Her movements turn jerky, less graceful as her face contorts with her concentration. And finally, her body folds in on itself, her face planting against my chest as I feel her walls tighten around me in a vice-like grip. Feeling that, I come so hard I’m scared the power behind my orgasm will hurt her. So I try to be as still as possible while my cock pulses, emptying jet after jet of cum inside her, and she melts on top of me.
Before we’ve even caught our breath, I let out a chuckle, and she lifts her head to look at me. “What?” she asks, her eyes twinkling.
“I was just thinking… do we have to wait until you sell the house for you to move in? Because I could really go for one of those every night for the rest of my life starting now.”
She gives me a sassy smirk as she sits up, my cock still deep inside her. “Depends on how fast you can build that she-shed.” And then she hops off, swinging her hips and winking at me over her shoulder as she makes her way to the bathroom.
37
Cece
Two months and thirteen days. That’s how long it took for the she-shed to be built. I had been halfway joking when I told Winston I’d move in with him when I had my own oasis in his backyard, but he had taken me dead-seriously. Not even a week after my sassy stipulation, he booked the Mayson men to start planning. A month after that, they got to work building it.
He didn’t tell me anything about it. I happened to look out into his backyard one evening the girls and I were over at his place to have dinner—specifically to celebrate both our divorces being finalized—and for them to play with Nick, and lo and behold, there was a new cement foundation and the beginnings of a large structure that hadn’t been there before.
That day, he stood me in the center of all the wooden beams, pointing out different aspects, but I wasn’t the best at visualizing what he was telling me without walls.
In my mind, a she-shed was one of those little buildings outside Home Depot that people use to hold all their lawn equipment. I’d seen on Pinterest how people had sheet-rocked the interior, maybe added a window A/C unit, and made it into a one-room getaway outside their home. This, however, was not that.
A month and a week later, I stand in the middle of the main room, surrounded by custom-made floor-to-ceiling holders displaying hundreds of spools of ribbon. One wall is full of deep hooks, naked wreath forms of various sizes ready to be customized, while other hooks are empty, a place to hang the ones I finish. There are two worktables—one at sitting-height with a fancy chair, and one at standing-height. There’s a computer desk in the corner, one with a brand-new desktop computer, a Cricut, and holders full of pens, scissors, and all sorts of other crafting supplies. Finally, hanging on the last wall are deep cylinders on a slant, ten rows of ten columns, and if it weren’t for the various stems of silk florals, I would question what they’re for. But it’s absolutely genius. A place to put all the fake flowers and greenery I use when making the wreaths. I’ll be able to buy in bulk and save tons of money by keeping inventory on hand.
He takes my hand and tugs me up the metal staircase to the second floor. Yes. My freakin’ she-shed has a second freakin’ floor. W-T-F?
There’s a full bathroom, all the way to the right, a kitchenette, and a loft-style bedroom with a queen-sized bed. Everything is bare, and he makes sure to tell me he left it that way so I could decorate it however I want.
“Is this the doghouse? Like for whenever we get in a fight, only it’s me who gets to sleep in this little oasis instead of you sleeping on the couch?” I giggle, but his face goes stoic.
“No, naekkeo. That would never happen. We’ll never go to sleep mad at each other; that’s one thing I can promise you. We won’t go to bed angry. We’ll stay up and fight until we work whatever it is out. And then we’ll have make-up sex and fall to sleep together in our bed,” he says, and my breath catches as I swallow. “This is a guest room, for when family or friends come to visit. Since all the bedrooms in the house will now be full of our children.”
I do the math in my head, counting the kid to bedroom ratio, and it doesn’t add up. “But there are six bedrooms.”
He nods. “Yes.”
“And we only have four kids. Then us in the master,” I say, a zing of excitement zipping through me as I think about the fact that his amazing freaking bedroom will soon officially be ours.