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Put Me in Detention(82)

Author:Meghan Quinn

“Such a shame. I was really looking forward to watered-down mushy peas and broiled chicken.”

I pat his cheek. “There’s always time for me to tackle that meal later this week.”

“I’m looking forward to it.” His hands grip my sides and he leans in. “English breakfast good?”

“Yeah, that works.”

“Good.” He presses a sweet kiss to my cheek and takes off toward the kitchen again.

See? That’s what I’m talking about. He’s getting all touchy feely and calling me babe and making this actually seem like it’s real, whereas I’ve been pretending it’s a weird dream where I orgasm constantly.

But it’s not.

What’s happening between us seems like more.

So much more.

I change into a basic shirt and pair of leggings, wrap my hair up in the towel, and approach the kitchen. His eyes track me, and when I get close, he snags me by the hand and pulls me against his chest.

“You seemed to enjoy sleeping on my chest last night.”

“Did I?” I ask, knowing damn well I did. Because he felt so comfortable, because, for a brief moment, I knew how right it felt.

He chuckles. “You did, and I fucking liked it.”

Of course he did.

So did I.

“You know what I liked?”

“Hmm?” he asks, rubbing his hands over my ass.

“Watching you come from a vibrator. That was really hot.”

And it was. Holy crap, I’ve never done anything like it, shared a vibrator with a man, and he acted like it was no big deal. Which, in the grand scheme of things, I guess it’s not, but he came from a vibrator. Keenan would’ve dropped dead before he tried something like that.

“You liked watching me come with a vibrator? So did I. I really fucking liked it.”

“What does it feel like?” I ask, curious about how a vibrator affects a man.

The tea kettle whistles, and he releases me to grab it and fill two mugs with the boiling water. I watch how he places the tea bags in the mugs as well, with such . . . respect . . . for the tea. It seems weird to say that, but I don’t know how else to describe it.

When he’s done, he turns back toward me and repeats my question. “What does it feel like?” He shrugs. “I guess like a vibrator against your cock. The vibrations, the way they shoot down to my balls, it just feels fucking good. And having you beneath me, enjoying the same pleasure, seeing you playing with your tits? There was no stopping me with that orgasm. And bloody hell, it was a good one.”

“Interesting.” I nibble on my bottom lip. “Have you done it before—you know, the vibrator?”

“I’ve done some vibrator stuff,” he says, not looking uncomfortable in the slightest.

“Really? Do you have one?”

He smirks. “I do.”

“Seriously?” I feel my eyes widen. “You have a vibrator?”

“I do. It’s not like the mammoth one you have that plugs into the wall.” He chuckles. “Just a small battery-operated one. On occasion, I place it at the base of my balls, right against the seam, turn it on, and jack off. Easily thirty seconds tops before I’m coming all over my stomach.”

“That’s, uh . . .” I wave my hand in front of my heated face. “That’s news to me. I didn’t know men play with vibrators as well.”

He winks at me. “Only the confident, smart ones do.”

After that, he works around the kitchen, then takes the plated Danishes to the dining table. He follows with our mugs of tea, which he places next to each plate with something bordering on reverence, and once everything is set, he takes my hand and guides me to my seat.

When he takes his seat, he looks me in the eye and says, “Thanks for having breakfast with me, Coraline.”

And then he bites into his Danish and I realize just how fucked I am.

Yup, I like my husband. I like him a lot.

I put my car in park and keep my eyes forward. Pike goes to get out of my car, but I stop him with my hand to his arm. “I need to tell you something.”

He twists toward me. “Is it that you’re madly in love and want to get remarried?”

I roll my eyes but am thankful for the humor. “No. My brother doesn’t know about me and you, because you know, he’d lose his shit, so I was kind of hoping that maybe . . .”

“I act like you don’t exist?”

“No, I mean . . . yes, but no.”

“Which is it, Cora?” he asks with an edge to his voice.

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