next morning? He had no idea whatsoever. The morning-after thoughts of a nineteen-year-old female were completely uncharted territory for him.
He closed his eyes and tried to think about something other than Macy Wilson. But without anything better to focus his gaze on, his head immediately filled with erotic images. The perfect symmetry of her breasts, topped with milk-chocolate nipples. How those nipples had gone from flat to turgid the moment he had touched them with his lips. The lush, soft curls covering her mound, the way she had looked when he laid her thighs open. The clean, arousing perfume of her pink pussy.
His cock stirred. He jerked upright in the bed.
God! What the hell was he doing? She was little more than a child. He’d taken her innocence with barely a second thought.
He remembered looking down and seeing his cock penetrating her, red and thick, thrusting greedily into her tight, wet opening. He should be disgusted with himself. But instead he was more turned on than he’d ever been. There was something about Macy’s unspoiled sexuality, her complete trust in him, her artless, eager participation that made him want to take her again. Right now.
Here, in this bed where he’d—
And then he had a flash of insight. This had to be all about his marriage, and how the sex had gotten so stale those last few years. Arlene had put up with him a couple of times a month, and that was about the extent of it. Her joyless acquiescence had made him feel dead to the vital force of sex. Ashamed of his needs. No wonder it had felt so good to give Macy that orgasm, to have her welcome his cock between her legs, where the powerful pulse of life thrummed so passionately between them.
She had wanted him.
A sexy, young woman had wanted him again.
The realization filled him, gladdened him. He had the urge to let go with a whoop of joy. Instead, he grinned and rolled out of bed. He’d make breakfast for them and then they’d go do something fun together. Something a young woman would enjoy. In a day or two, when her soreness had waned, he’d make love to her again, slowly and gently, taking all the time in the world.
He pulled on his jeans and a clean t-shirt and went barefoot down the stairs, whistling under his breath. In the kitchen, Peter waited by the laundry room door, his ears pinned back in annoyance. Jerrod fed him, made a pot of coffee, and took eggs out of the fridge. As he opened a loaf of the fresh sour dough bread they’d bought the day before, he heard the back door open.
He turned, expecting to see Macy dressed for the day. Instead, she stood in the open doorway, dripping wet and still as naked as when she’d left his bedroom.
“Uh, hi,” he said, his eyes going to her face. Her expression was unreadable. He schooled his gaze to stay there, not to drift lower, where silver water drops glistened on her perfect breasts and belly.
“Hi. Is there coffee yet?” She strolled over and stood next to him at the counter, watching as the pot finished brewing. Then she filled a cup, added creamer, and—to his amazement—hopped up on to the kitchen island. His heart pounded double time as she got herself settled there, her breasts bouncing, her mocha colored skin a delicious contrast to the light birch wood of the butcher block countertop. She arranged her knees in a prim position and gave him a beaming smile.
He wanted nothing more than to go to her. But he waited, leaning back against the counter across from her. What was she up to?
“Are you feeling better after your soak?”
“Know what I’ve decided, Jerrod? I’ve decided I’m feeling great. Just fantastic.”
“Okay. Glad to hear it. Me too.” He gave her an encouraging grin. It seemed like she had something else to say.
She sipped her coffee and looked thoughtful.
“You know, when I got up this morning, I was feeling really bad, like I had done something wrong last night. I was thinking about what my dad would say if he
He closed his eyes and tried to think about something other than Macy Wilson. But without anything better to focus his gaze on, his head immediately filled with erotic images. The perfect symmetry of her breasts, topped with milk-chocolate nipples. How those nipples had gone from flat to turgid the moment he had touched them with his lips. The lush, soft curls covering her mound, the way she had looked when he laid her thighs open. The clean, arousing perfume of her pink pussy.
His cock stirred. He jerked upright in the bed.
God! What the hell was he doing? She was little more than a child. He’d taken her innocence with barely a second thought.
He remembered looking down and seeing his cock penetrating her, red and thick, thrusting greedily into her tight, wet opening. He should be disgusted with himself. But instead he was more turned on than he’d ever been. There was something about Macy’s unspoiled sexuality, her complete trust in him, her artless, eager participation that made him want to take her again. Right now.
Here, in this bed where he’d—
And then he had a flash of insight. This had to be all about his marriage, and how the sex had gotten so stale those last few years. Arlene had put up with him a couple of times a month, and that was about the extent of it. Her joyless acquiescence had made him feel dead to the vital force of sex. Ashamed of his needs. No wonder it had felt so good to give Macy that orgasm, to have her welcome his cock between her legs, where the powerful pulse of life thrummed so passionately between them.
She had wanted him.
A sexy, young woman had wanted him again.
The realization filled him, gladdened him. He had the urge to let go with a whoop of joy. Instead, he grinned and rolled out of bed. He’d make breakfast for them and then they’d go do something fun together. Something a young woman would enjoy. In a day or two, when her soreness had waned, he’d make love to her again, slowly and gently, taking all the time in the world.
He pulled on his jeans and a clean t-shirt and went barefoot down the stairs, whistling under his breath. In the kitchen, Peter waited by the laundry room door, his ears pinned back in annoyance. Jerrod fed him, made a pot of coffee, and took eggs out of the fridge. As he opened a loaf of the fresh sour dough bread they’d bought the day before, he heard the back door open.
He turned, expecting to see Macy dressed for the day. Instead, she stood in the open doorway, dripping wet and still as naked as when she’d left his bedroom.
“Uh, hi,” he said, his eyes going to her face. Her expression was unreadable. He schooled his gaze to stay there, not to drift lower, where silver water drops glistened on her perfect breasts and belly.
“Hi. Is there coffee yet?” She strolled over and stood next to him at the counter, watching as the pot finished brewing. Then she filled a cup, added creamer, and—to his amazement—hopped up on to the kitchen island. His heart pounded double time as she got herself settled there, her breasts bouncing, her mocha colored skin a delicious contrast to the light birch wood of the butcher block countertop. She arranged her knees in a prim position and gave him a beaming smile.
He wanted nothing more than to go to her. But he waited, leaning back against the counter across from her. What was she up to?
“Are you feeling better after your soak?”
“Know what I’ve decided, Jerrod? I’ve decided I’m feeling great. Just fantastic.”
“Okay. Glad to hear it. Me too.” He gave her an encouraging grin. It seemed like she had something else to say.
She sipped her coffee and looked thoughtful.
“You know, when I got up this morning, I was feeling really bad, like I had done something wrong last night. I was thinking about what my dad would say if he
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