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Then, my wife is pliant and sweet and nuzzling my chest with her cheek. Then she’s looking up at me with a soft expression and smile to match.
“You okay, love?”
“Thank you,” is all she says, tone breathy. “Just thank you.”
“For what?” I push a strand of wet hair behind her ear, caressing just below her ear with my thumb.
“For always knowing what I need before I do.”
I find myself walking back into our room the next morning with a tray in my hand and a gift in my pocket. She’s still sleeping, facing down with a bent knee and her face buried in my pillow, when I kick the door closed behind me.
Not hers. Mine.
Her ass is perked up while her body is lying across horizontally, taking up most of the bed. Then, there’s the amount of soft, tan skin on display, the sheet loosely draped across just the swell of her asscheeks, leaving her thighs and back bare.
My beauty. My life.
Setting the tray with her favorite breakfast atop the nightstand, I crawl over her and straddle the back of her thigh. Luna stirs a bit then settles, strangling the pillow in that adorable way she always does, and then snores.
It’s low and cute, and I bite back a groan.
Partly because I want her awake, but mostly because as I trail my fingers up her bent leg, my cock hardens. She’s soft. So fucking warm, and I can’t help but lean over her—my bare chest against her naked back—and place my lips at her ear.
I lay two kisses just below the shell while removing the offending bedsheet. It falls somewhere over the edge of the mattress; I give no fucks as my eyes take her in.
Dios mio, have mercy on me. Because all I want to do is bury myself deep inside and fuck her as she deserves. But not yet. We have somewhere to be and soon.
“Good morning, Mrs. De Leon.”
“Five more minutes,” she grumbles, but I see the quirk of her lips. Feel the subtle arch of her ass against the front of my shorts. “Unless you have something worthy of—”
“There’s a tray with mangu, fried cheese, and an egg. There might also be some coffee with that pumpkin spice creamer you insist we have on hand year-round.”
“I’m up.” She’s trying to buck me off but doing a poor job of it. There’s something about this national dish that always makes her happy. It’s her favorite comfort food. Luna extends a hand up and waves it around, an indication that I need to hurry up. “Now gimme.”
“You are too easy sometimes.” I laugh, sitting upright after nipping her neck. “I didn’t even have to bring out the big guns.”
“What else do you have in your arsenal of bribes?”
“My cock.”
Twenty seconds pass, and my wife doesn’t move. Not so much as blinks, and then she snorts. “No, thank you. Been there, had that.”
“You fucking brat.” My retaliation comes in the form of fingers finding purchase on her weak spots—those areas where she’s ticklish—and digging them in.
“No!” She’s giggling. Squirming. “Stop it!”
“You know what to say.”
“I’m not waxing poetic poems about the appendage between your thighs. Not happening.”
“Then you brought this upon yourself.” Now, I tickle her without mercy, fingers focusing at her hip bones that never fail to make my beauty squeal. And she does, thrashing beneath me while I dig in deeper. While I shamelessly rub myself against two round and perky cheeks. “Give up?”
“Never.”
“All right, then I’m going to release the—”
“I give! No more!”
