by Lex Martin
Mischief managed.
Still, given all our conversations about sharing pictures, I’d never expected Kendall to be sending some to my parents.
The concern and caring on her face is genuine. “I didn’t want to upset you if they didn’t warm up to the idea. But you’ve changed, and I wanted them to see that first hand.”
“That’s…um… I’m stunned. They wanted to see me.”
“I hope it’s okay with you that I did that.” She cringes a little. “I hated keeping it from you, but I thought if we could find some common ground—”
“Of course it’s okay.” I kiss her, overwhelmed by gratitude. I’d never in a million years expect my parents to come around like this. And it’s all because of her. “Thank you.”
I stare at her, wondering how I ever got so lucky.
We smile at each other as we head toward the nursery. Maybe this is a good time to see how she feels about another reunion.
“Speaking of mending fences, Ian texted me that he’s going to be in town next week—”
Kendall freezes.
“I know, I know,” I say, putting up my free hand in surrender. “Actually, he wants to take us out to dinner to apologize. I think he wants Fernando and those guys to come too. Everyone wants to meet you officially. They feel terrible about the last time you saw them and promise to use silverware and not pee on the sidewalk.”
She laughs. A good sign.
Ian understands he’s losing a testicle if he so much as looks at her sideways. Pretty sure he’s planning to behave.
“I might make Ian work for it, but I’m not going to hold a grudge.” Her eyes soften as she stares up at me. “I’ve been wanting to meet your friends. Even if they still need to be housebroken.”
A smile bursts out of me. Fuck, I love her. “Yet another reason why I love you. You give people a chance to change.”
“One person in particular.”
“Yep. Me.” I give her a kiss.
Andy’s getting fussy and Evie’s practically asleep. Kendall and I tiptoe to their room and settle them into their bassinets. I turn on the baby monitor.
“How are you feeling?” I ask my wife-to-be, looming over her in the hall.
She runs a finger up my chest. “I have to say, seeing my sexy fiancé handle babies like a boss gets me all hot and bothered.”
“Yeah?”
The heat behind her eyes tells me she’s serious. “The crooked smile helps too. And the promise of what that mouth can do,” she whispers.
I lean down and kiss her hard. Not a light smooch. This kiss says, I want you. I need you. I love you.
I need to fuck you.
She opens her mouth, inviting in my tongue, and I take her up on the offer. But a deep, wet kiss in the hallway makes me want to turn up the pace.
Now.
Still kissing her, I palm her ass cheeks, then hoist her up. She wraps her legs around my waist.
“I seem to remember, when I carried you through the snow up on Mount Hood, that I held you on my back,” I say between kisses, as I carry her to our bedroom. “Only I wanted you facing this way. So I could see you. Kiss you. Be inside you.”
“Yes,” is all she says.
When we get to our bed, I lay her down gently. I’m antsy, but I gotta go slow. No reason to delay nudity, though. I tear off her sweater, and yank down her leggings and undies at the same time.
Her beautiful body greets me. All of her yoga and healthy habits during her pregnancy and after have kept her a goddess. Side effect? Because of her cooking, my glucose readings rock.
I thought she was hotness embodied before. But now? With those luscious tits and fuller hips? Fucking perfection.
I do a double-take.
“Wait. You waxed,” I say. I toss my T-shirt, and catch her looking at my chest.
“I bit the bullet and made an appointment yesterday. It didn’t hurt as bad as I thought it would. The fuzz drove me crazy while I was pregnant.”
Running a finger along her smooth mound, I murmur, “You drive me crazy now.” Who has the hottest fiancée on the planet? I do.
I kiss my way up the inside of her legs to the apex.
Leaving a love bite on her inner thigh, I get up close and personal with her freshly-groomed pussy.
It’s glorious. I dart out my tongue to taste, and I groan. “Fuck, I’ve been dying to do this all day.” With my shoulders, I spread her legs wider for access. Her calves dangle over my arms.
As my tongue starts swirling and making broad strokes, her hips rise, and she starts to writhe.
“Nuh-uh-uh. Hold still,” I order, and go back to giving all of my attention to her.
I want her to understand how much I worship her.
How I would do anything for her.
How I want her to feel good.
Everything has changed, but as we do this, it’s like we’re clicking back in place.
How long has it been since we’ve had sex?
Too fucking long.
When I slide a finger into her, she gives me a louder moan. And when I gently insert two and start stroking in a come-hither move?
Fuck. I almost jizz my pants.
“Come on my face, babe. I love when you do that. Let go.”
After more licking, more stroking, more loving, more swirling, I feel her legs tense up, and her abs clench.
Then, with a delicious rush, she comes, her body shuddering and quaking, her nails scratching on the sheets.
Yes.
In no time, I shuck off the rest of my clothes and give myself a few tugs. Her eyes widen in appreciation. I settle on top of her, trying to hold my weight off of her body, but wanting skin-to-skin contact nevertheless.
Weaving my fingers through hers with one hand, and using my other to guide myself in, I enter her.
My eyes lock on hers, and I pause to make sure she’s still feeling good. I don’t want to rush anything if she’s not up to it yet. Even though the doctor gave us the go-ahead since KK didn’t have any tears and was in great shape physically, I don’t think I can be too cautious.
Judging by her fingers that dig into my ass and yank me closer, we’re good to go.
We have liftoff, Houston.
Flush against her, I squeeze my eyes shut. Because her pussy feels sublime wrapped around me.
“You’re glorious,” I mutter as I sink in deeper. “You feel so good.”
Her hips rock up to meet mine, and I start thrusting. Slowly at first, then faster and faster. Her boobs shake against me, and because I really am a kinky asshole, I suck on a taut nipple until sweetness floods my mouth and then aim the base of my cock so it rubs her clit.
“Oh my God, Drew.” Her back arches beneath me while she clutches me closer. “Yes.”
And I hold her hand the entire time.
Because I am her man.
Her somewhat deviant, highly irreverent, always unconventional but absolutely-ass-over-head-in-love-with-her man.
As we kiss, it feels like this is where we belong. Joined to one another. Warm skin touching, breaths joining, bodies moving, hearts thumping.
What I feel for Kendall is more than sex, but with sex I renew my vows to her.
I will take care of you.
I will be there for you.
I will love you.
Always.
Even as the words rush through me, when I look into her eyes, she’s saying those very things back to me.
Neither one of us lasts long. Kendall’s muscles tighten again, and she comes, which sets off my orgasm. And I come so long and so hard, I wonder if she can feel it in her body.
Lacing my other hand through hers, I push myself up on my elbows and gaze down at her.
“I love you, Kendall Greer.”
“I love you too, Drew Merritt.”
When I roll off of her, I pull her to my side.
We lay next to each other, breathing and enjoying the intimacy of touching. My fingers journey along her arm. Hers mess wi
th my hair. And we hold each other.
Out of nowhere, our cat comes skidding into the bedroom, fur akimbo like he’s been spooked, yowls a meow, and tears off down the hall.
Typical random feline behavior.
We snicker.
“He lives up to his name. Shazam,” I say, doing jazz hands, then shake my head. “What a nut.” I tug KK closer and breathe in her irresistible scent. “Got any plans for Thanksgiving? It’s a few months away, but I hear Mount Hood has some great holiday rentals. Maybe we can even find a place with hot water.”
She bursts out laughing. “I’d love to go up there with you and the babies.”
“Good thing. ’Cause I already rented the perfect place. Can’t wait for you to see it. It even has electricity. And more than one bedroom.”
“Sounds perfect.”
A smile spreads on my face and then hers.
One that doesn’t even dim when our young ’un cries a few minutes later.
Because life with Kendall—with our babies and crazy cat and so much fucking love I don’t know what to do with myself?
This is perfect.
* * *
Thanks for reading Surprise, Baby! If you enjoyed it, we hope you’ll consider leaving a review on Goodreads and the vendor where you purchased it.
To get an email the next time we release a book, be sure to subscribe to our newsletters. To thank you, we’ll send you a BONUS CHAPTER/super sweet EXTENDED HEA for Drew and Kendall!
Keep flipping for an excerpt of Josh and Evie’s book, All About the D.
All About the D synopsis
Temptation has never come in a hotter package.
You know how people say you can never believe what you read on the interwebs? That a hot guy online is probably a creeper with a beer gut and a shoe fetish, not the sexy beast he pretends to be?
So I had no clue that the anonymous blogger who contacted my law firm about his naughty website would be droolworthy in real life. Not that I'm interested in him in that way.
Attorneys can't go around sleeping with their clients. Not even if he is the most beautiful man I've ever met and so ridiculously smart he makes my nerdy-girl heart sigh.
Besides, he has too much on the line to risk taking a chance on the insane chemistry building between us. We both do.
I've always followed the rules. Too bad he makes me want to break each and every one of them.
* * *
All About the D is a romantic comedy and a full-length standalone. Due to adult situations and sexual content, it's recommended for readers over the age of 18. Keep flipping to read the first chapter.
* Purchase ALL ABOUT THE D *
Excerpt of All About the D
Copyright 2017 Lex Martin and Leslie McAdam
CHAPTER ONE
Evie
I could look.
Take a peek.
God, I want to look.
All afternoon I’ve busied myself in case after case, meting out my life in the six-minute increments of the billable hour, but it’s nagging me like a bar exam question I need to answer.
On one hand, checking out this guy’s blog is technically work-related, so that NSFW warning in his email cancels itself out…doesn’t it?
Surely I need to know what I’m getting myself into before I consider representing him, and I could really use a huge client right now.
Huge. My word choice makes me blush, but I’m guessing he’s well-endowed given the reason he contacted me in the first place.
How will I look him in the eye if I see his Johnson all wild and woolly, swinging like the trunk of an elephant at the zoo?
Please, Jesus, I hope he trims his monster.
Despite my need to bring in some heavy-hitting clients, this project doesn’t exactly fit the upper-crust clientele we typically service.
Heh. Service.
I mean, we’re talking about full-frontal male nudity. I don’t need to read the novel-length employee handbook to know that viewing his blog on a computer at my law firm is a no-no.
Why did I have to forget my cell phone charger today of all days? I could be locked away in the women’s two-stall restroom right now, scoping out the most interesting client—well, potential client—who’s crossed my desk in the last three years, if my stupid phone worked.
I glance at the open door to my office. Should I close it? Or does that make me seem more suspicious? Does it scream, “I’M SURFING PORN”?
If it weren’t for that stupid memo from Bill Fleming, everyone’s least favorite partner, that “requested” we keep our doors open unless we’re on an important call or with a client, I wouldn’t be concerned.
Tired of debating what I should do, I gaze out the lone window that runs along the far side of my office. While the partners have grandiose views of Mount Hood, I’m just an associate, which means I overlook a three-story parking garage, two dumpsters, and the back alley of a dive bar.
The office manager assigned me a simple oak desk and credenza, and my decorations consist of a ficus tree, a few photos, and a framed diploma from Georgetown Law. At more than $165,000, it’s my most expensive possession. Well, that and my new house, a dilapidating Craftsman bungalow, where I sink any money I can spare after my exorbitant student loan payments.
So hell, yes, I could use the origination credit for a new client. My firm pays a bounty on bringing in business, which could mean the difference between getting new bathroom plumbing now or waiting five years. And I don’t think I can hold it that long.
My attention returns to my computer. I’ll admit that guy’s call this morning intrigued me. At least he isn’t the typical corporate client out to crush the competition, leaving all human resources laws in shambles.
Slowly, my hand moves to the mouse.
It’s not every day I’m told I probably shouldn’t check out a work-related blog from an office computer.
Admittedly, I’m not totally up to date on porn these days. I wouldn’t call myself a prude, but orgasms require time and preferably someone else to lend a hand, and I haven’t had much of either in a while.
Unable to resist, I pull up the email that’s been making me crazy and scan the message again. It’s fairly formal considering the topic of discussion. He writes, “Ms. Mills, per our conversation this morning, I’ve forwarded the link to my blog. Please review so you may ascertain whether or not you can represent me in this negotiation. Best, Josh.”
Josh. No last name. No hint at who he is based on the random Gmail account.
I study the link to his blog, which looks like it’s been truncated. It’s innocuous. Just a short series of numbers and letters that don’t give me any indication of what I’m about to see. Well, except for the “not suitable for work” warning Josh typed above it.
He didn’t sound like a pervo-lunatic on the phone. He said things like, “Acquiring an attorney seems prudent,” and “Given my other ventures, I need a wall of separation to protect my assets.”
In fact, he sounded like a businessman. A really freaking sexy businessman with a deep voice that made me shiver.
Are his photos sexy too? Or would I be grossed out by his junk? Because dicks can be gross, like little hairless moles poking their pale heads out of the ground. Not that anyone ever sends me dick pics. I don’t say this with any sort of judgment. I mean, guys don’t think of me and send me nudes.
Truthfully, I’m probably too girl-next-door to get the interest of some dude who waves a massive wand. So what if I like to wear overalls and grungy T-shirts on the weekend? I don’t need guys to send me cock shots anyway.
My hand twitches to click the link.
Oh, shit. I’m about to surf porn at work. Miss I-Wear-Sensible-Shoes because they’re cost-effective and comfortable is going to surf porn at Waller, Goldman & Associates.
I’m seriously considering having my head examined when my ex’s words worm their way into my mind. “You’re so practical, Evelyn. That’s not a bad thing, but I need to be with someone
who has more imagination. Someone who’s exciting and spontaneous.”
I cringe at the memory even though it’s been two years since Elliot and I broke up.
What did he mean, spontaneous? In how I lived my life generally? In what I wore? Or… shudder… in bed?
His answer: All of the above.
I’d barely contained my tears as I laughed it off and scuttled out of Elliot’s Ikea-clad apartment before I broke down into full-blown sobs. Because being with him had made me feel like I wasn’t hopeless when it came to romance. But apparently I was wrong.
Jutting out my chin, I take a deep breath. I can be spontaneous, damn it.
Just last week, I got the quiche when I always order the French dip sandwich.
I wait for a sense of satisfaction to settle over me. Except it doesn’t. One, because we’re talking about a stupid sandwich, and two, that day my BFF Kendall coerced me over the phone into ordering something different. And three, if I’m determining my level of spontaneity by what I got for lunch, I’m probably a lost cause.
Damn you, Elliot.
Three minutes. I’ll review Josh’s website for three minutes.
I reach over to set my timer before I click the link in his email.
And I immediately regret it.
I try to close the page. Try to hit the back button. Try to quit the browser. But the hourglass icon pops up.
Christ on a cracker, the hourglass won’t stop turning. Our traditional law firm hasn’t caught up with the times and upgraded our internet. Perpetually slow bandwidth has now gone from a daily annoyance to makes-me-want-to-tear-out-my-nails. Yes, a decade after the iPhone, some law firms still use dictation machines. At least we have email.
My three minutes are up and the damn thing is still frozen.
I blow my bangs out of my face and pray I don’t need someone from the tech department to fix this.