That sounded even better than the sex cabin right now.
Hot monkey sex wasn't on the table, but Dylan's mouth was on her clit now, his hands unrolling her yoga pants and undies with ease, the soft carpet a lovely cushion for her bare ass as his intense face dove between her legs, tongue on a mission as Laura arched her hips and groaned.
As she rolled one hip, eager for his tongue on that spot, she yelped in pain.
Hot giraffe sex after all.
The damn toy cut into her thigh, the pressure making her leg muscle spasm. Dylan slid it out from under her and flung it across the room, where it struck a musical toy, the sound of bells and whooping alerts alternating with green, red, blue, and yellow flashing lights.
Giggling, she pushed him back in place, warmth flooding everything as his little groans of pride from giving her pleasure made her want to climax even more. Nothing turned her on as much as the sounds they made during sex—so real, intimate, and primal. Dirty talk was great, but the sighs, the moans, the licks and smacking sounds of really juicy sex was a layer of her own enjoyment she hadn't known existed until recently. Being even more real with Mike and Dylan meant being a sexual being who was open, willing, and realistic about what sex really was.
And right now, sex really was about grabbing fistfuls of his hair as his tongue danced on her and elicited an afternoon delight she hadn't seen coming just minutes ago.
But she could see herself coming, right—now.
The sound of a baby show on the television in the muted distance barely registered as Dylan’s hand traveled up over the curve of her belly, the rounded slope of one breast, his finger and thumb teasing her nipple in time to the rhythmic strokes of his pointed tongue, the rapid flicker bringing her to her own hum, and she tipped over the edge into a writhing orgasm, riding his face, the man so caught up in the pointed focus on making her lose it that his intensity became her and drove her climax further and deeper.
“Dylan,” she gasped as her ab muscles clenched into a wall that took over her ass, her clit, her internal passages, and every core muscle from pussy to navel, turning them into a steel vise of pure, unadulterated pleasure.
The push of her hips against his face and his determination to make her multiply satisfied made her relax completely into his mouth, knowing that he was at the ready for more, her hand reaching down to stroke his thick cock through his pants.
The gasp of hot air against her folds, the baring of his teeth that rested against her as he reacted, made her smile as she pushed his head away, her orgasms peaked and leaving her panting, something animal inside her wanting to wrap her lips around the base of him and give back at least—if not more—what he’d just given her.
Squeak.
Halfway down to his cock, her head tipped toward Dylan’s now-bare, tantalizing navel, the sound made her halt. Dylan’s legs tensed and his sharp inhale this time had nothing to do with her. Following his gaze, which looked…guilty?…she turned toward the doorway, where she found Mike towering over them, two steps in the cheerful room, his face anything but.
Before she or Dylan could open their mouths to explain, he held out a palm. Mike said exactly three words before he turned on his heel and left the room.
“It's my day.”
* * *
Laura had to find a way to fix this. Day two of polite interaction with Mike, no affection, and a tight smile that reminded her of her old Republican congressman being forced to share a lunch table with Dan Savage. And his husband.
Dylan wasn’t having much luck either.
“I’ve tried,” he’d hissed over coffee that morning, both attempting to talk about what Mike wouldn’t.
So they’d been playful and spontaneous and had sex on a plastic giraffe. That whole “assigned days” thing had been a general guideline—not the equivalent of tax policy, right? It wasn’t like they could be audited and emotionally fined for sexing outside the box.
Right?
Mike, though, was acting as if she and Dylan had committed sex fraud. Tongue violations galore. Blatant disregard for orgasm limits. If their sex life had an alternative minimum tax, this would be Mike applying the formula and forcing her to give up a share of her last handful of climaxes.
She was taking this way too seriously.
Or personally. Likely both.
Then again, so was Mike.
Marching into the kitchen, determined to get more than three consecutive syllables out of him, she found him blending some ungodly green glop and pouring it into an ice cube tray.
“What is that?” It looked like something she’d vomited up after having her wisdom teeth removed after college.
“Kale/pear sauce. I figured Jillian could give it a try next.” The slow march toward solids was not going as well as planned, as Miss Jillian The Milk Vacuum had decided that warm and directly from the tap was how she liked her nutrition.
Like an Irishman and his Guinness.
“Sounds delightful,” she lied. “Now, can we talk about something other than the latest vegan baby trend and get to you let me in? I am so sorry, and I’ve said it a thousand times, but I can’t apologize if you won’t hear me.”
“I hear you.”
“No, hear me. Really hear me. Let me understand what’s going on and tell me how you’re feeling and then let me reflect and all that gooey interpersonal interplay that the Mike I thought I knew was into.”
“I’m sorry I’m not being the person you thought I was.” His voice was pleasant enough, but the words felt like little poison darts aimed right at her soul. That kind of detachment chilled her and made a deep part of her suddenly very, very vulnerable and afraid.
“What does that mean?”
“It means exactly what I said.”
Oh, this game. She knew what he was doing. Saying words she was supposed to turn around on herself and take on, as if she were the one acting like a different person, as if she were in the wrong here, when all she’d done was had a lovely romp with one of her men. Mike’s head games weren’t going to work.
Maybe he’s right, her guilty conscience chimed in. You haven’t been as eager in bed with him as you have with Dylan lately.
Fuck off.
The voice skittered away.
She must have been glaring at Mike, because his eyes narrowed and matched hers. Great concentration was the only way she could relax, and as her face muscles shifted down to neutral he mimicked her subconsciously. Whatever was going on inside him wasn’t intentional—that was helpful to realize.
Didn’t make this any easier, though.