I Pucking Love You (The Copper Valley Thrusters #5) - Pippa Grant Page 0,74

obligation.

It’s not something I resent.

It’s a privilege.

She smiles softly in her sleep, and I take that image with me into the bathroom after I kill the lights in the bedroom. That, and the memory of her face, lips parted, head thrown back, chest rising and falling as she screamed my name.

The taste of her orgasm on my tongue.

Yeah.

I’m totally rubbing this out in the shower, yanking on my cock and fantasizing about driving into Muffy. Taking her bent over the bed. Fingering her while she soaks in my tub.

Letting her tear my clothes off the minute I get home and banging her against the door.

I want to worship her gorgeous breasts.

I want to feel her come around my dick.

I want her to cradle my balls and suck me so deep into her mouth that I can feel the back of her throat.

And I want to eat her for breakfast every day for the next week.

Month.

Year.

I come with a blinding force, clenching my jaw so I don’t make any noise and wake her up.

My knees almost buckle, and my thighs are shaking.

I haven’t climaxed in almost two months, and it’s every bit as painful as it is euphoric.

My dick still works.

And it’s not on a hair trigger.

I rush through the rest of my shower, towel off, and head back to the bedroom completely naked.

Muffy’s still curled up in the middle of my bed, so I climb in, wrap my body around her, and bury my nose in her hair.

She sighs and wiggles her ass into my crotch. “Rhinestone panda.”

I can love her.

It’s like a friend thing.

Right?

Right.

No biggie. We’ll be friends who love each other, quietly, without saying the words out loud.

And have sex.

And don’t get married or have kids.

Perfect.

29

Muffy

I’m doing my best to very quietly make myself breakfast in Tyler’s kitchen, which is proving difficult.

One, my phone won’t stop blowing up.

My mother wants to know if she should tell William to bring over his old wedding china so she doesn’t have to buy me a new set when I get hitched to Tyler, because of course she’s going there.

Kami wants to know how Rufus is doing and when I’m going to talk to her about whatever the hell happened in Richmond.

And four of my current clients, plus three more women who regularly join us for our support group meetings, want to know why I haven’t mentioned that I’m dating a professional hockey player, because they definitely want details, and is it true that Rooster Applebottom has some sort of magical penis that would be worth trying out at least once, even if he’s not long-term relationship material, because they would absolutely be up for meeting him if I could set that up.

Also keeping me from getting breakfast is the fact that I can’t locate an egg-flipper anywhere, which is getting awkward since I already cracked two eggs and they are definitely at the need-to-be-flipped stage.

“Rufus, find me a flipper,” I whisper to my cat.

He ignores me and pushes his food bowl along the half-wall separating the kitchen from the dining room, making the scraping noise that only porcelain against tile can produce.

My phone buzzes again in rapid succession, and I wonder if this is how Tyler feels every time one of his family group texts starts.

It’s a lot to keep up with.

But most importantly, I need to flip my eggs.

Without a flipper.

“Screw it,” I mutter to myself. I’ve watched Food Network. I’ve seen chefs flip eggs without a flipper by doing that thing with the pan, so I’m gonna shake the pan and flip the eggs that way.

“Think coordinated thoughts, Rufus,” I whisper.

I grab the pan by the handle, jiggle it a little to make sure the eggs are free, flick my wrist, and— “Dammit.”

You guessed it.

Egg all over the stove, dripping over the cast iron grates.

“Seven out of ten,” Tyler says behind me, startling me so bad that I shriek and drop the pan, which lands crooked on the stove, then tumbles to the floor less than an inch from my bare foot, spilling the rest of the egg that wasn’t already on the stovetop.

“Not a serial killer,” he says dryly. “You’re safe.”

While I scurry out of the blast zone of the hot food, Rufus leaps onto the goopy eggs and slides into the oven.

I wince. My heart’s still in my throat, my phone’s buzzing incessantly, and I’ve made an absolute disaster out of Tyler’s kitchen after he put me to sleep with the orgasm to end all orgasms last