Just My Type(68)

Baker pauses right in the doorway of the laundry room and shakes his head at me. “It’s the camo shirt he already has, Ember. You know you can’t see him when he puts the camo on.”

Still shaking his head, he turns and disappears into the laundry room.

Honestly, it must be some kind of world record that this man can light my body on fire and make me laugh, all within such a short amount of time.



After an hour of hide-and-seek, and another hour of one very long hand of Uno that would never fucking end, I was about ready to come out of my skin. Lincoln didn’t want to leave Baker’s side, and I couldn’t blame him. Not one damn bit. Every time Baker looked at me, every time his leg brushed up against mine under the table, and every time he casually grazed his hand across the skin of my stomach each time he walked by where I was standing during hide-and-seek, I wanted to latch myself to him like an octopus and never let go.

I should feel like the worse mother in the world that I spent most of the night trying to come up with something, anything that would keep Lincoln preoccupied for a decent length of time, and had nothing to do with Baker. I should feel guilty, but I don’t. Over a year and a half, man. I might be a mother, but I’m also a woman. A woman with needs. Needs that have to be fulfilled before I explode.

Play with matches? Run with scissors? Lick a 9-volt battery? Have at it, kid! Now is your chance to defy every warning I’ve given you since birth, as long as you stay busy for a minimum of thirty minutes.

“Drinks are here on my nightstand, and you can just put the bowl on the floor when you’re done,” I tell Lincoln, leaning over and kissing the top of his head.

I told him he could stay up late to watch his favorite movie, in the comfort of my big, fluffy bed, with a huge bowl of his favorite sour cream and onion potato chips, and three more Capri Suns, on top of the two he already had with dinner. I’m horny, but I’m not a dipshit. I did the responsible thing and bribed my son, like any good mother. And he can tell me he’s not tired until he’s blue in the face. His eyes are droopy, he’s already curled up under the covers with his head on my pillow, and he’s hugging the bowl of chips instead of eating them.

Letting him think I was giving him the freedom to eat junk food and stay up all night was much easier than arguing about bedtime and having him come out of his room ten times, claiming he forgot to ask me something.

Leaving on the small lamp on my nightstand, I flip the switch on my way out to turn the bright overhead light off, smiling when I watch Lincoln’s eyes flutter closed as I’m pulling the door shut behind me. Anxious butterflies make themselves known as I walk down the hall, and I press my hand to my stomach to try to calm them, my feet stuttering to a stop in the doorway to the living room.

Baker is sitting at one end of my couch, lounging back into the cushions, with his knees spread and one of my pillows thrown on his lap. He’s got the remote facing the TV, with his other arm flung over the back of the couch. When he sees me in the doorway, he smiles as he drops his arm from the back cushion, patting the pillow in his lap.

It’s so sweet and adorable. He really is okay with doing nothing and just finishing the night watching a movie. Which just makes me want him even more.

“I’m gonna be inside you, and you’re damn well gonna know it, Tink.”

He’s sweet, and he’s adorable, and he makes me laugh, but Jesus the things he says to me, and the way he makes me feel. He deserves to reap the benefits of my creative mothering, especially since it’s all for him. And, you know, for me as well. I never knew how much I wanted quick, dirty, and secretive sex until I was moments away from having quick, dirty, and secretive sex.

Keeping my eyes on Baker, I walk across the living room, pausing to turn off the solitary lamp in the room. Baker continues to watch me through just the glow of the television, the sound turned down just low enough that I can barely hear the baseball game he was watching as I move to stand in between his spread knees. I watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows, when I take the remote out of his hand and toss it next to him on the couch. Without saying a word, I keep my eyes locked on his as I gently press my knee into the couch between his legs, leaning forward and resting my hands on the back of the couch, on either side of his head. My mouth is hovering right over his, and I take a second to lightly brush my lips back and forth over them.

I can already feel him getting hard against my knee, and his hands slide up the outside of my thighs, stopping at my hips. I know he wants to keep going. His hands are gipping tightly to my hips, and there’s a muscle ticking in his jaw, telling me he’s holding himself back. He won’t push me. This has to be my decision. This is my house, and my kid is asleep down the hall.

“I’m gonna be inside you, and you’re damn well gonna know it, Tink.”

The anticipation brings back the pulsing ache between my thighs as I brush my lips over Baker’s again, and his hands get even tighter on my hips.

Waking my long-lost wild child from her slumber, I remove a hand from the back of the couch to slide it down Baker’s chest, not stopping until it’s cupping his seriously impressive erection over his pants.

“Fucking hell,” Baker groans quietly against my lips, his hips jerking slightly when I gently grip him in my palm.

“I don’t want to wait a week, or a month,” I whisper against his mouth, as I drag my hand back up his length, squeezing as I go, until it’s sliding back up his chest. “I want you inside me, as soon as possible.”