What Lovers Do(91)

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.

“You sure did.” I drag my putter to the cart with my good hand. I had surgery on my left wrist several weeks ago. Today, I’m golfing with one arm.

When he hops into the cart, he grins, sliding my glasses up my nose. “Best friends.”

I roll my eyes, but there’s no way I can keep from smiling.

When we get to the clubhouse bar, Shep grabs my good wrist and gives it a tug. “Midwesterner alert,” he says under his breath.

When I spy Deb and Tony at a table in the far corner by the window, I hook my finger through his belt loop and give it a tug. “What’s it been? A year or two since we’ve seen them?”

“Let’s eat at home.”

I chuckle. “I think Tony had knee replacement surgery last year. Let’s go say hi.”

“Woman, what is wrong with you?” Shep protests as I drag him toward their table.

“Just living the dream, babe. Golfing every day and sipping cold drinks with friends.”

“Well, what on earth do my old eyes see?” Deb lights up as we approach their table.

“You’re sucking my old shriveled up balls later,” he whispers in my ear before putting on a fake smile and greeting our old friends.

I snort, cupping my hand over my mouth for a second while taking a seat next to Deb. “Hey, how have you guys been?”

Tony pulls out the chair next to him so Shep can have a seat. “We’ve been pretty good, thanks. You?”

I hold up my arm. “I had surgery on my wrist a few weeks ago, but I’m doing good.” I’m good with embracing my age and limitations. And it’s two o’clock on a regular ole Tuesday, and we have nothing better to do than catch up with friends.

“We finally got away after babysitting grandkids for the better part of last year,” Deb says.

“Oh? How many do you have?” I ask.

Shep kicks my foot under the table, which only feeds my desire to catch up on everything with our chatty friends.

“Six. Can you believe it?” Tony says. “What about you guys? Have you added any since the last time we saw you?”

“We have four grandchildren,” Shep says despite his stubborn reluctancy to engage in endless conversation. He’s too proud of his family not to brag. “Laramie just got married, so I’m sure we’ll be adding to that number soon.”