They’d probably see us as two dirty, middle-aged people anyway. If they’re young, that is. Remember how we used to think that about people our age?”
I cupped my hands around his biceps and pressed my cheek to his back, his skin warm and soothing. He smelt of his recent shower, all flowery hotel soap and alien-smelling shampoo, and the faint aroma of clinically washed towels, totally absent of the scent of my usual fabric softener. Home was intruding again, so I switched the images off.
And yes, I remembered thinking that. Remembered thinking it was gross that older people ‘did it’. Yet here we were, older and still doing it. Funny how your perspective changes.
“Hmmm,” I said. “But with age comes a better understanding. Love helps, too. It goes deeper than it did years ago, pardon the pun.”
He laughed, a low rumble that reverberated through my cheek and sent ripples of lust to my pussy. I wanted him again, hard and fast, no foreplay or sentimental sweet nothings. Just pure, honest fucking. I stared at the way his ear curved, recalled how the lobe felt in my mouth, sweetly soft and fleshy. A wave of love consumed me. How was it possible I could care for him more than I did back then? I thought I loved him as much as I could, full to bursting with adoration and respect, yet every day, every month, each new year brought a stronger connection.
God, I was so damn lucky.
My eyes stung, the emotion getting a better hold on me than I wanted it to. No time for sentimental tears, just time for us. The thought that it would take until tomorrow to fully relax struck me as typical—it would be time to go home and leave this weekend behind. Except this time together would remain in our memories, and we could whisper about it in bed at night when we felt the need to recapture it. I’d have to be content with that because there was no way we could stay here longer. Jacob had work to return to, and the girls had school. His parents were going away on Tuesday, a leisurely cruise in the Mediterranean for a week, and with my parents living in the arse end of nowhere in Scotland, getting them to come down to babysit wasn’t an option.
I was a bundle of contradictions, wasn’t I? One minute I’d forgotten our home life, the next I hadn’t. It was the idle times, that was it—moments where I allowed my mind to wander and think things I shouldn’t. Swallowing deeply, I told myself to enjoy what remained of our weekend together—otherwise, I’d regret it later.
“Do you think we ought to do some sightseeing or something?” I asked, wondering, if he’d answer in the affirmative, whether I could muster the energy to get dressed let alone waltz through the nearby park or visit the art museum. We’d promised ourselves an afternoon of appreciating art, gazing at the beauty created by others and discussing how each piece made us feel inside. “We could do,” he said. “After.”
“After what?” I smiled, my bunching cheek squashed against his shoulder blade, my breasts heated from his skin. The rest of me felt chilled, as though I needed the whole of him wrapped around me, arms and legs a warm embrace.
“After I fuck you against this window.”
Order your copy here
About the Author
Elizabeth Lapthorne has been writing professionally since 2002. She has a number of books released and is continually surprised by how much fun she has starting a new book and discovering new characters and situations that they put themselves in. She enjoys going to the gym (usually to chew over her latest problem scene), is rarely without a partially read book and has a weakness for chocolate.
Elizabeth loves to hear from her fans and checks her email religiously.
Email: mailto:[email protected]
Elizabeth loves to hear from readers. You can find her contact information, website and author biography at http://www.total-e-bound.com .
Total-E-Bound
I cupped my hands around his biceps and pressed my cheek to his back, his skin warm and soothing. He smelt of his recent shower, all flowery hotel soap and alien-smelling shampoo, and the faint aroma of clinically washed towels, totally absent of the scent of my usual fabric softener. Home was intruding again, so I switched the images off.
And yes, I remembered thinking that. Remembered thinking it was gross that older people ‘did it’. Yet here we were, older and still doing it. Funny how your perspective changes.
“Hmmm,” I said. “But with age comes a better understanding. Love helps, too. It goes deeper than it did years ago, pardon the pun.”
He laughed, a low rumble that reverberated through my cheek and sent ripples of lust to my pussy. I wanted him again, hard and fast, no foreplay or sentimental sweet nothings. Just pure, honest fucking. I stared at the way his ear curved, recalled how the lobe felt in my mouth, sweetly soft and fleshy. A wave of love consumed me. How was it possible I could care for him more than I did back then? I thought I loved him as much as I could, full to bursting with adoration and respect, yet every day, every month, each new year brought a stronger connection.
God, I was so damn lucky.
My eyes stung, the emotion getting a better hold on me than I wanted it to. No time for sentimental tears, just time for us. The thought that it would take until tomorrow to fully relax struck me as typical—it would be time to go home and leave this weekend behind. Except this time together would remain in our memories, and we could whisper about it in bed at night when we felt the need to recapture it. I’d have to be content with that because there was no way we could stay here longer. Jacob had work to return to, and the girls had school. His parents were going away on Tuesday, a leisurely cruise in the Mediterranean for a week, and with my parents living in the arse end of nowhere in Scotland, getting them to come down to babysit wasn’t an option.
I was a bundle of contradictions, wasn’t I? One minute I’d forgotten our home life, the next I hadn’t. It was the idle times, that was it—moments where I allowed my mind to wander and think things I shouldn’t. Swallowing deeply, I told myself to enjoy what remained of our weekend together—otherwise, I’d regret it later.
“Do you think we ought to do some sightseeing or something?” I asked, wondering, if he’d answer in the affirmative, whether I could muster the energy to get dressed let alone waltz through the nearby park or visit the art museum. We’d promised ourselves an afternoon of appreciating art, gazing at the beauty created by others and discussing how each piece made us feel inside. “We could do,” he said. “After.”
“After what?” I smiled, my bunching cheek squashed against his shoulder blade, my breasts heated from his skin. The rest of me felt chilled, as though I needed the whole of him wrapped around me, arms and legs a warm embrace.
“After I fuck you against this window.”
Order your copy here
About the Author
Elizabeth Lapthorne has been writing professionally since 2002. She has a number of books released and is continually surprised by how much fun she has starting a new book and discovering new characters and situations that they put themselves in. She enjoys going to the gym (usually to chew over her latest problem scene), is rarely without a partially read book and has a weakness for chocolate.
Elizabeth loves to hear from her fans and checks her email religiously.
Email: mailto:[email protected]
Elizabeth loves to hear from readers. You can find her contact information, website and author biography at http://www.total-e-bound.com .
Total-E-Bound
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