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In many of those romance books or drama series, couples would often talk about “making love” as if it were some spiritual experience. First of all, I was too young to read or watch adults making love, so I didn’t get it then. And then, when I started having sex, I didn’t understand it then either.
Sex was great.
Orgasms were very enjoyable.
But a spiritual experience?Eh.
But as Hunter spoons me from the back, our legs delicately entangled in a sensual dance as he enters me from behind over and over…I’m starting to get this whole spiritual thing.
Maybe it’s because I’m knocked up, and the hormones are raging inside of me, or perhaps it’s because I’ve missed this man something fierce. Still, my eyes practically roll up inside of myhead as he alternates between pinching the nipple of my right breast and massaging my clit in between, taking deep strokes inside of my pussy.
Yeah, this shit is definitely spiritual.
“Are you okay, baby?” he whispers, which is another telltale sign that we’re making love because when has Hunter ever worried about me beingokaywhile we’re fucking?
“Mmm, very okay,” I moan, reaching my arm behind my head to touch the side of his face. “More than okay.”
“That’s good, Megan because we have a lot of missed time to make up for,” he growls into the skin of my neck. “We’re in for a long night now that you’re back where you belong.”
I spend the morning pattering barefoot around the penthouse on a high from the night Hunter and I spent together. I spear a chunk of mango on a fork and am nibbling on it when I walk back into the bedroom to check on him. He’s been asleep for an unusually long amount of time. In fact, he’s still sleeping when I sit on the edge of the bed and watch his chest peacefully rise and fall.
I’ve spent so much time battling him lately; it’s been a long time since I’ve appreciated the view. Hunter is a beautiful man. He has a set of long, black eyelashes that most women would envy, a nose that is slightly crooked but in the most perfect way, and a chiseled jaw that would put the fictitious Thor to shame.
He shifts in his sleep, and I stare in appreciation of every dip and valley of muscle in his chest and arms. Incredibly, my desire for him surfaces again, and I gently touch the center of his chest with a light touch of my pointer finger.
“You’re such a greedy girl,” he says with his eyes still shut but smirking. “Didn’t I give you enough last night?”
“I’m starting to see what women say about pregnancy hormones. I didn’t believe them at first, but now I do. I want you to fuck me in the worst way.”
His eyes open slowly.
That woke him right up.
“Megan.”
“Yes?” I grin.
“You just had a scare yesterday. You were in a lot of pain, and you heard what the doctor said.”
“What your doctor said.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? She’s not my doctor; she’sadoctor. A very well respected one.”
"Did you ever have a romantic relationship with her?" I ask, dying to know the truth.
"I felt her up once when I was sixteen years old. We've been friends ever since."
"Eww."
He chuckles as he sits up and plants a kiss on my lips, lifting my legs up on the bed so that I’m entirely in his embrace.
“You taste like mango.”
“And you taste like me.”
“I should taste like you; I ate you half the night.”
I smile. “So you don’t want more of me this morning?”