Sweet Spot

“Are you sure you want to sell, Grandpa? I can come home every weekend and Booker said he will help out too.”

I actually told Carrie I’d stay here and work at The Sugar Factory while she went to art school, but she told me that was a non-starter. We both go to college together or we both stay here and run the ice cream shop.

“No!” Mrs. Montlain cuts in sharply. “I’ve been begging him to sell The Sugar Factory for years once you graduated, but he’s only just agreed. Don’t you talk him out of it, Carrie.”

“She’s right,” Mr. Montlain says gruffly. “I thought you wanted this place, and so I’ve been holding on to it, but now that you are going to art school, there doesn’t seem to be a need for that. I can take your grandma on that world tour that she’s been hankering for but if you”—he points a finger at me—“don’t take good care of her, I’m going to bring you back behind the shop and beat you with an ice cream drum.”

“Grandpa!” shouts Carrie.

“George!” cries Mrs. Montlain.

I stick out my hand. “Understood and deserved.”

We shake on it, and before he lets go of my hand, I get a tiny smile. It might be a reluctant approval, but it’s an approval nonetheless. I turn to Carrie and pick her up to swing her around. “You’re going to art school,” I yell.

She rests her hands on my shoulders, a smile as wide as the ocean split across her face. “I am, aren’t I?” she says in wonder.

I drop her to the ground and then, in spite of the audience, I lay my lips across hers and seal the deal. We’re bound together now, our destinies meshed with each other’s, and that’s the only way I want it to be from now until forever.

Epilogue

Many Years Later

“I don’t think I’ve ever been this excited for an art showing,” I admit as Booker comes up behind me. I’m still getting ready for the showcase.

He pushes my hair off my neck and takes over clasping my necklace together for me. When he’s finished, he leans down to place a kiss on my bare shoulder.

“At this rate we’re going to be late.” His hand slips around to my bare but very pregnant stomach. My eyes meet his in the bathroom mirror. “Did you think I would be able to go without a taste with you looking like this?”

I’m standing in only a pair of white lace panties and a bra. The only thing left to do is to slip my dress on and be out the door. It’s white, so it’s the last thing I always put on. I usually try to wear dresses that are white and simple for art showings, not wanting anything to take away from the pieces.

“What kind of taste are we talking about?” I push my ass back into him.

He’s still in his suit from work. He grinds his erection. Booker hadn’t been lying when he said he was going to be an agent one day for the biggest athletes in the world. Some had called him cocky for the declaration, but he showed them all. He’s currently one of the most sought-after agents in the world. I couldn’t be prouder of him if I tried.

There’s nothing wrong with being cocky if you can back it up. Booker always holds true to his word. A lie or half-truth has never crossed his lips to me since that day I’d found all my artwork stashed away in that condo. Now he openly admits when he buys them.

“You know what I want.” His hand slips inside my panties.

“We can’t be late.” I moan, my head dropping back onto his chest as his fingers find my clit.

“There is always time for a man to please his wife. Especially his pregnant wife.”

“Yes,” I agree, my hand locking around his arm. My nails dig into him. It doesn’t take Booker much to get me off. I think the man knows my body better than I do sometimes. He can make me come in seconds if he wants, or he can draw it out until I’m begging for release. I have to say I enjoy both ways equally.

“All day at work I was thinking about coming home and getting you off. I have no fucking clue how I get anything done always thinking about your pussy.”

“Booker!” I cry out, the orgasm hitting me hard. My legs give out, but my husband doesn't let me fall.

“Be ready to get fucked when we get home.” He nibbles my neck as he pulls his hand out from my panties. I watch as he brings his fingers to his mouth, sucking them clean. I squeeze my thighs together, wishing we had more time right now.

“Mommy! It’s almost time,” our son calls. I hear the pitter-patter of his little feet on our bedroom floor. I grab my dress that’s hanging on the hook and quickly pull it on in the nick of time. Noah comes racing into the bathroom to find me. “Daddy!” he squeals when he sees him. He jumps, and Booker catches him. “People are already arriving.”