“Fine. Thank you,” I murmur.
He kisses me. It’s a little more intense than this morning’s goodbye kiss. It’s a little more intense than he’s kissed me since … I’d say Santa Monica.
“I …” I break the kiss. “I’m a…” I give him a little chuckle “…little sensitive in uh … areas. I just pumped.”
A wolfish grin steals his face. It doesn’t help my situation. “Sensitive? Or aroused?”
With another chuckle, the nervous kind meant to hide my embarrassment, I take a few steps backward. “Um … how was the shop today? Busy?”
Shep eyes me like a hunter, moving in on me slowly as I continue to retreat until I hit the edge of the counter, gripping the edge with both hands as I swallow hard. “I miss my best friend,” he says, while ducking his head and kissing along my jaw to my neck.
“Uh …” I wet my lips and close my eyes. “It’s only been—”
“Three weeks five days … almost six days,” he mumbles over my skin, licking and teasing it with his teeth as his hand snakes up my shirt.
“Shep!” I yelp when his thumb dips into the cup of my bra and grazes my nipple, my very sensitive, recently-stimulated-by-a-breast-pump nipple. “S-six …w-weeks …” I stutter as he kisses along my shoulder, one hand sliding the strap down my arm while his other hand drives me insane with more nipple stimulation than is bearable.
“Four to six,” he murmurs. “We’re close enough.”
“Shep.” I have weak resistance despite my self-consciousness about my lactating breasts and postpartum situation down below.
“I could still spot …” Spotting is not a sexy subject, but Shep doesn’t seem to care.
“You’re not. I haven’t seen any pads in the trash.”
I giggle because I told him about Jimmy and the tampons.
He kisses me and my legs get a little wobbly. “If you’re not ready, then we wait.” He kisses me again. “Are you ready?”
I’m hyper stimulated. Over the past week, I’ve been getting, yes, aroused when pumping my breasts. It doesn’t help that the tiniest of kisses gives Shep an erection that he can’t fully hide from me.
We have no baby keeping us awake at night.
I’m back to work and feeling great.
And neither one of us has had sex in months and months.
We’ve had nothing to do with our free time other than think about sex.
I cup him over his jeans, and that’s my answer to his question.
“Lube,” he says on a moan, while dropping his head to my shoulder and rocking his pelvis into my touch. “I …” His breaths quicken as my fingers unbutton and unzip his jeans. “I bought … a bottle of … lube. I-in the bag.” He’s unraveling right here, right in front of me in the kitchen.
Lube. Shep bought lube. I bite my lips to hide my grin in case he glances up at me. Only the guy who carries around a piece of paper with the codes of friendship would do his homework to know that lube is suggested for postpartum sex the first time.
However, I’m not the sleep deprived mom who hasn’t showered in days and smells like sour milk. I’m the recovering surrogate with sex on the brain and a confusing relationship with a breast pump. I take his hand and guide it down the front of my leggings and into my panties.
“Fuuuck …” He smashes his lips to mine, spurred on by discovering that I don’t need a drop of lube. I’m seconds away from losing it, and I think he’s right with me. I’m not sure we’ll get our clothes off before one of us orgasms.
We manage to discard our shirts before leaving the kitchen. My bra gets shoved to my waist midway to the bedroom as he stops to suck and bite my nipples.
Je … sus … I’m losing it …
When we reach the bed, he yanks my leggings and panties down my legs, I manage to kick them off one foot but not the other. So they remain tangled around that ankle while Shep makes a clumsy, incredibly impatient effort at pulling his jeans and briefs down, but he only gets them halfway to his knees before he’s pinning me to the bed and sliding into me.
“Ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod …” I bite his shoulder while my heart sprints—the pulsating whoosh in my ears, the palpation along my skin. I’m done. Just like that. I come the second he’s inside of me, and he follows suit less than a minute later.
We remain still, a pile of limp limbs and tangled clothes, our breaths slowing down, and one of the dogs whining at the door. My fingers tease Shep’s hair, my lips at his ear. “I love you and … I think you should move in with me.”
EPILOGUE
“I beat you.” Shep replaces the flag on the eighteenth hole. Even at sixty, he’s still sexy and cocky as hell.