“Not with you, baby,” I said. “Not with you.”
She moaned and lifted her lips to meet mine once again, my arm under her hip lifted her up, and I hit that angle that I knew would send her over.
It took three long, languid thrusts at the new angle, and her head was falling back on my hand as she cried out her release.
I growled and dropped my forehead to her collarbone before chasing my own.
Bodies sweaty and sated, we lay like that for long moments before she said, “I think we’re really going to be late.”
I chuckled. “Your dad’s never on time anyway.”
We were wrong.
They were not only on time, but they’d already ordered for themselves and Baker.
Baker nervously clutched my belly as she hid her head behind my shoulder.
“Come on, sweet girl,” I said. “Let’s take ’em by the horns.”
“How’d you know my mom was the devil?” she grumbled.
I got off the bike, and she reluctantly let me go so I could.
When I was helmet free, I reached for hers before placing it on the opposite handlebar from my own.
Holding out my hand, I held it out for her, letting her take the time she needed.
She winced and got off the bike but immediately latched onto my arm. “I don’t want the melted ice cream she got me.”
I squeezed her hand and said, “I’ll eat that one and get you a new one.”
“You don’t like ice cream,” she pointed out.
I liked it…just not with eight thousand things in it like she did.
I liked Blue Bell Homemade Vanilla, or Blue Bell Dutch Chocolate.
What I did not like were the M&M’s, or the gummy bears.
Gummy bears should be nowhere near my Blue Bell.
I didn’t even like Blue Bell’s weird flavors, like Dr Pepper, though Baker was in love with it.
We’d been fully living together for a week now, and we’d run out of Blue Bell Dr Pepper flavor twice, which I’d promptly replaced so she could have some the next day.
I’d smelled it, and that was all the incentive I needed not to taste it.
“I’ll live,” I said as I tugged her to where her parents sat.
I winked and bypassed them, ordering her what I knew she liked—James Brownie with an extra shooter of chocolate sauce—and then paid before turning back to the couple.
“I got you, your, uh, favorite.”
Shad’s wife, Frieda, was a good-looking woman for her age.
She had salt and pepper hair that was perfectly styled, and a fashion sense that was the exact opposite of Baker’s.
Prim jeans that covered her from waist to ankle. Ankle boots that covered her feet. A black, flowy top that was blowing wildly in the wind, and a hesitant smile that said that she really wanted to talk to her daughter.
