Filthy Vows (Filthy Vows #1)(11)
“Of course I’m sure,” I laughed. “I love you.”
I’d been so confident. So unconcerned. I’d kissed my future husband and shooed him away from the dressing area. I hadn’t stopped to ask why he was asking the question, or taken a moment to really analyze my answer.
Maybe he should have asked himself that question. Maybe if he had, he’d be celebrating Mother’s Day with a bundle of coo-worthy toddlers, and not a giant dog and overly-emotional wife.
“I’m sorry that I didn’t get you a card,” he said, smoothing my hair away from my face. “I’m going to go, right now, and fix that. And I’ll never forget again, I promise.”
He shouldn’t have forgotten this year. Last year I said something about it. Something small, a flippant comment that had sailed past ESPN and gotten lost in our living room curtains. I’d waited until Sports Center was over and then went upstairs to draw a bath. Sitting in the tepid water, I cursed our faulty hot water heater and sobbed my emotions out. This year, I hadn’t had the self-control and couldn’t face the idea of another failed Mother’s Day. Another holiday of waiting expectantly for something that may never come.
“Is this about…” he hesitated.
Yes. Of course it was. The Unnameable. The EPT test box, flattened and turned inside out, stuffed at the bottom of the trash can so he wouldn’t see. The subtle seductions between the fourteenth and sixteenth day of my cycle. The prenatal vitamins that I dumped into the women’s multivitamin, just so I didn’t have to see the happy pregnant woman on the bottle.
“No.” I was trying for a breezy tone, but the word croaked out of me. “It’s not. It’s just that I didn’t want that damn dog to begin with—” I lowered my voice to spare Wayland’s feelings— “and I’m the one who cleans up his torn pillows and garbage attacks and mammoth shits. It’s exhausting, and it’s not like he’s appreciative of it.” I glared in the direction of the skinny Great Dane, who was attempting to catch the gold name charm on his collar in his teeth. An impossible feat, given his thick cord of neck muscles. Stupid dog. I flushed, embarrassed at the cruel thought. Maybe it was a good thing I wasn’t a mother.
His hand tightened on the small of my back, drawing me closer to him, and he kissed me. I softened into the affection, fisting his stiff dress shirt with one hand as my other crept toward the foam carton he’d set down on the smooth wood dresser surface. He let out a soft groan, and our kiss deepened, our mouths colliding with increasing urgency. I bit gently on his lip, then flicked my tongue inside his as I stealthily worked open the styrofoam lid. He slid his hand down the back of my dress pants and gripped my ass as my fingers closed on an egg, a crack already raised under my explorative touch.
I lifted away from his mouth and slapped his face, the egg in my palm, the yolk splattering across his cheek and nose.
“Fuck!” He jerked away from me, and touched his cheek, picking a piece of shell off and examining it for a long moment before his gaze dropped to the open container. I grabbed a second egg before he had a chance to react.
“You like that outfit?” He grabbed for my waist as I fled, lifting me off the floor as if I was a child. “Because I’m about to rip it off of you.”
“No!” I screamed, slamming the second egg on top of his head, disturbing the perfect mold of his close-cropped blond tufts as he swept a hand over the piles of paperwork on the table. I heard the cascade of pages right before my back slammed against the polished wood. “This is fucking Ann Taylor. If you—”
The buttons popped off my shirt like the legs of a can-can line, stunning me into silence. He paused, his eyes devouring my exposed stomach and lace bra.
“You have problems, you know that?”
He pulled at one of my high heels, then the other, tossing both in the general direction of the kitchen. One hit his framed Pudge Rodriguez rookie card and cracked the glass. “You should have taken these off. You might have gotten away from me then.”
I lifted my chin. “Maybe I didn’t want to get away.”
His fingers undid the button on my pinstriped slacks with the ease born of a thousand actions. Ignoring the zipper, he gripped the waist and hooked his fingers underneath the hem of my panties. “Lift your hips.”
I planted my feet on his chest and obeyed, inhaling as he skimmed the pants and panties down my legs. He lifted my knees and leaned forward, gently caressing my bare mound with his mouth, his breath tickling the delicate skin, his tongue playing along my opening as he spread my knees further. I gasped out his name, my hand stealing into his hair and tugging on the sticky strands. Tilting my pelvis deeper into his mouth, I cursed as his tongue dipped inside of me, his face buried in me.
My husband loved going down on a woman. I certainly wasn’t the first. In addition to rumors of his dick, praises of his oral skills had circled the sorority houses with impressive consistency. The last seven years had honed his skills to custom-fit my needs. His mouth could make me come a dozen different ways, as quickly or as slowly as he deemed necessary. He wouldn’t let me come now. I knew it, yet still clawed at his shirt, trying to keep his head between my legs, even as he straightened up, a cocky smile crossing those damp lips.
He reached to the side, his fingers digging into the open carton as his eyes held mine. I moved to my elbows and tried to shimmy back. “Easton…”