#weeknights ask

"I don't know," you reply softly, meeting his mouth again, again. "I thought maybe you might be too tired or something."

"I'm never too tired for you." His voice has a husky rasp to it, his body shifting to guide you back down against the cushions and he follows you, settling his weight between your thighs. His mouth immediately seeks yours out, his hand reaching down to curl around the bend of your knee, tugging it higher on his hip. It then shifts upwards, spanning the side of your torso, sliding up, up, up until he palms your breast, playing with the peak of it through your shirt and bra.

His thumb catches against the nub, and he circles it slowly over and over. Until it pebbles through the cotton, until you're aching into his touch.

"This okay?" he breathes, his mouth moving to the line of your neck as his hand still teases. He knows you're more sensitive after the baby, sometimes touched out but you nod quickly, covering his large hand with your smaller one.

"Yea, it feels good."

He leaves it, moving to slide his hand underneath the hem of your shirt and when the warm weight of it settles over your breast after he tugs the cup of your bra down, you moan softly, bringing his mouth back to yours.

You are tired and so is he, but you can't stop kissing each other. Your bodies move as one on the couch, low sounds of contentment, of savor to match your higher pitched sighs and soon the shirt and bra are off, and his mouth has replaced his hand. He teases your nipple with his tongue, a mirror of what he usually does between your legs.

"We should go into the bedroom," you sigh, your fingers threading through his soft, dark curls and he hums, his tongue laving a stripe over your sweet skin. He latches onto your nipple, and you hiss in pleasure, your thumb fitting into the hollow of his whiskered cheek.

He pulls back to answer you, his eyes staying on the glistening, wet flesh of your breast. "I want to, but I'm scared to walk past their bedroom doors....what if they wake up?"

You laugh and he remains serious, which makes you laugh even harder. He eventually smiles, his dimple deep in his cheek.

"I'm serious, baby," he grins. "It took me so long, I had to sit and rock him for ages and he kept fussing and --"

You press your hand over his mouth, stopping him and he kisses the pads of your fingers, giving the crease of them a little lick. You giggle under him, and you see the edges of his eyes crinkle with a smile.

"Come on," he coaxes, leaning his face away from your hand to bend his head back down. His lips press delicate against the plane of your chest, against the swell of your breast, brushing against your collarbone. He breathes his next words warm into your ear.

"Just lemme eat your pussy on the couch, okay? Then I'll take you to bed."

You close your eyes with a frown, taking in a shaky breath and he gives you another kiss on the edge of your jaw, another just below your ear. He looks down at you for consent, his dark brown eyes with their beautiful, long lashes waiting.

"Yea, I did," you whine, your knees pushing into your chest and he growls, shifting to kneel on the bed, tugging your ass up into his lap.

"Fuck," you cry out, the angle of his thick cock punishing and devastating and his hands wrap around the back of your thighs, shoving them down so he can fuck you harder. Faster. Deeper.

You had worn his high school sweatshirt to bed, choosing a night that he was out with his friends and when you started sending him pictures, he didn't even realize the significance of it until you took a shot of your bare, perfect breasts - the sweatshirt shoved up, the name "Morales" stitched neatly right above.

He waits until you come around him once and then twice, waits until he pulls out and straddles your chest, waits until you're gagging around him with a strong suck over a whine and with his hand twisted into the worn, gray fabric, his other hand tugs himself out to slickly pump his cock right above your sternum, coming on your skin with thick ropes that splash over your skin.

They slip and slide down, the milky liquid catching on the bottom of the sweater and his eyes hood in his lean over you when you start to smear it like a balm into your soft skin. He joins you, still breathing heavily as his hand comes down to splay over your chest and he can't stop smearing it - the sensation addicting, soothing, slippery and silky. He squeezes the plump of your breast in his hand, and you sigh underneath him, arching into his touch.

"Again?" you ask sweetly, with a bite of your lip and not meeting your eyes because he's still too focused on the sheen of your bare skin under his spend, he nods.

You try to stifle the moan that wants to pour out of you when he undoes his jeans and pulls himself out to slide thickly in. Try to press your lips together with a whine when he fills you over and over, his thumb finding your clit with a practiced rub. Try to turn your face into your pillow to muffle the sounds he's forcing out of you, until he cradles your chin in his big hand to guide your face to his and then you're forced into quiet because his mouth swallows every other sound.

Your knees hitch higher around his waist, your fists clenching and tugging on the worn flannel that covers his back and when you tell him you're going to come, it's a chanted confession breathed into his mouth.

"I know, baby. I know. I can feel it." His hips rock hard against yours, his knees planting wider for purchase on the mattress and it's the middle of the fucking afternoon with the static, white noise of the baby monitor a steady presence next to your bed but you're lost underneath him; the rumbled groans caught in his throat above you, the weight of his solid body pressing you down.

"You get so fucking wet when you're about to come. So goddamn tight, too, I --"

He thickens inside you right as you come, the damp heat from your mouth leeching through his shirt as you press your face into it with a cry and his hand curls over the crown of your head, his hips fitting between your thighs with a grind to get as deep as he can when he follows.

You both lay there for a moment, sated and content. When you giggle underneath him, he pulls back, his cheeks flushed with red heat, his curls wild around his face.

"What so funny?" he asks, amused.

The curtains fluttered in the night breeze, his mouth hot and wet along the waistband of the lace panties and when he slipped them down your legs to have a better taste, you placed your foot on the bed next to him and held onto his shoulders for purchase.

You bought several new dresses for this trip, but none of them ever stayed on for long - the pull of the bedroom and all the time you had to explore each other more alluring than any daytrip he had planned, or any exploration of the town nearby, or any excursion out on the water.

He did like the blue one you wore to lunch one day, the one with the buttons a neat, girlish line up the middle of your breasts. He showed you just how much he liked it when he ushered you from the beachside table back into your hotel room, and stained it with his cum while he made you kneel on the floor.

He liked the yellow one too - the one with the lace trim along the hem of the skirt, that he bunched in his fists when he pushed it up around your hips so he could watch you sink down on him again and again.

The striped one. Now that one held a special place in his memory, the one with the triangle cut out in the back, the one he could curl his fingers into ang tug on when he fucked you from behind.

If those dresses weren't enough to drive him crazy, it was the new lace sets you bought. Or the bikinis you wore around the patio. Or the hotel robe, with nothing underneath. The one he made you ride his face in, and the one he slipped from your shoulders when you slid down to fuck him, leaning in to kiss his glistening mouth.

"Damn, baby." He says the words again, this time to himself, while holding a photograph in his hand. He's sitting in his truck, the pictures from your trip just developed and picked up and as he flips through them, he stops at ones he forgot he took:

You, sleeping face down on the lush bed, nude.

You, standing with your back to him; the bright ocean beyond, your barely there bikini covering your shadowed curves.

You, on the beach, soaking up the sun.

You, in the bedroom at night, your hair a splay over the pillow as you cup your breasts in your hands and let him take your picture from above.