Must Love Logs (Must Love Series Book 4)

by Xavier Neal

  Against my own volition, I whimper.

  Much like his stubborn nature, his sexual appetite also hasn’t changed in all our years together.

  “Maybe just a taste?” Eddie’s fingers creep around to the front of my jeans to toy with the button. “A small,” he sinks his teeth into my earlobe, “bite.”

  Regardless of the fact I know I should be insisting he stop so I can grab my keys to get our children, my hips rock forward in agreement. It doesn’t take more than a flick of the wrist to get my pants undone and the zipper down. He inches his mouth towards mine, light kisses growing more powerful with each passing press. As soon as our lips collide so does his palm to my swollen clit. The initial pressure parts my lips along with my legs. Eddie instantly takes advantage of both. His tongue glides into my mouth while his thick middle finger guides itself deep into the soaking heat. My muscles enthusiastically flex around the familiar invasion, loving the return of its long-appointed ruler. The warm welcome presented fuels my husband’s insatiable hunger. One finger becomes two. Gentle tugs towards him transpose into yanks. Groans of gratitude grow into growls of possession. His entire body grinds into the movements mimicking the quickie he previously requested. Each forceful bump against my clit is paired to the frantic curling of his fingers. Over and over again, my mouth attempts to break free to release sounds of satisfaction yet is denied the privilege by Eddie’s relentless devouring. His tongue and fingers sync to a tenacious thrusting that causes our bodies to scoot the dark wood table across the hardwood floor. One hand grabs a fist full of his shirt for leverage and the other anxiously claws at his belt, abandoning the not-enough-time notion. My fingers repeatedly fail in freeing his cock, which only prompts me to whine in frustration.

  Eddie grins against my lips before whispering, “No time for a quickie, remember?”

  I prepare to swat at him for acting like an asshole when my pussy swells in warning of an orgasm.

  Being more than well acquainted with my body, my husband is clued into the knowledge the same instant I am.

  His teeth sink into my bottom lip as his pushes increase in severity.

  Screams freely flood our kitchen, and I mentally praise him for stealing this moment in which I’m allowed to be clamorous.

  Crude.

  Crass.

  A moment where I can completely give myself to a climax without worrying about if little ears are listening.

  “Coming,” I confess on an unladylike grunt.

  “That’s right, Cherry Pie,” Eddie heatedly grumbles. “Come for me.”

  My muscles pulse around the two fingers seconds prior to my hand falling from Eddie’s chest to grip his forearm. He steels his movements. Absorbs the trembles. Sucks on my bottom lip, duplicating the uneven rhythm in which my body is shaking. I pant through the pleasure at the same time my pussy pleads to have him replace his fingers with his dick.

  Eddie delivers a few additional shallow, sexual shoves before removing his fingers completely. He immediately leans back, sucks the creamy proof of my contentment off his appendages, and smugly smiles. “As sweet as Cherry Pie…”

  I helplessly roll my eyes, yet again, at his antics.

  While there are a multitude of ways I wish he would change, I can honestly say I’m thankful he hasn’t in the ones that matter most. His devotion to me and my happiness has been this discernible from the moment we met. Sure, he’s hot tempered by nature, a bit too impulsive for his own good, and completely clueless about how to compromise at times, but he’s also fiercely loyal, protective, and passionate. It’s not a perfect balance by any means, yet it’s something I admire. When we first got together, Eddie knew who he was and who he wanted to be. Where he was on his map of life as well as the path he was going to be taking. Nothing and no one could change his mind. Me? I was trying to find the best method to shed the preconceived notions about who I was supposed to be and uncertain about who exactly I wanted to be. I had no clue which direction was up, let alone if up was where I actually wanted to go or if it was just the route I was expected to take. I was a rebellious lost soul then…Sadly, after all these years, there are times where I still feel like a lost soul now.

  Maybe…just maybe…this change of pace will help me finally find my place.

  Maybe it’ll fill that void inside of me I’ve only been able to temporarily keep filled.

  Chapter 2

  Unexpected pressure on my chest forces my eyes to pry themselves open.

  Kenny, my oldest son, is so close to my face his nose is touching mine.

  Talk about a fucking terrifying sight to wake up to.

  “Whatcha doin’, bud?”

  Instead of leaning away now that I’m clearly no longer asleep, he moves in closer and glares. “We’re gonna be late.”

  “Late for what?”

  Could it possibly be my execution?

  Why else would my seven-year-old have his knees so close to my windpipe?

  “For school.”

  It takes a moment for me to get my bearings.

  Is it really Monday already? Where the fuck did the weekend go? I swear one minute I was fingering my wife in an empty kitchen, and the next my first born is on the cusp of cutting off my air supply.

  My eyes fall shut in an attempt to recall what we did; however, Kenny quickly taps both of my cheeks with his open palms. “Wake up, Dad!”

  “I’m awake. I’m awake,” I grumble as my attention focuses on him. “And you can get off me now.”

  “Are you sure you’re awake?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “But like are you really?”

  The interrogation receives an eye roll.

  He gets this sassy shit from his mother.

  “Kenneth…”

  His brown eyes bulge wide at the same time he darts backwards.

  That’s gotta be my favorite trick to use…

  Until it’s used on me.

  I can’t fucking stand that shit.

  My mouth begins to redirect him away from where he seems to have made himself a new home when a loud crash interrupts. Adult brain blows censored Dad vocab out of the water. “What the fuck was that?!”

  “Swear jar.” Kenny immediately scowls.

  I grit my teeth to prevent from cursing more. “Where’s your brother?”

  “Downstairs…”

  “Damn it-”

  “Swear jar.”

  Hastily removing him from his seated position on me to one on the bed is proceeded with me jogging out of the room. More thuds from down below only push my feet to conquer the carpetless stairs faster. By the time I’m finally entering the kitchen, the noises have thankfully stopped, but the damage is already detrimental.

  I rake my fingers through my thick hair in frustration.

  “Hey, Dad!” Kyle cheerfully greets, waving a dishtowel back and forth.

  Yogurt flings onto the distressed white cabinets causing me to cringe. “What’s um…what’s goin’ on, small fry?”

  “Cleanin’ up!” His green gazes fills with more joy. “Mom always says gotta clean up the mess you make.”

  Yeah, I highly doubt she was referring to moments like this…

  Moments where you manage to wreck what has to be the entire kitchen in record timing.

  “What…happened?”

  The slowness of my question stops him continuing his mission. “You woke up late-”

  “So late,” Kenny echoes from behind me.

  I fold my arms over my bare chest to keep my composure.

  “And we needed breakfast. And it’s Monday-”

  “Yogurt day,” Kenny adds.

  A disapproving glare is tossed his direction. “Yeah. I can clearly see that, bud. Thank you.”

  “I grabbed the yogurt, and it spilled. Everywhere.”

  “Every. Where.” Kenny unnecessarily reiterates.

  “Mom uses the mop for big stuff,” my six-year-old points to where the handle of the object is in the middle of the white mess, “bu
t I can’t make the water. I got the broom,” his hand gestures to the other tool whose bristles are painted white, “but it didn’t work. So, I got a towel!”

  Slowly nodding becomes the only coping mechanism I can think of.

  Maybe I should’ve just taken that job in corporate.

  I’ve been Mr. Mom all of five minutes and somehow managed to screw everything up in my sleep.

  Wonder if this is a new record for fastest fuck up from a father.

  “Okay.” A deep breath slides out of me. “Why don’t you boys go and get dressed for school while I clean this mess up?”

  “What about breakfast?” Kyle quickly questions.

  “I’ll make ya a bowl of cereal.”

  “Cereal is for Thursday,” Kenny criticizes. “It’s Monday, Dad.”

  “Do you wanna eat yogurt off the floor?” My hand motions to the mess waiting for me to fix. “’Cause I will gladly grab you a spoon and eat cereal myself.”

  They both gag at the idea.

  “That’s what I thought.” The smug smirk is followed by me tipping my head the direction of the stairs. “Now, go get dressed.”

  The two of them scamper off while I drag my attention back to the aftermath of sleeping in too late.

  How the hell was I supposed to know it was “too late”? I don’t remember getting a schedule…Did I get a schedule? Did Sienna try to give me the breakdown last night?

  My thoughts wander backwards recalling her lips rapidly moving at the same time my hands were. We’d put the boys to bed early, and the only thing I was concerned with was making the most of our extra time together.

  I don’t know what she expected.

  Previous experiences should’ve clued her into the notion that once they go down, my tongue wants to do the same to her.

  Pushing away the delicious memories of having my wife spread-eagle on our bed, I begrudgingly begin to clean up the disaster.

  This is the problem with having children who are not exactly “children” size. They can reach just about anything. Paint. Play-Doh. Presents you try to hide. And if they can’t stretch to get it, their unusual strength helps them drag the step stool over to wherever it is needed so they can successfully complete their task. I knew our boys would be bigger than average. Fuck, I was bigger than average. Actually, almost all my brothers were. Pop is a big man at 6’5, so there was no doubt in Mama’s mind they were gonna have big sons. And all of us are. Well. Almost all of us. Runt, my youngest brother, whose real name is Ford, is only 6’0, but he’s still solid. At the rate my boys are growing, they should be eye level to him by eighth grade.

  Once I’ve cleared away the initial yogurt catastrophe, I pause to pour two bowls of cereal. Just as I place the dishes on their respective opposite ends of the table, my sons come barreling towards it causing me to almost tip them over.

  Fuck, it’s like having moose try to trample across a frozen lake.

  Here I thought they had gotten their mother’s grace, when in reality, I was just missing the untamed moments.

  Kenny is first to complain. “This isn’t mine.”

  “I don’t like berries,” whines Kyle.

  “I don’t like cinnamon.”

  “But what about the crunch?!” Kyle exclaims, hands nearly knocking the bowl over.

  Kenny rolls his head and his eyes at the same time.

  Is that what I looked like as a kid?

  Fuck, is that what I look like now?

  I shake away that thought and inquire, “Since when don’t you like cinnamon?”

  “Hm…forever.”

  His overdramatic description tempts me to scowl.

  That he definitely gets from Sienna.

  “You do like cinnamon.”

  Kenny pushes the bowl towards his brother. “Nope.”

  “You eat cinnamon rolls.”

  He accepts the switched bowl and picks up his spoon. “Nope.”

  “What do you mean nope? Yes, you do.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  He scoops up a large bite. “No, Dad.”

  “I’ve seen you eat your mom’s cinnamon rolls!”

  Kyle laughs loudly at my irritation.

  “Mom doesn’t put cinnamon on mine,” Kenny calmly explains between bites. “Just dough and frosting.”

  The new information forces me to fold my arms across my chest.

  How did I not know that?

  And when did that start?

  Kyle and his berry hatred is pretty common knowledge. It’s not that he hates berries so much as dried fruit altogether. Give him a bowl of fresh fruit, and he eats the shit like it’s a bag of Skittles. Give him the dried version and watch him Hulk out.

  “Can we have juice?” Kyle questions between bites.

  I promptly nod, pushing past my annoyance at the lack of awareness regarding my own son. “Two glasses of OJ coming right up.”

  “No,” Kenny immediately insists, “one glass of cranberry and one glass of cran-grape.”

  The urge to snap is instant, yet I somehow manage to resist in order to argue, “You both drink OJ.”

  “When we have eggs,” Kyle casually comments.

  “Or when we’re at Mimi’s, and she’s out of other juice.”

  “When did you two become so picky?”

  Kenny scoops up another bite. “Not picky, Dad. We like lots of stuff.”

  “But only on certain days or with certain foods.”

  Kyle slurps his milk off his spoon. “Mom says we gotta mix and match.”

  “Can’t eat the same stuff every day.” Kenny wags his utensil at me. “That’s why we have school day breakfast and surprise breakfast on the weekends.”

  Unsure of what infuriates me more, the logic of my wife’s decision or the fact I was completely unaware of its existence, I merely nod my understanding to retrieve their requested beverages. I swiftly deliver the juices, yet again, to the wrong people, and return to the task of mopping the floor. They discuss their favorite moments from the Spiderman cartoon they watched after dinner last night while I eavesdrop, chuckling under my breath at how ridiculous some of the shit they say sounds.

  We finish around the same time, and to my surprise, the boys don’t need to be told what to do with their dishes. They simply rinse everything off, place them in the dishwasher, and then grab napkins to tend to any spills made on the table.

  Alright…I’ll admit it. That’s pretty incredible. Their mother has taught them the importance of being responsible for themselves, which is nice when the mess isn’t Yogurt Gate.

  As soon as they’re done, they both peer up at me with impatient expressions.

  Like the older brother he is, Kenny takes the lead. “Um…We need our lunches to pack our backpacks.”

  Pride over their continued independence crashes into panic. “Wait, I’m supposed to pack your lunches?”

  They nod in unison.

  “You’re shittin’ me,” I mumble louder than anticipated.

  In tandem they shout, “Swear jar!”

  Worst rule in this goddamn house. Taking into consideration Sienna swears like she’s been out at sea with sailors since she was in diapers, a punishment jar for us seems asinine. No. I don’t want my kids growing up incapable of speaking without cursing, but my parents cursed around us all the time, and I’m perfectly fine.

  Okay.

  Not the greatest fucking example.

  My fists curl at my sides to grasp onto the scrap of calmness I have left. “Why don’t you boys eat at school?”

  I’d add the little note about as much as we pay for them to go to private school that they should be being served caviar and lobster, but it would, obviously, be lost upon them.

  “We do on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays,” Kenny informs.

  “Why not every day?”

  “Soup is yucky.” Kyle sticks his tongue out.

  “And, Mom doesn’t trust the fish.”

  “Can’t say I blame
her there…” With another shake of the head, I throw my hands into the air. “Go get your backpacks while I…figure out something to make you.”

  Probably sandwiches.