"No, you know them. Everyone knows them. They did that song about peaches. Like it was a couple dudes. Their name had numbers in it. Or was just numbers. Oh, this is going to drive me crazy..."
"You done blabbering about music?" I asked, smirking as my hands sank into her hips, yanking her up off her feet, planting her down on the counter. "I'm in the middle of something here," I added as her head angled back, smile going flirtatious.
"Well, by all means," she said, planting her arms on the counter behind her, leaning back, "proceed."
My hands snagged the hem of her tee--my tee--and pulled it upward. Reagan rarely dressed down. Her fucking pajamas--when she wore them--looked like she could wear them to a club. But she'd taken to grabbing my shirts off the floor in the morning, slipping into them. She said they smelled good, and I actually did find her sniffing them sometimes. It was weird, but that little action always made my chest feel off. Tight, almost. I didn't know what that meant, but, yeah, I liked her in my shirt.
The only thing I liked better was her out of my shirt.
My hand fisted the material up by her clavicle as my lips closed around her nipple, sucking hard, making her breath hiss out, making her back arch, pressing her harder against my mouth as my tongue started to trace over her slowly.
"112!" she yelled.
"The fuck?" I asked, jerking backward, looking down at her, her eyes bright, her smile triumphant.
"The band. 112."
"Never heard of them."
"Sure you have! They had like that one hit. "Peaches and Cream," she clarified. "Which is not about peaches or cream," she added.
"Yeah, babe, I know what it's about," I told her, eyes rolling even as my smile curved upward. "Are you done?" I asked, brow raising. "I was about to taste your pussy, but if you'd rather give me a musical lesson..."
She didn't want that.
In fact, she grabbed the nape of my neck as her back went flat, dragging me between her thighs, a place I never tired of being because I'd never heard anything in my life that sounded half as good as her begging me to let her come.
It never took long.
Sometimes, I was generous, I let her come against my mouth.
Other times, like now, I didn't let her. I got her to the brink, then eased her away. With my mouth, with my fingers. Over and over. Until her entire body was shaking with the need for release, until her sounds were cries instead of moans.
Then and only then did I slam inside her, work her clit as I fucked her--hard, fast--until her pussy spasmed around my cock, as she cried out my name, her entire body going taut before going completely boneless, spent.
When I walked back into the kitchen after hitting the bathroom to deal with the condom, she had music blaring, her hips moving around to the beat about fucking peaches that weren't peaches at all.
It was a strange moment to have the revelation I did right then. While she loaded silverware into the dishwasher, bumping her ass outward as she did so, singing about getting freaky in a limousine.
But that was the exact fucking moment that I fell in love with the woman.___Exactly one week later, we were ushered into a plane, first class because her parents had insisted and because Reagan listened to my rant about how it wasn't necessary and promptly ignored me. And I had to admit, it was nice to have some space, to have a complimentary drink, to not have some asshole leaning back into my lap because he couldn't stay awake on a five-and-a-half-hour flight.
"If it's possible, it looks deader," Reagan declared as she unpacked the pothos houseplant I had brought to her mother, the plant she had first seen and declared that it was damn near impossible to kill them and that she was suddenly worried about my ability to properly care for Mal when she wasn't around.
"You're just pissy because your pussy loves me," I declared just loud enough for the group of twenty-somethings standing outside the airport to chuckle as Reagan's cheeks flushed ever-so-slightly.
I found it was damn near impossible to truly embarrass the woman. I guess with outgoing, crazy people in her life like Luis and Krissy, she had long since overcome any such thing as social embarrassment.
"Okay here we go," she said, leading us over to the sedan where the driver with our names on a board was waiting.
"They sent a driver." I said it more to myself than her, but she sent me a smile as she slid her arm through mine.
"You'll get used to it."
I highly doubted that.
And that was even okay with me.
"Jesus Christ," I hissed when the car turned into a driveway. "You can't be serious."