“Don’t like my woman crying in my arms.”

“Ha-ha-happy tears.”

“Cut it out anyway, Amy. Yeah?”

My head tipped back again and I declared, “You can’t order me to stop crying happy tears, Mickey.”

“I just did.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s gonna happen.”

“It already did, seein’ as you’re layin’ into me and no longer crying.”

I glared at him through the dark because he was right.

“Fuck,” he muttered, “I can actually feel that angry heat and now I wanna fuck you again.”

“I don’t actually have anything pressing on my schedule for the next oh, I don’t know, eight to nine hours, Mickey.”

“Jesus, you’re a smartass.”

“Bitching about me being a smartass is not fucking me, Mickey.”

I ended that on a gasp because I ended that being flipped to my stomach then Mickey’s hand was yanking up my nightie right before it dove right in my panties. It curled, I spread my legs to give him better access and he found me.

“Where’s the smartass now?” he murmured in my ear.

He didn’t allow me to answer. My clit, still sensitized from earlier, got a tweak from his finger and I had to concentrate on that while my hips twitched.

“Yeah,” he growled with satisfaction.

“You’re annoying,” I breathed, squirming.

“Challenge, Amy. Repeat that when you’re sittin’ on my face in five minutes.”

Oh God.

I kept squirming.

He swept the bedclothes off me.

“Lift your hips, baby. Wanna see that ass working for me.”

Oh God.

I lifted my hips.

Mickey kept at me until he was done with that and he dragged me onto his face.

It took a while to get to the fucking but it was a pleasurable while, and when we were again clothed and tangled under the covers, I had no smartass left in me.

So I fell asleep in the arms of my guy knowing soon we’d be lazing around in the sun of the Florida Keys and I’d be doing it wearing the huge-ass rock he was going to give me.

* * * * *

I walked into my house, past my beloved dining room table, straight to the kitchen.

I put my purse and bag on the counter, turned to go to the fridge to assess dinner options and stopped dead.

I stood and stared.

It took a while for me to reanimate my body. But when I did, I shuffled sideways, my gaze glued to the wall beyond the dining room table.

Blindly, I dug into my purse until I found my phone. I activated it without looking at it and continued not to look at it as I did what I had to do by rote, lifted it to my mouth and demanded, “Call, Mickey.”

I put it to my ear.

“Hey,” he greeted after one ring.

“Hey back,” I whispered.

He said nothing.

I stared at the wall.

On it was my Mother’s Day present.

Mickey in cahoots with the kids had arranged for a photographer to come to the house when the bluebells had taken over.