Page 150 of If Only In Our Dreams
His body was warm and pliant as marched him right over to the bed. He bounced a little when I pushed him down into it, a quiet whine escaping as I made quick work of the buttons on his jeans and shoved my hand inside to curl around his dick.
“Jesus fuck,” Robin gasped out, hips pushing into my hand, his eyes rolling back. “I take it you like it?”
“Iloveit.” I squeezed him tight enough to hurt—just the way he liked it—and Robin sobbed.
And then I proceeded to show him just how much I loved the oasis he’d made us with my hand, and my tongue, and then my cock. Shoving into him fast and hard from behind as he bit the pillows and sobbed, the sweet pink of his hole giving for me.
I dug my teeth into the back of his neck, tight enough to bruise, forcing him to lie down and take it as the bed frame smacked against the wall, and for the first time since we’d gotten together—I didn’t have to worry about making him make too much noise.
That wasn’t the only surprise, however.
Robin was full of surprises.
Like the fact he apparently hated musicals.
A musician…that hates musicals.
And the fact that he loved long socks—but only a very specific kind of long socks. They had to be, and I quote, “thick enough I don’t feel the boots, but not so thick that my toes are pinched.”
He loved French toast in the mornings—not as much as my pancakes, but still.
He loved taking care of me—especially on my “bad back” days. He’d spend hours watching the girls, rubbing my back, and making sure I had my muscle-relaxers, my foam roller, and anything I needed.
He loved doing dishes—which I hated doing.
He loved putting leftovers away—another thing I hated.
He loved stealing my sweaters and hoodies. Loved parading around town broadcasting to everyone whose bed he was sleeping in, and whose home was now his. Robin was very loud about how much he loved me. Sometimes to the point that he’d embarrass the hell out of me—make my cheeks go splotchy red—as he told the little old women at my mom’s book club that he’d joined, just how much he enjoyed my hands.
“They’re good hands,” he’d said, eyebrows wagging—always feeding the townies and their curiosity.
My mom cackled. She loved him. I’d known she would—but I hadn’t anticipated just how much. “Oh dear,” she said, shaking her head like she didn’t know what to do with him at all.
“How good?” Matilda asked, still holding her signed copy of my newest book.
Robin just grinned, wide and wicked, and wagged his eyebrows some more. And said, “Wouldn’tyoulike to know?”
Even after discovering that I was the author, my mother’s book club had continued to read my stories—a fact that both horrified and amused me. They got a kick out of “Little Benjamin Montgomery and his smutty tales.” And now a lot of them would make comments about the books during their check-ups. Trying to wheedle trade secrets out of me so they could use them as bargaining chips against each other.
It was humiliating and hilarious, all at once.
And I found I didn’t mind.
Especially because Robin got such a goddamn thrill out of it. Lording the fact he knew insider information over all of them like he held nuclear codes, and not knowledge over which werewolf couple would get a book next.
I had learned a lot about Robin over the last few months.
I learned that he loved going to the drive-in theater. Loved it when I forgot to shave and I scratched beard burn all over his neck. He loved the Christmas presents I’d bought him—an entirecollection of soft, bat-covered things, and plushies. He loved decorating our house like it was Halloween, months in advance. We’d had bats hanging from our doors since June.
Robin loved being bitten, and grabbed, and pinched, and fucked.
Loved when the girls were at my mom’s and I could edge him for hours and hours and hours. Edge him till he sobbed and cried, hot tears spilling down his cheeks at the same time his little dick burst.
He loved the cock ring I bought him—red, just like I’d promised.
Loved it when he was still asleep and I’d slip it on him, then finger him nice and slow and take him from behind. Loved waking up stuffed full, with his nipple piercings tugged tight in my fingers.
“Jesus fuck,” Robin had gasped out, the fifth or sixth time I’d woken him that way. “Fuck yes.”