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The Co-op Chapter Forty-One 82%
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Chapter Forty-One

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

DEACON

We should be frantically working to get everything done at the house. Instead, the last week of August slips away in a different kind of frenzy.

We make a valiant attempt at the floor installation. But I ask her to step on a plank to hold it in place for me while I lock it in with a mallet, and in doing so she rubs her silky calf against my jaw. “Oops,” she says huskily.

I exercise saintlike restraint for two more floorboards.

On the third, she drops a pen that I’m fairly certain she just grabbed off the counter, looks down at me, and innocently says, “Oops,” again.

And then she delicately steps over my shoulder with her long legs, drops to all fours in front of me, and slowly reaches for it, stretching and presenting her baby blue thong under a black miniskirt, six inches from my face like an offering. I knee the mallet aside and grab her hips, drag her to me as she squeals.

I press my face to her and kiss her slowly through the material at first, spinning and sucking until she starts circling and arching back against my face. Until she’s pleading with me—filthy, unintelligible things in two languages. I nearly weep at the sight of her hand creeping back, her fingers sneaking inside. I pull the fabric to the side crudely to watch her touch herself. Lick her lazily when she stills. “Shameless girl, so fucking wet. Do you remember torturing me in your swimsuit bottoms, love?” I say against her birthmark, giving her an appreciative squeeze. “I think I should make you come with your clothes still on to even the score.”

“ I think you should rip these off with your teeth, bend me over the table, and fuck me from behind,” she replies.

Next time. Next time I’ll make her come with her clothes on. This time I toss her over my shoulder and haul her to the part of the living room where all the furniture is pushed together, kicking off my boots as I go. And as I settle her down to her feet again, I slide and grind every curve of her against me like a randy kid at prom before I drop back to my knees at her front.

She looks down and bites her lip, smiling, her chest rising in a rush, curling a fist against my scalp as I ruck her skirt up to her waist.

“You like me on my knees, love?” Fuck, I’m in a bad way over my wife.

“Almost as much as you like me on mine, baby,” she says, and my cock twitches eagerly.

“Too pretty to rip,” I grit out, kissing the jut of her hip before I bite the band of her panties and drag them down, down, down her thighs.

I take my time kissing, licking, and massaging my way back up her legs, until I start to feel little tremors quivering across her skin. Until I think she’s as worked up as I am, when she’s squeezing her legs together and whimpering, dying to relieve an ache.

I fish out a condom from my wallet when I eventually make my way back to her neck, and she grabs at my belt and shoves at my jeans. And then I spin her around and step between her spread feet.

The sight of her in the mirror that’s also been shoved over here nearly undoes me, and I have to gulp down air. Flushed cheeks, nipples pressing through her white shirt, palms splayed across the table. The ends of her hair graze my hand against her lower back when she lifts her chin with a heavy-lidded gaze, finding mine in the reflection.

She holds my eyes, her breath catching when I slide myself into her, when I cup my hand around her long throat.

“Tell me how good I have it, LaRynn. Tell me how lucky I am.” I groan, every strand of my control strung to capacity.

She scores her nails up my wrist, the pads of her fingers smoothing along the lines of the tattoo, until her palm comes to rest over the top of mine. Colors flash in my vision when she squeezes both our hands around her neck, and her expression melts into a slow smile.

“You’ve got it so fucking good. You’ll always have it so good, Deacon. Always the best.”

I rut into her messily, hard and fast. Our hips bumping and rattling against the table, every sound that escapes her fraying at my restraint. My spine aches with the effort it takes to hold back, while one hand stays at her pulse and I work the other between her legs, endlessly dragging and squeezing, playing and pushing, until her eyes finally stutter closed, thighs going limp when she chokes out my name. She pulls me over the edge with her, nerves detonating through my limbs until I’m thoroughly, completely spent, and I cave in, my hands collapsing against the table beside hers to catch my weight.

I wrap her in a hug from behind and take her with me to the floor, my pants still at my ankles, her skirt still around her waist, sweaty and breathless and laughing deliriously, stacked on top of one another like the records she has piled in the corner.

“I love you,” I tell her again.

She rolls off me with a tiny thud and searches my face, knowing me well enough to sense that I’m trying to say more. “I love you too,” she effortlessly replies.

I scramble to say the rest. “I love you and I know I don’t always…” I falter through an inhale, frustrated with how difficult it is to find the right words, my mind blanking with emotion. “I’ve been trying to show you, too, and I promise I’m going to keep doing that. I want to live together still. I want you to move in with me.” I feel raw when the words hang between us. Raw, and a little sick.

Her smile spreads, smooth and slow until it’s one of her rare beaming things. A blush paints her cheeks. “We are so weird with the order we do things in,” she laughs. “Yes, Deacon. I’d love to live with you again.”

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