I’m not disappointed by his answer. It’s a big decision and he’s thinking about it, turning it around in his brilliant mind, examining all the angles. And the only reason he’s doing that is because he’s serious about a future with me, in the same way I want one with him.
And even if we don’t know all the answers right this second, I believe in us.
And him.
I believe in a future where we’re one of those annoying, disgustingly happy couples that go on fun vacations twice a year and do home redecorating projects together without even arguing. And we both have everything we want out of life.
We’re too good together not to have that.
I walk my fingers up his spine and my voice goes flirty.
“You’re going to be so fucking hot when you’re sixty.”
Connor chuckles, his shoulders jostling. He turns back toward me with a smirk and a flash of dimple.
“Oh yeah? You’ve got a thing for old guys, do you?”
“Well,” I tease, gesturing between us, “I thought that was obvious.”
“Ha ha ha ha!” Connor laughs mockingly. “Holy shit, you’re hilarious.”
And now I’m laughing too.
“If nursing didn’t work out, stand-up comedy was gonna be my plan B.”
“Oh yeah? Tickling was my plan B.”
“Tickling is not an occupation.”
“It is the way I do it.”
“No! Connor, no!”
But he does.
Fast as a cobra, he snatches my ankle in an unbreakable grip and tickles the bottom of my overly sensitive foot—I can’t even get professional pedicures—until I’m squealing and thrashing uncontrollably.
“Ahh!” I scream-laugh. “Stop!”
But he’s relentless.
“Shh, shh—you can’t scream, there are young boys in the house. They’re going to come in here if they hear you and they’ll see your perfect tits and it’ll ruin normal breasts for them forever. You don’t want that on your conscience. Shhh.”
He moves to the other foot without mercy.
So I change tactics—activating my failsafe feminine wiles and capitalizing on his voracious sex drive.
I roll to my side and press all my naked parts against his, pelvis to pelvis, stomach to stomach, my “perfect” tits molded against his broad chest. I wrap my arm around his shoulders and tug him down, kissing him hard and hot, like my life—and my feet—depend on it.
And Connor . . . caves gloriously.
He groans low and rough—a sound that never fails to make me insanely wet. And then he’s pulling me to him, biting and sucking at my lips, and lashing with his tongue. His stupendous cock grows thick and stiff against my thigh.
Then he’s gliding on top of me, pressing me down into the bed with his weight.
And the possible-future-kids discussion is shelved . . . as we pursue our more immediate needs.
* * *
Connor
In the first week of October, I officially retire from D.U.H. Because “unattached” no longer applies to me. I’m extremely, happily attached.
It’s tradition that when a member leaves the group, we all go out to dinner with the retiree and their new significant other to commemorate the occasion. And as any current or former athlete will tell you—you don’t mess with tradition.
On a Friday night we all meet up at a Japanese hibachi restaurant—one of those places where they cook the food in front of you, do knife tricks, and launch pieces of shrimp at the mouths of each member of your party.
Violet looks gorgeous in a snug black sweater and boots, with blue jeans that are ripped at the knees. I got a cheap thrill in the truck on the drive over from slipping my hand into the torn hole and stroking the smooth skin of her leg with my fingertips.
In the atrium of the restaurant, we all stand in a crowd beside the indoor koi pond waiting to be seated. The D.U.H. crew are friendly and chatty with Violet, which doesn’t surprise me in the least. She’s easy to adore.
And they don’t hold back on roasting me—also not a surprise.
“We tried to steer him away from walking around with his head up his ass when you two first got together,” Delilah tells Violet.
“Thanks, Delilah,” I interject. “Great visual.”
“But he was determined to do it the hard way,” Carl adds.
Violet glances at me sweetly, then says, “Yeah, Connor can be pretty thick sometimes . . . but I like him anyway.”
Discreetly, I smack Violet’s ass. Her eyes light up and heat suffuses her cheeks—and I make a mental note to explore spanking further when it’s just the two of us.
The hostess calls our party and we each sit down around the large rectangular table, waiting for the chef to arrive.
Violet takes the menu from the hostess. “God, I’m starving,” she says as she scans it eagerly. “I am Jack’s growling stomach.”
She laughs.
But I freeze. Just staring at her.
In medical school there are a shit-ton of facts you need to learn and memorize—dosages and the workings of body systems and how a multitude of external and internal factors can play cause and effect with everything else—directly and indirectly. But there are moments in medical training when all those extraneous pieces of information come together and crystalize in your mind. And it’s not just something you know . . . it becomes your reality.