Page 10

Miranda - 17 years later

Now that the big Aquaculture conference has wrapped up, I’ve taken a day off from my job as the Special Events Manager at a nearby hotel to visit my husband at work. I’ve planned my timing perfectly when most of his staff are out to lunch, nostalgia blooming as I walk the firm’s halls. It was with Sherman’s support and encouragement that I bucked the career my parents had planned for me and went into the hospitality industry once we were out of the baby and diapers and strollers and car seats and sleep deprivation stage of our lives, and I’ve been all the happier for it.

Bumping Sherman’s office door open, I let it swing shut behind me as I slow my steps to exaggerate the sway of my hips that have grown rounder after the birth of our three children—Shayla, Bailey, and Autumn. “Good afternoon, Mr. Fischer.”

My handsome husband swallows, fiddling with his navy blue tie. “I’ll call you back,” he barks into the phone, abruptly hanging up on a client, dropping the phone in its cradle on his desk with a noisy clatter. “You’re a sight for sore eyes, angel.” He motions for me to come closer, a smile growing wider. “What are you doing here?”

“Thought I’d surprise you.” Stepping around his desk, I set down my quilted insulated tote bag and remove the hot covered pie dish along with several plastic forks and plates.

Sherman rolls back his chair when I nudge his legs. I kick off my sandals, hop up on his desk in front of him, and work the lid free, steam rising from the freshly baked cherry pie I made just for him.

Sherman licks his bottom lip, even as he pats his stomach with a groan. At fifty-two years old, with a thicker waistline and blond hair that long ago turned silver, I find my husband as attractive as I did the first day we met. If anything, I’m even more obsessed with him after seventeen blissfully chaotic years of marriage, hosting more block parties, birthdays, and company-wide get-togethers at our house than the hotel does conferences.

“You know I’ve done good sticking to my diet this time around,” he says, staring at the pie with a hungry expression as he rolls his chair forward.

“Oh yes, I know. You’ve been very, very good, sir.”

Sherman moans, cutting his eyes to mine, even hungrier.

I tug his tie, spreading my legs so he’ll roll all the way forward. “The pie is refined sugar-free,” I whisper in a sultry tone, licking his bottom lip with a hum.

“Yeah?”

I slowly drag my ankle-length linen skirt up my legs and lean back to rest my bare feet on the arms of his chair. “With gluten-free crust.”

“Is that right?” Sherman circles my calves, then slides his hands up, pushing the material further up my thighs. Gripping my hips, he tugs me to the very edge of his desk. “What about the whipped cream?” he asks, lips brushing the inside of one knee while he hooks a finger under the white fabric of my panties.

I pull the cold to-go bowl from my bag and set it beside the pie dish, then brace my hands on his desk behind me when he yanks my panties to the side, baring me. “Made with non-fat Greek yogurt, sir.”

Sherman kisses his way along my inner thigh. “You know just the way to my heart.” Through his stomach .

“And you know mine, sir,” I say with a moan, dropping my head back when my husband pushes my knees out with his broad shoulders and buries his face in my pussy, taking his time to tease and savor me.

“Fuck, angel, I love the way you taste. I need more.” Lifting my bottom with both hands up to his mouth, he pushes his firm tongue inside me, drinking down my arousal.

“Yes, sir, just like that!” With pleasure making it difficult to keep my arms locked to stay upright, I let them give out, lying flat on his desk. I palm the back of my husband’s head while he eats me like I’m his favorite dessert, tastier than any of the pies I’ve made for him over the years.

He’s a beast, his chest heaving with effort as he brings me to orgasm after switching to massaging my clit with his tongue, two large fingers pumping in and out of me at just the right pace and intensity, proving time and again just how well he knows and shows love to my body.

“Oh god, sir, that was amazing,” I say between panting breaths, pushing myself up, my braid a mess after all my writhing. When Sherman slouches back in his chair to catch his own breath, swiping the back of his hand across his wet mouth, I slide from his desk onto the floor. “Now it’s my turn for a taste.” I swivel his chair to the side and kneel between his spread legs, hidden should anyone unexpectedly return from lunch too soon.

“Angel, my angel,” he moans, twirling the tip of my braid around his finger while I hurry to unbuckle his belt and roll down the zipper of his tailored black slacks, freeing his hard cock. “Always so good to me.”

I fist the base of his thick shaft and hum as I take the swollen tip of him between my lips. Rolling my eyes up to meet his heavy-lidded gaze, I slowly bob my head up and down with hollowed cheeks as I refamiliarize myself with his size, then pull off and smack my lips. “Delicious, sir.”

Sherman’s whole body shivers, his back bowing from his seat. “Fuck, I’m gonna cum already.” Taking over stroking his shaft, faster and faster, he says, “Stick your tongue out, angel.” When I do, he moans loud and rough, “Good girl! Fuck!” With his grip on my braid, he tugs my face forward and angles his cock down to cum on my tongue, his nostrils flaring wildly when I tip my head back to show him my throat as I swallow it all.

“Thank you, angel,” he says, eyes crinkling at the corners of his satisfied expression when he helps me onto my feet.

“Thank you , sir,” I say with a giggle and a peck on the lips. This wasn’t the first time we’ve gone down on each other in his office, and it most certainly won’t be the last. “Ready for pie now?” I ask, holding up the red enamel pie cutter.

“More than ready,” he says through a scratchy throat, snaking his hand under my skirt to rub and squeeze my butt as I cut and plate a slice of pie for each of us, then drop dollops of cream on top. When I try to hand his plate to him with a plastic fork, he refuses, to my surprise, the corner of his lips twitching up.

Sherman works my panties down with heat in his eyes, then pats his thighs. “Remember what you had to do when I refused to eat your first cherry pie?”

Ah . “You mean when I fed it to you?” My eyes dip from his mouth to his lap, his cock hard again, standing proud from the opening of his slacks.

“And where were you sitting?” he asks, maneuvering me around and lifting my skirt to my waist.

Placing a knee on his seat on the outside of his thigh, I answer, “On your lap.”

“Mmhmm.” Sherman helps me straddle his thighs, using his hands on my ass to position me so that his cockhead nudges my entrance. “Sit, angel.”

“Yes, sir.” We both sigh with pleasure as I take his cock inside me to the hilt. Every time I guide a forkful of pie into his mouth, he lifts my bottom, then drops me, until it gets to the point where it’s too good, too euphoric, and we’re too close to cumming again that we can no longer focus on the pie—only each other.

I let the plate drop to the floor as I grip his sturdy shoulders and bounce with his help. “Almost there, almost there. Make me cum, sir,” I beg, mouth dropped open with a long, high-pitched moan after Sherman shoves a hand between us to press his thumb against my clit.

“Yes, yes, yes,” I chant as waves of heat and ecstasy sweep over me, every sense honed on my husband now fucking up into me once I am no longer in control of my body. Sherman’s cock swells larger, his moans deeper and more urgent, and I beg, “Cum inside me, sir.”

“Oh god, yes, take it, angel!” Sherman’s jaw relaxes as his orgasm slams into him, his hands digging into my flesh to hold me in place as he fills me with his warm cum. It doesn’t matter that I’ve been on birth control since the birth of our youngest daughter ten years ago—it’s still as thrilling now to feel him let go inside me, claiming me as his , as it was the first time we had unprotected sex.

Enjoying the intimacy for the remainder of his employees’ one-hour lunch break, I remain seated on my husband’s lap, his softened cock sheathed within me to keep his cum right where we want it. Lightly scraping his scalp with my nails while he rubs my back tenderly, we share sweet kisses that taste of cherry pie and whipped cream and each other.

Hearing the first stirrings of his employees returning to their desks, I gingerly rise up on my knees and twist, reaching for the box of tissues on his desk. “Guess it’s time I cleaned up and let you get back to work,” I say with a pout, wishing we had a few minutes longer to ourselves.

Plucking a handful of tissues from the box, Sherman cleans his cum from between my legs, his chest starting to rise and fall faster beneath his white button-down. “I had the strangest dream last night…”

“What was it about?”

Sherman helps me off his lap, darting in to kiss my stomach over my blouse while helping to smooth my skirt down. “Never mind. Can’t seem to remember now.”

“Maybe it’ll come to you later,” I say, taking my hair tie out so I can finger-comb my messy strands and rebraid it.

The corner of his lips twitch with a sly smile. “Fingers crossed.”

* * *

3 months later

The only thing more shocking than finding an open box of pregnancy tests in my teenage daughter’s bathroom is taking one of the pregnancy tests myself, which came back positive. With my fortieth birthday around the corner and with children in elementary, middle, and high school, I thought we were well and truly beyond having more children.

“That dream you had…” My mind zips as I think back to that day I visited Sherman in his office and how hungry—even more than usual—my husband has been for me ever since. Putting the puzzle pieces together, I stare at the test, my palm resting on my lower belly. “You lied about not remembering. It was about having another child, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” he answers with a grin in the mirror, pressing his chest to my back and sliding his hand over mine, propping his chin on top of my head. His amusement falters when I frown. “Are you upset?”

“I’m not…not sure,” I answer truthfully.

“About me or that you’re pregnant?”

“I’m not sure,” I repeat. “You don’t think we’re too old to be starting all over again?”

Spinning me around so that I’m leaning against the vanity, Sherman cups my cheeks. “Who says we’re old?”

“The gray in my hair.” Streaks of silver are now woven into my light brown braid, the faintest of fine lines appearing at the corners of my eyes and lips almost overnight.

“Ah, but we’re young here,” he whispers, kissing my temple. “And here,” he says, kissing his way down my neck and stopping at my chest over my heart. He kneels to press his ear to it, listening to its beat with his sturdy, supportive, loving arms wrapped around my back.

“You know what this means, though, right?” I ask, excitement dawning and bubbling up the longer he holds me, imagining my stomach growing firmer once more and the look of marvel that will be sketched across Sherman’s face when our unborn child first kicks his hand.

“What does it mean, angel?”

I turn his face up, finding my own amusement as the reality of our situation ripples through him when I say, “Our baby is going to be younger than our first grandchild.”

“Good God Almighty, help me.”

—THE END—