Spencer smiled. “And you could call it Drive Her Home and Bang Her.”
Julia cracked up, then checked the time on her phone. “Get a couple of pervy bartenders together and look what happens. We’re all about the dirty drink names.”
“Hey babe, let’s have some Sex on the Beach,” Spencer said to his wife in an over-the-top come-on voice.
“Make my next one a Redheaded Slut,” Julia chimed in, fluffing her hair. Then she shuddered. Never mind the naughty name—Redheaded Sluts were disgusting drinks. “May I never drink Jägermeister, peach schnapps, and cranberry juice.”
“You know that’s what JT would send you in a bar,” Charlotte said.
“But he’s no good at delivering the Screaming Orgasm,” Spencer said, then mimed bending Charlotte over the counter.
“Maybe from you I’d like a Slippery Nipple,” Charlotte said suggestively, then she pursed her lips. “Except . . . all I want right now is a Fuzzy Navel.”
“Hey babe, I’ve got your Fuzzy Navel right here,” Spencer said, wrapping his arms around his wife’s waist and nibbling on her ear.
Then his spine straightened. “Wait. I have an idea.”
Spencer shared his thoughts for a new direction to try, and Julia found herself wondering if the man was onto something.
“On that note, I’ll be testing it out in the lab next time. For now, I’m going to do a little shopping for my wedding anniversary.”
“Ooh, what are you going to get your hubby?” Charlotte asked.
Julia shrugged. “I have no idea. But maybe I’ll be inspired before I meet him and Carly in an hour.”
Charlotte grabbed a glass from the counter and raised it. “To anniversary inspiration.”
Julia would gladly drink to that. She had no idea what to get.
10
Clay’s daughter tightened the buckles on her pink sparkly Rollerblades, making sure each one was nice and snug. Next, she tugged her elbow pads from her wrists, where they dangled like bracelets, up to her elbows.
Clay patted her knees, already decked out in kneepads. “You’re ready, except for one thing,” he said, from their spot on the bench at the edge of the Central Park skate loop.
“My helmet,” she said, with a grin. “And I know you’re hiding it right now.”
Clay pretended to be surprised by her comment. “I would never hide a helmet.”
“It’s behind your back,” she said, her little hand darting around his side, then behind him, where he’d hidden the purple helmet.
“I can’t believe you tracked it down. You must be a treasure hunter,” he teased, then tucked it on her head, her auburn hair spilling out from underneath.
Carly reached up and fastened the snap, then popped up on her wheeled feet, and assumed a “ta-da” pose. “I’m ready. And today I’m going to beat you,” she said, her eyes glinting.
Clay rose, and while he lacked the knee and elbows pads, he had to set a good example for his girl, so his head was safe and sound inside a black helmet. They were ready to tackle the skate loop together.
Carly loved to skate and had started with roller skates at an indoor rink in Northern California when they’d visited Julia’s sister in the Bay Area a year ago. But Manhattan was better for blades, so after Santa had brought her the pair of pink sparkly ones for Christmas, father and daughter had taken up skating together and aimed to tear up the asphalt in Central Park every weekend.
On this Saturday afternoon, as his wife worked on potions with the neighbors, he was the lucky son-of-a-bitch who got to spend the day with his favorite princess in the whole world, little Miss Carly Nichols, aka Speed Demon. She had some serious zero-to-sixty oomph on her blades, and as soon as she pushed off, she was racing.
“Be careful, honey bear. Don’t go too fast,” Clay shouted as he followed her, decked out in his Saturday garb of navy shorts, a T-shirt, and aviator shades for the bright summer sun that beat down on them.
“Try to keep up, Daddy,” she challenged, and her fighting words were punctuated by a long giggle. She laughed while pumping her arms and charging along the lower loop near Wollman Rink.
Of course, he could keep up with her. She was six, and he was in fine shape in his late thirties. Still, he liked maintaining the illusion that it was a battle.
They spent the next hour soaring on their wheels in a loop, passing some skaters and joggers and getting lapped by whizz-bang fast cyclists, as the warm sun baked their arms and spurred them on. As they crested a rolling hill near the end, the sound of a horse’s hooves behind them grew louder, the clippity-clop intensifying.
Carly was intent on beating her father up the hill, and she didn’t notice the carriage picking up speed. She was dangerously near to it. Clay’s pulse jackhammered. Carly was too focused on beating her dad, not on the big animals gaining on her.
For the briefest of seconds, fear took over as the hansom cab drew closer. As his pulse spiked, he raced to her, grabbed her hand, and tugged her out of harm’s way.
He pulled her off the path momentarily, slowing down and stopping to give her a hug. Carly’s shoulders shook as she seemed to fight off tears. “You okay, honey bear?”
She nodded, her lips tight. “You saved me,” she said, both worry and admiration in her tone.
“I’ll always keep you safe,” he said, and he hoped that would always be true.
After his crazily beating heart slowed, they finished their lap around the park, and Carly did that thing she was so damn good at. She batted her eyes and placed her palms together in a plea. “Can we please go on the carousel?”
That seemed a safer horse right about now, so Clay said yes. They changed back into their regular shoes from the pack that was on his back. With Rollerblades tucked safely away and helmets stowed in the backpack, his little princess found a white horse with a red saddle to ride on the merry-go-round. Sweet calliope music played as the carousel spun in lazy circles, and his daughter pretended to ride a horse into the sunset.
Some days, life was crazy with work, and he was yanked in too many directions. Sometimes, he faced deals that were hard to pull off or ones that nearly gave him palpitations, like his cousin Tyler’s wild scheme that had kept him working like a madman all week.
Other days, he simply relished the here and now of the little moments. To enjoy the city. To delight in his family. To appreciate the fairy tale that his life had become.
One that showed no signs of ending, especially not with his anniversary in another few days.
“What do you say we do some shopping for your mom?”
“For you and mommy’s anniversary?”
He nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Are you going to get her a pony?”
Clay laughed and shook his head. “I’m thinking more like a necklace. Some jewelry. Maybe tickets to a show she’s been dying to see, then dinner at her favorite restaurant,” he said, rattling off some of the gifts he was considering for his lovely Julia.
“Do I get to go out with you and Mommy on your anniversary?”
He draped his hand on her little shoulder. “’Fraid not, honey bear. Uncle Brent and Aunt Shannon are coming to town with your cousins so you’ll be hanging out with them.”
“At a hotel?” Her eyes went wide.
Clay nodded. His brother and sister-in-law had planned a family trip to New York with their kids and were staying at the Plaza in a big suite. Carly would join them for the night of Clay’s anniversary.
His daughter clapped and smiled. “I love hotels.”
“You got that from me,” he said, and he shouldered their skate bag, heading to their favorite sushi restaurant on the East Side, where they met Julia for an early dinner.
She updated him on her afternoon, listened to tales of their roller-skating adventures, then suggested they all go see the latest animated flick at a nearby theater.
“Yes, yes, yes, I want to go,” Carly chimed in, and once inside the movie house, she promptly fell asleep in
the back row.
No one was behind them, and no one else was next to them, so Clay shrugged, winked, and ran his hand through Julia’s hair, then pulled her in for a soft, sweet kiss.
It didn’t stay soft for long.
No, he didn’t get it on with her at a cinema. But they most certainly made out in the back row for more than a few scenes. And later that night, once Carly was in bed, they did a hell of a lot more.
11
Julia used to wonder who those people were. The ones you hear about in Facebook groups or surveys. The ones who skew the studies on frequency of sex to the point where others whisper skeptically, no way are the Smiths doing it every night.
Now she knew.
She was one of the lucky ones. The outlier. The end of the bell curve. The exception.
She didn’t know what it was like to go to bed without touching her man. That would be like going to sleep with unbrushed teeth, or leaving the house each morning without a shower.
Sex with Clay was part of the routine, though by no means was it routine. It was anything but. It was nightly, it was daily, it was regular, it was necessary, and it was heavenly. Sure, they sought ways to keep their sex life fresh and exciting, like their “stranger sex on the boat” role-play, and other naughty encounters in public places. Other times, they tried new toys, new surfaces, new ways to tie her up, since she’d always been thrilled at being restrained by him, whether with a tie, a belt, a scarf, or his hands. Every now and then, he teased her in forbidden ways, his tongue or finger exploring her in delightfully dirty places on her body, giving her new reasons to say Oh god, that’s so good. More often than not lately, she fantasized about exploring further in that direction, but that night she wanted something straightforward.
Sometimes simple was the best, and sometimes it was all you really needed, anyway.
Lying on her side, she slid a hand beneath the sheets, danced her fingers down the firm planes of Clay’s chest, over the grooves in his abs, and to the trail of hair that led to the happiest place.
His breath hitched, and he shifted from his back to his side, as if his body sought hers. Facing him now, she pressed her lips to his mouth, dusting a soft kiss as her hand traveled lower still, until she found the bounty—his growing erection.
He groaned his appreciation as she wrapped her hand around his thick cock. Stroking him, she marveled at the feel of the velvet-smooth skin that covered the steel length of him. She didn’t comprehend not wanting to touch him. That simply made no sense to her. How could she share a bed with this man and not crave his body? She wanted him now. Badly. A few strokes, a couple lingering tugs on his dick, and she was wet and needy, desperate to be filled. Like that, she molded to him, slinging a leg over his hip.
“It’s my favorite time of day,” he murmured.
“Mine, too,” she whispered, as she guided him closer.
Most of the time, he was a demanding lover and a commanding man who told her what he wanted and what he’d do to her. Like that, he was mouth-wateringly sexy, devastatingly handsome, and so damn intoxicating. Like this, as he let her lead, he was all those things, too.
She dipped her head to his neck, sniffing that enticing, masculine scent of him then rubbing her cheek against his stubbled jaw. A bolt of heat shot through her body. She could literally feel her sex turn hotter and wetter. A pulse beat between her legs, and she longed to draw him into her.
She smothered his neck in kisses, thrilling at the throaty groans and husky murmurs that fell from his lips as she kissed him and stroked him, his dick thickening with every touch. His erection throbbed in her palm, and she guided his length between her legs, rubbing the head against all that wetness. Sliding his cock against her. Playing. Touching. Teasing.
A groan ripped from his throat. “So fucking wet,” he said, like he was admiring her.
With her hand wrapped around the base of him, she rubbed and rubbed and rubbed, moving his thick cock against her wet lips in the most delirious bit of foreplay she could imagine. He wasn’t inside her; he was simply stroking against her, his erection sliding over and back, across and around, turning her on wildly.
She arched against him, moaning like a cat, her desire morphing to full-bore need as she gripped his cock and dragged him between her legs.
She flipped to her back, and he followed her, their moves like a carnal ballet as she spread wide for him and he slid his cock deep into her.
Sometimes they fucked like porn stars, on all fours, dirty words spilling forth from their lips. Sometimes he spanked her, bit her collarbone, pulled her hair. Sometimes, he bent her over the couch, screwed her on the balcony, or nailed her on the kitchen counter.
Other times, they did it like this. Basic missionary. But there was nothing basic about this love. It was elemental and primal, and to Julia, it was beautiful.
She stretched her arms over her head, and he knew what she wanted.
To be taken.
He read her signals, was fluent in her body language, and he grasped her wrists, pinning her tight, controlling her pleasure with the restraint of his strong body, his hands keeping her immobile.
Like that, she wrapped her legs tightly around his hips, hooking her ankles together, bound to him. She was tied to his pleasure, to his body, to his love. And he gave her all that she wanted, because he knew what she needed.
Him. Every night.
Tonight, he took her, making love like he was fucking her, and fucking her like it was making love. What it was . . . was a gift. A gift of sex, of connection, of the rarest physical delight.
They couldn’t keep their hands off each other, and there was nothing at all routine about how her husband sent her into a wild frenzy that night, bringing her the most wondrous pleasure as she climaxed, and he joined her in the sweet oblivion of their hot bliss.
12
“Do you want peanut butter?”
His daughter stared at him with wide hazel eyes as he made her lunch for gymnastics camp a few days later.
“Well? Is that a yes? Do you want peanut butter today for your lunch?” he asked, holding the jar of organic peanut butter in one hand as he stood by the open fridge door.
“Someone does,” Carly whispered.
Her eyes drifted right, then down, as if she had a secret. He followed her gaze, and a smile tugged at his lips.
Ace thumped his black and white tail against the tiled floor of the kitchen. His head was cocked, his ears were floppy, and he was rocking his best rendition of “I’m so good, please feed me now.”
“He loves peanut butter.”
“Who doesn’t love peanut butter? It’s pretty much one of the greatest foods ever made,” Clay said, gesturing to his black and white pooch, eagerly awaiting a dollop of canine crack.
“Can I give it to him?” Carly asked eagerly.
Clay closed the fridge, opened a drawer, and handed a spoon to his daughter. “Just a small amount. But ask him to do something first. Have him shake.”
“He loves to shake paws,” Carly said, excitement threaded in her tone as she took the jar. Studying her serving carefully, she scooped out a small amount then kneeled on the floor in front of the dog. “Shake, Ace,” she said to him in her most serious dog-trainer voice. The border collie mix held out a furry paw. Carly shook it, then let him lick the peanut butter from the spoon, his long tongue working overtime on the mission.
“Daddy, who invented peanut butter?” she asked, as she dropped the spoon in the sink.
Grabbing a knife, Clay spread the peanut butter on a slice of bread. “The smartest person ever. Can you imagine if I invented peanut butter? I’d never have to work again. I’d be hailed as the Greatest Inventor of All Time.”
She flung her arms around his waist. “I think you’re the greatest dad of all time instead,” she declared, and if that didn’t make his heart go pitter-patter, he wasn’t sure anything ever would. He set the food down on the counter and picked up his girl, wrapping her in a big hug.
&n
bsp; “And you are the sweetest, smartest, kindest, most amazing girl of all time. And your dad loves you like crazy,” he said, then peppered her cheeks with tiny kisses.
She giggled and yanked her head back. “You’re not scratchy today.”
He ran a free hand over his jaw, clean-shaven since it was morning. “I’m a working man today. Heading to the office, so I have to look presentable.”
“You look handsome,” she declared, and he scanned his attire quickly—charcoal gray slacks, a striped button-down shirt, and a red tie.
“Why thank you very much,” he said with a little bow as he plopped her on the floor.
“Can I have honey on my peanut butter sandwich?”
He laughed lightly at the innocent way she asked. Six years old and she already knew how to work him. A compliment, a sweet word, a hug, and he melted in her little hand.
“Of course you can have honey, honey,” he told her, then proceeded to make her what he declared would be the tastiest sandwich she’d ever had, before he packed it in her bag, along with two tangerines and a yogurt.
“Ready?”
Carly nodded and took the lunch bag. Her hazel eyes sparked, and she grabbed the cuff of his shirt. “Daddy! I had an idea. Since peanut butter is so good, why don’t we tell Mommy to make a drink with it? That way she can beat that guy.”
“A peanut butter drink?”
“Yes. I bet that would win easily.”
“I’ll have to pass that on when she wakes up,” he said, since Julia was sleeping in after a late night at Speakeasy, and an even later night playing mad scientist, working on a new concoction. She wasn’t there yet, and she’d gone to bed frustrated. Clay had done his best to un-frustrate her under the covers.
Now, he was on morning detail, and that was one of his favorite things in the world. He’d been up since the crack of dawn. He and Ace had tackled a sunrise run, covering five miles before Carly woke.
“How could she lose with a peanut butter drink?” Carly asked, as if the answer were patently obvious.
A Wildly Seductive Night: (Seductive Nights: Julia & Clay Book 3.5) Page 4