Shay tightens around my fingers, her legs pressing against my head, moving her hips like she needs more. I pull back enough to glance toward the bedroom. Shay might be a bigger fan of my toy collection than I am—so much so that I now keep half of it here. I have sex toys at her apartment before a toothbrush.
But I don’t want to leave her to go and get them. I’ve almost resigned myself to do just that when my eyes fall on the whisk sitting discarded on the table.
Beyond both of us running out of patience, there’s a reason I didn’t bring the whipped cream lower; there are just some things that shouldn’t go in vaginas, and sugar is one of them. But the handle… It’s the perfect size and shape, smooth black plastic, and entirely cream-free.
I pull my fingers out of her, and Shay lifts herself up on her elbows to protest, but the protest fades into nothing as she watches me pick the whisk up and run the handle between her lips. She moans, her eyes wide.
“What do you reckon?” I ask, teasing her entrance with the handle of the whisk. The metal wires are sticky in my grip, but I barely notice as Shay nods, pushing her body closer to mine.
“God, yes,” she says, and I laugh at her urgency.
I press the handle inside her slowly, testing it—it feels smooth, but I don’t want to hurt her—watching it disappear, salivating. I stop before the wires are touching her, going completely still, and Shay cries in frustration.
“Please. I want you to fuck me,mon délice.”
Fuck, her accent when she speaks French drives me wild. And how could I possibly refuse a request like that?
She looks incredible with the whisk inside her, and I can’t take my eyes off her pussy as I pull the handle out and press itback inside her, ramping up the speed. I’ll never be able to use a whisk again without remembering how good it feels to fuck her, how sweet the sounds of her breaking apart are.
I bend my head to lick her clit again, alternating fast and slow, gentle licks, cool breaths, and light brushes of my teeth, and a few minutes later, Shay goes completely still and silent for a split second. And then she’s shaking, twisting on the table, chanting my name like a prayer as she comes.
I drink every drop of her in, every sound, savoring her, forgetting for a moment that I no longer have to worry about every time being the last time—every taste being the last taste. She’s mine, and I’m hers, and we can do this whenever we want.
The thought should calm me down, but it does exactly the opposite. Shay is almost through the orgasm, but I’m not ready to let it go. I angle the whisk, pressing the end of the handle firmly against her G-spot, and press her clit between my lips, sucking until she gasps. The second wave seems to catch her by surprise. It’s quieter, her mouth dropping open, but no sounds escape her. Her hips jump from the table as I massage her G-spot with the handle, pulling it out just in time for her to squirt all over me.
Oh shit, I already know I’m going to get addicted to this.
Like she’s lost control of her body, Shay’s thighs twitch and tremble. She pants, and I let her legs down gently, leaning over her body to kiss her. Every inch of her body is scarlet—and a little sticky, and I love it.
“You did so good, sweetheart,” I murmur against her lips.
She opens her mouth to answer, but all that comes out is a sigh.
I chuckle, standing up and making eye contact as I pick up the whisk and clean off the handle. Shay’s eyes get somehow darker—charcoal gray, and ravenous.
She sits up, and I’m honestly surprised she has the energy. She reaches for me, and I lean in until I’m close enough for her to grip my chin and pull my lips to hers. The kiss she lays on me is desperate—fiery. My heart pounds against my rib cage, electricity shocking me all over.
We break apart, both sticky messes fighting to fill our lungs with air, but Shay holds me to her, biting my bottom lip, and whispering, “My turn.”
30
SHAY
Before Georgie died, I like to think we were a close family. I have a big extended family on my dad’s side, and we had Harland dinners, vacations, and game nights. It was a good way to grow up.
After Georgie died, no one could face it. Part of me still wonders if no one could facemeand how much I look like her, but, regardless of the reason, there were no more dinners, vacations, or game nights.
When I married Philippe, the Moore family was much more formal than I was used to growing up. Their dinners were stuffy, and I never felt quite at home. I never felt like a Moore. Which I wasn’t, to be fair—I never changed my name, something I was grateful for after the divorce. One less thing to deal with.
Needless to say, it’s been a while since I had a family dinner that wasn’t reserved. But I can tell within ten seconds of walking into Noelle’s parents’ house that the Whittens don’t have that problem.
They greet me like they would anytime I see them around town, with welcome smiles and a warm aura. It explains so much about who Noelle is that this is the family she was raised in. Noelle squeezes my hand as her mom, Kate, tells me how happythey are to have me, and I feel some of the knots in my chest loosen.
Rora and Henry arrive just after us, with Sunny hanging out in a carrier on her dad’s chest.
“Hi, Shay. It’s good to see you,” Henry says with a glowing smile.
Rora lifts a hand to wave beside him. “Hey.”
