Since his mouth was on mine, when he recovered, he started gliding in and out as he kissed me, deep but soft and sweet and I wrapped him tight and kissed him back.

Then his mouth released mine. He buried himself to the root as his lips glided down my cheek to my ear.

His arms curved around me squeezed and he whispered in my ear as his hips pushed deep, “Sweetest fuckin’ cunt I ever had.”

I shivered in his arms.

Brock pulled out and pulled me off the vanity in his bathroom where he’d walked in when he heard me turn off the faucet after I brushed my teeth. He’d closed the door and instigated operation maximum physical contact in the only room in the house (possibly and hopefully) his sons couldn’t hear us having sex in. Thus, me ending up with my ass to the vanity, my arms and legs wrapped around Brock, and my first-ever orgasm in a bathroom.

It was sublime.

But when he dropped me to my feet, he surprised me when he stayed close and turned me to face the mirror. He pressed forward and fenced me in against the vanity, his hands moving slowly around my ribs, my belly, crossing over to go down to my hips.

My surprised eyes went to the mirror and I saw his were already there, following the trail of his hands. I saw my hair was a mess, my cheeks pink, my eyes still hazy, and his hands were still moving over the amethyst-colored, simple, short silk nightie (another Neiman’s purchase, not the splurge of the first I got at Nordstrom’s, but also not cheap either) he’d fucked me in.

I could tell looking at his face he liked it.

Actually, I already knew this, considering I could tell by his face (and actions) last night when he first saw it that he liked it.

Suffice it to say we’d broken the seal on having sex with his sons in the house. Last night, it was late, the boys definitely asleep but Brock still took care to muffle my noises with his mouth and his own with mine or my neck.

This morning, the bathroom.

“How many cupcakes you gotta sell to give me this, darlin’?” he asked and my eyes shifted from his hands moving on me to his in the mirror.

“Less than the extravaganza I treated you to that first night at your apartment. More than the cotton-candy eyelet one,” I answered.

He grinned at me. “Cotton-candy eyelet one?”

“The one I wore our first night together.”

“The pink one?”

He remembered.

Damn.

He remembered.

“Cotton candy,” I corrected softly.

His grin became a smile and for some reason that smile settled in my belly.