Total pages in book: 104
Estimated words: 99017 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 495(@200wpm)___ 396(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99017 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 495(@200wpm)___ 396(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
I wail the truth of just how incredible my man is to the ceiling as I come in deep, clutching waves. Moments later, Dean bucks up with enough force to lift me into the air as his cock pulses inside me, filling me to overflowing, and I am…in heaven.
Sticky, sexy, orgasm-flavored heaven…
“What flavor would an orgasm be, do you think?” I murmur afterward, as we lie spent on the covers, catching our breath. “If orgasms had a flavor?”
“Orange blossoms,” he says without missing a beat.
I hum my approval. “Yes, and honeysuckle. With a hint of lemon zest.”
“And something salty, but clean,” he adds, “like an arctic ocean. Or summer rain by the seaside.”
I lift my head, smiling down at him. “I think we just came up with Capo’s new scent.”
He nods seriously. “Totally. He can call it Big O in the Afternoon.”
“Is it still afternoon?” I glance over at the clock by his bed, my eyes flying wide. “Shit, Dean, it’s already four fifty-five! Elly will be here any minute!”
We scramble into our clothes and jog for the front door, shoving our feet into our shoes and dashing across the lawn. We reach the end of the driveway with just enough time to help smooth each other’s sex-frizzed hair back into place before Elly’s minivan pulls around the corner.
As soon as the van slows to a stop, the sliding door hums open, revealing two very excited little girls, eager to tell us all about the fun they had last night with their best friend Mimi.
We hug them tight, thank Elly profusely, insist that we want to host Mimi for a sleepover at our place soon, and head inside.
Just as we reach the porch steps, Edgar wheels overhead, cawing, “Cray, cray! Cray, cray,” making us all laugh.
We are a little crazy, I guess, but in the best way.
In a way that makes me feel like the luckiest woman in the world.
Epilogue
Nico Adrian Capo
Two months later…
It’s late April in New Orleans, and every witchy girl in the South is gathered at the fairgrounds to celebrate some pagan holiday, I’m sure would give my devoutly Catholic mother an aneurysm.
But the ladies are looking fine as hell in their gauzy hippy dresses, the music is on point, the food booths are inspired, and Keely has promised me giant bonfires at midnight. And that we will dance around them.
Naked!
Okay, so she didn’t promise the naked part, but we’ve both had two glasses of fairy mead, and the sun only set a few minutes ago. There are hours to go before the Beltane fires are lit, and I’m determined to help Keely usher in a new era. An era in which she dances naked, throws caution to the wind, and enjoys the hell out of her life without giving two shits what her evil ex is up to.
Let alone feels compelled to beg a friend to be her fake date to a music festival, so she won’t feel “embarrassed” to be there alone…
Though I guess I can understand why she wanted me here tonight, in particular. Super Gross Zack—not to be confused with Fun Zack, who works with her in the Voodoo PR department—works for the mayor’s office, and this festival is the mayor’s pet project. He’s going all out to empower women and fund the domestic violence shelter for another year.
Probably because he got caught fucking a Loyola coed not much older than his daughter and is looking to rehabilitate his image before the election this fall, but whatever. At least he feels shame and is funneling that into something productive and fun.
I can’t fucking wait for the fires to start.
Seriously. Can’t. Wait.
“I want to help with the torches,” I shout near Keely’s ear as Flowers From the Storm, Clover’s new band, shreds their way through the final song in their set. “Do you think they’d let me help? If I go over to the torch tent and ask really nicely?”
Keely laughs and rolls her eyes. “No!”
My lips push into a pout. “Why not? I’m a respected, highly coordinated, professional athlete. Who else should you trust with fire?”
“You want it too much,” she shouts back, her cheeks flushed pink from bouncing to the music.
Combined with her even pinker, multi-tiered sundress, she looks kind of like a flower that got more than its fair share of fertilizer. There are at least four too many tiers of floof on that dress, but I would never tell her so. Not right now, anyway. At this stage in her divorce recovery journey, Keely needs confidence boosting, not criticism. Even constructive criticism.
My fashion guidance can wait until next year, when I’m sure some tough fashion love from a friend will land with the Goodwill with which it is intended.
I just want all my friends to look—and smell—beautiful.
And if that’s a crime? Well, slap the cuffs on me.