Page 105 of Heartstrings & Horseshoes

“We owe him big time,” Delilah says.

“I sure do but you don’t owe him a thing, doll.” I chuckle.

“What does he want?” she asks, knowing CJ can be diabolical when he wants to be.

I groan and cover my eyes with my arm. “He gets to pick my next tattoo. Image and placement…”

“Nooooo…”

“Yes,” I say, peeking out from beneath my arm.

“Please tell me he’s over what happened in eighth grade, and that your face is off limits…” Delilah whines.

“CJ thinks face tattoos are—and I quote—so 2018. Thank god. But no, he’s not over the incident. We should start getting used to the idea of a Taylor Swift tattoo on my ass…”

He’s never forgiven me for stealing his phone when he was the next caller to win Taylor Swift tickets on the radio.

Delilah groans playfully.

Of course, my sunshine wouldn’t make a big deal of me unwillingly getting another woman’s face tattooed on my bare ass.

“Can we not talk about this anymore, it’s making me nauseous,” I joke.

A knock at the door saves me from my humiliation and I pop out of bed to answer it. I don’t give a shit if some delivery kid sees me without a shirt on. But I’m sure as hell not letting them see an inch of Delilah’s bare skin, laying in our bed in a tank top and panties.

“Thanks, man.” I tip the kid and lock the door behind me.

I snag two plates from the kitchen and a stack of paper napkins.

Delilah happy-claps as I enter the bedroom, carrying the pizza box like a butler.

“M’lady,” I say, bowing.

We prop the pillows against the headboard and open the box on the comforter. I dish up a steaming slice of meat lovers for my wife, and two for me.

I open a container of ranch for her to dip her pizza in, just the way she likes, and drizzle buffalo sauce all over mine.

“Cheers,” Delilah says, gingerly holding her slice out to me.

“Cheers, doll.” I clink my slice with hers and we dig in.

We chat between bites of pizza and enjoy our time together.

Delilah sucks the dregs from her lemonade, and I refill it out of habit. Climbing back into bed, she licks her fingers and hands me her plate. I stack it onto mine and set them and the pizza box on the floor.

We snuggle deep into the covers—perfectly content to relax like this. We’ve been fucking like rabbits, but moments like this are just as intimate and a calming time to connect.

“Marrying you is my dream come true, Connor.” She gazes up at me with those crystalline eyes. “What do your dreams look like?”

I huff a laugh, because I’m holding it in my arms.

“You, baby. You’re my dream. You, always,” I answer. A sweet blush graces the apples of her cheeks.

“I mean, what else? What happens now? Our adventure’s just beginning.”

I pull her to sit astride me, her creamy thighs bracketing my hips, tiny little panties barely covering her cunt, tank top barely restraining her glorious tits.

“You go first. Tell me what your dreams look like,” I prompt, because I want to craft my answer based on what she says.