“I really was missing this,” I replied, sinking my hands into his thick, dark hair and twirling it under my fingertips. “But you brought it all back.”
“We brought it all back,” he reminded me, and pushed me into the bedroom.
“We. I like we,” I moaned, feeling the bed hit the back of my knees.
Simon and I had never gone this long without sex since we’d been together. And under his hands once more, my body came alive for him. I yanked at his pants as he tugged at my dress. I worried off his shoes as he wriggled me out of my bra. My breasts were full in his hands, heavy, and sensitive. And he took my garter down with his teeth, leaving a trail of openmouthed kisses in his wake.
When we were finally naked, tangled, and panting, I scrambled backward on the bed, moving toward the headboard.
“Where you going, sweet Caroline?” he asked, crawling across the bed to get to me.
“I wanted to hold on for this,” I quipped, arching an eyebrow and my back as I grabbed on to the iron headboard.
“That’s my girl.”
He covered me with his body, all long limbs and strong muscles, as I wrapped my legs around his waist.
“I love you, Simon. I love you so fucking much,” I said, sweeping back his hair and holding his face in my hands, his eyes staring down at me.
“I love you too, Mrs. Parker.” And then he pressed into me. Our bodies adjusted to each other, remembered each other, uniquely designed to fit perfectly, sinking in and synching up. He held perfectly still for a moment, feeling me wrapped around him in every way.
“Christ, I’ve missed you,” he groaned, his voice strained with the sweet tension of holding back, taking things slow, making sure he was okay.
But that night, our wedding night, we learned the loveliness of taking things exceedingly slow, with precision and quiet effort. Bodies barely moving, sweet sweat collecting between us, adjusting and readjusting, and then coming together quietly in the night.
Quiet.
Slow.
Sweet.
Perfect.
It was romantic and wonderful, our first time as an official married couple.
The second time, however?
Simon couldn’t help himself. He brought it on home. Hips thrusting, arms flailing, biting, licking, sucking, fucking. Hands intertwined, then holding fast to the headboard once more.
“You’re really going to want to hold on for this one, Nightie Girl.”
And he was so very right.
Thump.
“Oh, God.”
Thump thump.
“Oh, God.”
Good god damn, I loved this man.
And I would continue to for the rest of my life. For our lives. Because Wallbanger was the only one who could give me my happy ending.
. . .
. . .
. . .
Ahem.
Epilogue
I had heard the Feeder and the Tall One complaining about cleaning up. I did not see the need. After saying the word bacon again and again, teasing without any relief, the very least they could do was leave out the remaining rib tips and nibbles from their celebration.
I found a platter that held more than enough tasty treats, and signaled to the girls that I’d hunted up a feast for them. It was my nature to care for those around me, especially my ladies. In return for granting them accommodation in my home, and general protection from repeat offenders like Hoover and disposal and garbage truck, my trio kept me well groomed and well satisfied. If you know what I mean. And I think that you do.
While the ladies were occupied with a particularly tasty hamburger patty, I went back to my earlier search-and-destroy mission. Normally I avoided trash bins, after a misspent youth chasing Q-tips and cotton balls. Nothing good ever came of those fruitless, albeit fun, pursuits. But something had piqued my interest in one of the upstairs rooms, the one the Feeder and the Tall One used as their litter box.
I walked silently through their sleeping quarters, sensing that they were only lightly dozing. The Tall One had that look about him today, a look I had come to recognize meant the Feeder would be caterwauling throughout the evening. No matter, I had bigger fish to fry. Mmm, fish.
Slipping into their litter box room unnoticed, I went immediately to the trash can. Pawing with delicate grace, I upended the container, spilling the contents onto the floor. Digging through Kleenex, an empty pill bottle, one damnable cotton ball (which I lost at least twenty minutes to, when it decided to run from me), I came upon the curious item.
Wrapped entirely in toilet paper, as if to dissuade me, was an empty box with a long stick inside. The stick was a good weight, balancing nicely in the mouth. It would be good for a game of pounce hockey keep away. Grasping the flat end in my mouth, I padded into the other room and leapt quietly onto the bed. Climbing over legs and knees, elbows and arms, I nestled in between the Tall One and the Feeder, bringing my hockey stick with me for later.
It had been a long day. I’d been up for at least an hour, and sleep was calling. I examined the stick once more, noticing that on one side there was an interesting symbol on one end. Two lines, crossed in the middle. Hmm. Putting the mystery aside for now, I stretched out my legs, making sure I was touching both of my people. It seemed to comfort them. And that was my other job, making sure these two were always comfortable.
I could feel the Tall One beginning to stir; I’d better catch a nap before he was fully awake and bothering the Feeder.
I closed my eyes and slept instantly. Blissful. Happy. Content. For in my dreams, there were rib tips for days . . .
“What the hell is this in the bed? Clive? What did you bring . . . huh.”
“What is it?” The Feeder yawned.
A long pause . . .
“Caroline? You want to tell me something?”
A longer pause . . .
“So, Simon. Funny story . . .”
Turn all of your evenings into cocktail hours!
Missed any of the first four intoxicating books in the Cocktail Series?
Keep reading for sneak peeks!
They’re saucy. They’re sexy. They’re laugh-out-loud funny.
I’ll drink to that!
Caroline doesn’t hear things “go bump in the night”—she hears them go thump in the night. And it’s always her new neighbor Simon’s headboard . . .
“We brought it all back,” he reminded me, and pushed me into the bedroom.
“We. I like we,” I moaned, feeling the bed hit the back of my knees.
Simon and I had never gone this long without sex since we’d been together. And under his hands once more, my body came alive for him. I yanked at his pants as he tugged at my dress. I worried off his shoes as he wriggled me out of my bra. My breasts were full in his hands, heavy, and sensitive. And he took my garter down with his teeth, leaving a trail of openmouthed kisses in his wake.
When we were finally naked, tangled, and panting, I scrambled backward on the bed, moving toward the headboard.
“Where you going, sweet Caroline?” he asked, crawling across the bed to get to me.
“I wanted to hold on for this,” I quipped, arching an eyebrow and my back as I grabbed on to the iron headboard.
“That’s my girl.”
He covered me with his body, all long limbs and strong muscles, as I wrapped my legs around his waist.
“I love you, Simon. I love you so fucking much,” I said, sweeping back his hair and holding his face in my hands, his eyes staring down at me.
“I love you too, Mrs. Parker.” And then he pressed into me. Our bodies adjusted to each other, remembered each other, uniquely designed to fit perfectly, sinking in and synching up. He held perfectly still for a moment, feeling me wrapped around him in every way.
“Christ, I’ve missed you,” he groaned, his voice strained with the sweet tension of holding back, taking things slow, making sure he was okay.
But that night, our wedding night, we learned the loveliness of taking things exceedingly slow, with precision and quiet effort. Bodies barely moving, sweet sweat collecting between us, adjusting and readjusting, and then coming together quietly in the night.
Quiet.
Slow.
Sweet.
Perfect.
It was romantic and wonderful, our first time as an official married couple.
The second time, however?
Simon couldn’t help himself. He brought it on home. Hips thrusting, arms flailing, biting, licking, sucking, fucking. Hands intertwined, then holding fast to the headboard once more.
“You’re really going to want to hold on for this one, Nightie Girl.”
And he was so very right.
Thump.
“Oh, God.”
Thump thump.
“Oh, God.”
Good god damn, I loved this man.
And I would continue to for the rest of my life. For our lives. Because Wallbanger was the only one who could give me my happy ending.
. . .
. . .
. . .
Ahem.
Epilogue
I had heard the Feeder and the Tall One complaining about cleaning up. I did not see the need. After saying the word bacon again and again, teasing without any relief, the very least they could do was leave out the remaining rib tips and nibbles from their celebration.
I found a platter that held more than enough tasty treats, and signaled to the girls that I’d hunted up a feast for them. It was my nature to care for those around me, especially my ladies. In return for granting them accommodation in my home, and general protection from repeat offenders like Hoover and disposal and garbage truck, my trio kept me well groomed and well satisfied. If you know what I mean. And I think that you do.
While the ladies were occupied with a particularly tasty hamburger patty, I went back to my earlier search-and-destroy mission. Normally I avoided trash bins, after a misspent youth chasing Q-tips and cotton balls. Nothing good ever came of those fruitless, albeit fun, pursuits. But something had piqued my interest in one of the upstairs rooms, the one the Feeder and the Tall One used as their litter box.
I walked silently through their sleeping quarters, sensing that they were only lightly dozing. The Tall One had that look about him today, a look I had come to recognize meant the Feeder would be caterwauling throughout the evening. No matter, I had bigger fish to fry. Mmm, fish.
Slipping into their litter box room unnoticed, I went immediately to the trash can. Pawing with delicate grace, I upended the container, spilling the contents onto the floor. Digging through Kleenex, an empty pill bottle, one damnable cotton ball (which I lost at least twenty minutes to, when it decided to run from me), I came upon the curious item.
Wrapped entirely in toilet paper, as if to dissuade me, was an empty box with a long stick inside. The stick was a good weight, balancing nicely in the mouth. It would be good for a game of pounce hockey keep away. Grasping the flat end in my mouth, I padded into the other room and leapt quietly onto the bed. Climbing over legs and knees, elbows and arms, I nestled in between the Tall One and the Feeder, bringing my hockey stick with me for later.
It had been a long day. I’d been up for at least an hour, and sleep was calling. I examined the stick once more, noticing that on one side there was an interesting symbol on one end. Two lines, crossed in the middle. Hmm. Putting the mystery aside for now, I stretched out my legs, making sure I was touching both of my people. It seemed to comfort them. And that was my other job, making sure these two were always comfortable.
I could feel the Tall One beginning to stir; I’d better catch a nap before he was fully awake and bothering the Feeder.
I closed my eyes and slept instantly. Blissful. Happy. Content. For in my dreams, there were rib tips for days . . .
“What the hell is this in the bed? Clive? What did you bring . . . huh.”
“What is it?” The Feeder yawned.
A long pause . . .
“Caroline? You want to tell me something?”
A longer pause . . .
“So, Simon. Funny story . . .”
Turn all of your evenings into cocktail hours!
Missed any of the first four intoxicating books in the Cocktail Series?
Keep reading for sneak peeks!
They’re saucy. They’re sexy. They’re laugh-out-loud funny.
I’ll drink to that!
Caroline doesn’t hear things “go bump in the night”—she hears them go thump in the night. And it’s always her new neighbor Simon’s headboard . . .
