let Joaquín know our choices.”
“Oh really? I can paint. I love painting actually.”
“Ang, you get winded taking the laundry out of the dryer these days.”
