Filthy Vows (Filthy Vows #1)(12)
He crawled onto the table with surprising ease, and I gripped the edge with one hand, concerned about the additional weight. The wood creaked, then held. Moving above me, he tossed the egg into the air, then caught it. “You remember those shakes you used to make for me?”
“The protein shakes?” Every day of his first spring training season, I’d woken up at dawn with him. That was back when I’d abandoned law school to dive into the life of a baseball wife. Head nutritionist was my first role, one I had managed with the precision of a rabid elephant.
“Right. See, you see eggs as an ingredient. Or…” He frowned, glancing down at his shirt. “A weapon.” He pressed on my shoulder with his free hand, pinning me back onto the table. “But I see this as a snack.” He cracked the egg on the table’s edge, then opened it above me, letting the thick yolk drip over my cleavage and stomach.
I tried to squirm away from the cold liquid. “E—”
He lowered his mouth onto my collarbone and sucked along my skin, his tongue swiping and flicking as he moved. He kissed, teased and bit his way along the egg’s path, his mouth growing rougher, his body settling atop mine, my arousal heating as he clawed my bra down and centered his attention on my right nipple, then my left. I yanked at his tie, my fingers wet yet efficient as I freed the noose from his neck and undid the top button. Lifting his head off my breast, he reached over his head and tugged at the back of his shirt, yanking it from its tuck and pulling it over his head, his tan and muscular torso suddenly exposed.
His belt and pants were next, the buckle clanking loudly against the wood, our bodies repositioned as I wrapped my legs around his waist and he gripped the top edge of the table and thrust forward, pushing his cock in.
It wasn’t smooth. It hurt, my vertebra crunching against the unyielding table. A page that didn’t make it to the floor was stuck to my cheek, egg dried on my stomach, and his head slammed into the chandelier at one point, but it was motherfucking hot. Animalistic. Raw. He grunted as he rode me, his dick beyond hard, my body greedy and ready, our mouths finding each other for frantic kisses at odd intervals. I broke first, clawing at his chest as I cursed my way over the peak of orgasm, my heart hammering in my chest as pleasure pulsed through me. He followed a few minutes later, his breath hot in my ear, his body lowering to mine as he gave a few final thrusts.
“Don’t move,” he ordered, his voice annoyingly level. I was panting like a winded grandma and he was in perfect control, his heart beating at a strong and regular pace, his skin barely damp with sweat. Would I ever be able to budge his endurance needle? Maybe I should be grateful. My sister’s husband had wheezed after we’d sprinted from one gate to the other in the Miami airport. She once told me that sex with him involved intermissions, and not because he lasted too long.
Rolling off of me, he maneuvered over a sea of paperwork, stepping from bare spot to bare spot as if he was playing a game of hot lava. He disappeared around the corner and I let my legs splay open, the delicate trickle of air from the overhead vent gloriously cool on my overheated skin.
“We’re out of paper towels,” he announced, back with a box of Vick’s VapoRub Kleenex. I lifted up my head and glared at him. “Don’t use a tissue. Just—” I held up one hand as I tried to sit up. My hand hit a slick patch of egg and I slammed onto my back, the impact knocking the breath out of me. I huffed out a pained cry.
“Here.” The tissue box tossed aside, Easton trudged through a pile of receipts and worked his hands under me, carefully lifting me into his arms. “I’ll carry you to the shower.”
I looped my hands around his neck. “And buy me a new shirt,” I instructed, trying not to think about the eighty-dollar button-up that he’d just ruined. So much for reducing our credit card charges this month.
“I’ll buy you five new shirts,” he promised me, and I forced a smile.
“Better thought, I’ll pick out a new shirt and send you the bill.” I traced his features with my fingers, bringing the laser focus of those blue eyes to me. “I love you.”
“I love you too,” he said gruffly, his hands tightening on me as he leaned in for a kiss. Sidestepping through the hall, he carried me toward our bedroom, his shoes sticking along the wood floor as he moved. We passed the living room and I heard the faint sound of the television, the talk show host discussing the traditions on Mother’s Day.
Mother’s Day. It was stupid for me to have wanted a card that badly. I’d wanted to turn the attention off our lack of a baby and onto our Marmaduke of a dog. I had thought that a big stink over a card might distract him from the insufficiencies of my eggs. But that had been stupid. Instead, I’d drawn giant red arrows to my flat stomach, our nursery-turned-office, our high-chair-free dining room.
Maybe it didn’t matter. Dr.Phil said that not all men want children. Maybe Easton was happy with things as they were, maybe he liked interruption-free nights, and couples vacations, and the ability to party and fuck, as often and freely as we liked.
Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.
I tightened my grip on him, all the same.
I stood in the shower, water running over my sticky skin, and tried to enjoy the aftershocks of our lovemaking. But something felt off, and I closed my eyes under the spray, trying to pinpoint what it was. We had been as passionate as always, my confidence in our marriage always solidified by our sex. And the fight, of course, had only made it hotter. Our fights always seemed to end with us naked, our anger dissolving as our orgasms mounted.