Sidebarred (The Legal Briefs 3.5)

Chapter 1

July

I still don’t use an alarm clock.

My internal clock is as dependable as ever, but I don’t wake up at 5 a.m. like I used to—I get up even earlier. Because these days it’s not a run or the thought of fresh coffee that gets me going in the morning.

It’s her.

I sense Chelsea before my eyes open. The press of her hip against my leg, the feel of her long, delicate arm draped across my bare chest, the tickle of her breath along my collarbone, the scent of lilac in her hair. The promise of lazy kisses, soft moans, and tight, wet heat.

We’ve been married for about two years and there hasn’t been a single morning when I didn’t wake with a smile tugging at my lips. Not one fucking time. Because she’s beside me—half on top of me—and the six little shits we love more than anything are tucked safely away upstairs. They’re all really good sleepers. That’s key.

Getting laid with six awake kids in the house can be a challenge. It takes planning, stealth. When moments of spontaneous opportunity strike, they’re never without risk of discovery. They require awareness—attunement to the movements and sounds beyond the closed door. What the kids are doing, where they are—if they’re going to interrupt us with any one of a thousand ridiculous but urgent questions.

It can be a pain in the ass—though I wouldn’t trade it for the world, wouldn’t change a single thing about the life we’ve made together.

But here, now, in this bed, in the still darkness of morning—it’s different. We can move how we want, say what we want—fuck in any position or on any surface that we can think of.

Because this is our time.

In these moments we’re not a defense lawyer and a part-time museum curator, we’re not parents, we’re just Jake and Chelsea. A man and a woman who are crazy about each other.

Without opening my eyes I slide out from under her arm and down the bed, taking the blankets with me as I go. Once in a while, she’ll surprise me and wake up before I do. Those are fun mornings. There is no greater wake-up call in the history of the world than the sight of Chelsea Becker’s thick auburn hair covering my crotch and her plump, pouty lips wrapped greedily around my dick.

But today, I have the upper hand—and that’s fun, too. I flip to my stomach and push Chelsea’s thin nightgown up over her hips, exposing her to my now open eyes. She doesn’t wear underwear to bed—there’s really no point; it’d be on the floor come morning anyway. Her pussy is pink and perfect—smooth and bare except for a tiny auburn landing strip that never fails to turn me way the hell on. I rub my nose against the dusting of hair and inhale. And her scent—fuck—that gets me going, too. Clean and warm, like honeysuckle.

Her leg shifts near my shoulder and she lets out a little sigh.

Then I lick her.

Slowly, firmly, deep between those waiting lips, before gently circling her clit with the tip of my tongue.

Her foot slides up, bracing against the bed, her leg bent at the knee—and that little sigh turns into a longer moan. I open my mouth and kiss her, my tongue still dragging up and down, tasting her growing slickness.

I fucking love that. How easily she gets wet. Sometimes she’s drenched before I even touch her. Once I asked if she dreamed about me going down on her, if that was why she was always so ready. But she just blushed and wouldn’t answer.

I spear her with my tongue now—gliding in and out—sucking gently on that plump bundle of nerves.

Her voice is husky with sleep and heat when she moans.

“Fuck me . . .”

I can’t tell if it’s an expletive or an order. Either one works for me.

I crawl back up, turning Chelsea to her side and settling in behind her. My hand glides up her stomach to pull the top of her thin-strapped nightgown down so I can cover her breast and rub my palm against the peaked nipple.

Chelsea’s hand comes up behind my head, guiding me to her mouth for a slow, deep kiss. I release her breast, lift her leg, and nudge my hips forward—my pelvis pushing against her ass and my cock sliding between her legs, hard and hot and searching. Chelsea breaks the kiss, turns her face toward the pillow, and pushes her hips back against me—telling me without words that she wants it and she wants it now.

I grip myself at the base and drag the head of my cock through her wet folds—rubbing against her clit, teasing her hole. My little wife whimpers, then she digs her fingernails into my thigh. “Jake . . .”

A chuckle rumbles behind my lips. Looks like teasing isn’t on the menu today. This also works for me. I line myself up and thrust hard inside her—deep to the hilt.

Damn that’s good. So, so good.

Chelsea’s back bows and she breathes out a welcoming groan. I lift her leg and start pumping in and out—smooth, shallow, building jabs. Her inner muscles squeeze me fantastically, while the rest of her body goes slack with pleasure, her spine relaxing back against my chest.

I kiss her shoulder and lick her neck and bury my face in the waves of her silky hair. The sounds of our pants and slapping skin fill the air and our bodies grow slick with exertion—her pushing back against me as I withdraw and stroke up into her. And time stands still. Or more—it loses meaning. All that we know, all that matters, is the growing, electric pleasure coursing through us, sparking between us.

Making love sweetly has its place; long hours of endless foreplay are great, too. Hell, I can even get into the romance stuff—candles and rose petals and warm baths. But hard, fast fucking should never, ever be underestimated—’cause it’s awesome. Even for married people, even for couples with kids.

Maybe especially for them.

There’s something primal about giving into this base need—being rough and dirty and fast. There’s something so intimate and comfortable and fucking honest about just wanting to come, and come hard, with the person you love.

It’s a feeling I’ve only ever known with this woman in my arms—something I’ll only ever share with her. Till death do us part.

“Please, Jake, please, please, please . . .” Chelsea chants mindlessly, and I know she’s right on the edge. I let go of her leg and bring my hand to the juncture of her thighs—rubbing her clit in feather-light circles—providing the added pressure she needs.

She lifts her head and gasps when she comes, every muscle contracting and squeezing. My breaths are harsh and my hips push without a rhythm, until I roll us over so

Chelsea’s flat on her stomach and I cover her back. I thrust into her once, twice, and then my vision goes hazy as I come—the feeling so intense, all I can hear is the pounding of blood in my ears.

Damn.

Seconds, minutes, later we recover our breaths. I roll onto my back and wipe the sweat from my forehead with my arm. Chelsea rises up on her elbows and looks at me with sparkling blue eyes.

“Good morning.”

I kiss her lips gently—because she’s so fucking pretty. Because she makes me so stupidly happy.

“Good is an understatement.”

I open my arms and she curls against me, giggling. We stay like that for only a few minutes because now it’s a little after five—time to officially start my day. As usual, Chelsea drifts back to sleep as I kiss her forehead, ease out of bed, and get dressed for my morning run.

****

“I’m not gonna make it.”

“Yes, you are.”

“I’m gonna die.”

“No, you’re not.”

She starts to sing, “If I die—”

“Stop quoting frigging country songs, Rosaleen. You’re not dying.”

Frigging isn’t typically part of my vocabulary, but after a conversation with Chelsea—several conversations—and a few unfortunate imitations in preschool by Ronan, I’m making a concerted effort to tone down my language.

My running partner for the last two weeks, Rosaleen, gasps for breath as she jogs beside me, blond curly pigtails bouncing in the wind. She’s eleven now. I can’t fucking believe how fast she’s changed from the little blond Shirley Temple look-alike I first met, who thought thirty was so old.

Well . . . she probably still thinks thirty is old, and thirty-four must be goddamn ancient.

Anyway, she’s still short, still has those corkscrew curls and big, innocent blue eyes. But she’s grown, changed—matured. A few months ago she started worrying about her weight, because she’d put on a little.

She also started wearing a training bra.

So not going there.

Chelsea explained it’s just her age—that she’d arrived at the “awkward stage” and in a few months she’d hit a growth spurt and that extra weight would disperse the way it’s supposed to. But Rosaleen didn’t want to wait. So after I run seven miles on my own, I circle back and do an extra mile with her. She’s improved—her running form and her stamina. Though you wouldn’t know it by listening to her.

“After I’m gone . . . give Regan . . . my iPad.”

I can’t help but laugh as we turn the corner onto our street.

“Come on—there’s the house,” I coach. “Dig deep and get there.”

Labored breathing is the only response I get.

I’m not the kind of guy who sings. Like—ever.

Almost ever.