The Slow Burn (Moonlight and Motor Oil #2) - Kristen Ashley Page 0,126

was just beginning to come down when he groaned in my mouth.

That was Toby.

Unless he was doing me on my knees or belly (and sometimes even then), he came while kissing me.

I loved that about him.

Then again, I loved everything about him.

He finished fully planted, worked my neck with his lips and beard and slid slowly out trailing that beard down my chest, between my breasts, to my belly before he moved away and left the bed.

I rarely cleaned up.

That was also Toby.

He looked after me.

I rolled to my side, curled up and watched the door to the bathroom so I saw him reappear with a wet washcloth.

By the by, my white bathroom accessories against his black granite countertops and among all that wood in his bathroom?

The bomb.

Toby striding to me naked after fucking me like he fucked me?

Da bomb diggity bomb bomb.

“C’m ’ere,” he murmured heading to the side of the bed.

I pushed up, went there and got up to my knees.

“Spread,” he muttered.

I spread.

The warm cloth went between my legs just as his lips hit mine and his tongue went between them.

We made out while he cleaned me.

He nipped my lower lip lightly when he was done and ordered, “Don’t move,” before he headed back to the bathroom.

Goodie.

It was Friday night. We had a full day tomorrow, what with Matlock Memorial Day Food Festival and a visit to Margot and Dave and all. And Brooklyn would wake us early.

But it was Friday night so all that was goodness, not responsibility.

So he wasn’t done with me.

He came back, but not to me.

I watched him walk to the nightstand. I appreciated his back and ass as he did something at it, thinking, goodie again.

Toys.

Needless to say, on a day Brooklyn was spending some time with Aunt Iz, Uncle Johnny and his GoGo and Davey, Tobe and I had taken a road trip to Grayburg.

And he’d been right. The sex shop there was inspired.

He shut the drawer to his nightstand with his thigh, turned to me, came and positioned in front of me, grabbing my left wrist.

He lifted my hand and ran a thumb along the palm to the base of my ring finger.

Then he engaged his other hand, and only then did what he was doing strike me.

My eyes went from his handsome face, which was tipped down to watch what he was doing, to my hand just in time to see him slide a diamond ring on my finger.

It was not ridiculous like Izzy’s.

But it was still ridiculous.

A large, brilliant round stone set in a narrow band that was completely filled with smaller diamonds.

Simple. Even traditional.

And perfect.

“Margot picked it.”

My gaze came to his.

Yes.

Totally perfect.

His fingers holding my hand shifted so they covered mine totally, his hold so strong, the stone had to be digging into his palm.

“You go to that reading with my rock on your finger and my promise to love and keep you for the rest of our fucking lives in your heart, and whatever happens, fuck them. You’re loved. You’re looked after. And you got family,” he declared.

The ring was traditional.

The proposal wasn’t.

But it was Toby.

Before I even knew it was happening, the tears were sliding down my cheeks.

“Is that a yes?” he asked.

“Did you ask a question?” I asked back huskily.

“Baby, every man wants to hear the word,” he whispered. “Are you gonna marry me?”

My man wanted it?

He’d get it.

“Yes, Toby.”

He pressed my hand to his chest, his other one going in my hair and he bent to kiss me.

He left my hand pressed to his chest when he used that arm to lift me up and he entered the bed, taking me with him.

I wrapped my legs around him and he put us both in bed, necking, and then more necking with some added groping, and some more necking with some serious groping, which led to traditional missionary making love.

I came before Toby.

Toby came kissing me.

He cleaned me up after and brought my pajamas from where I’d put them on the hooks in the closet.

I pulled mine on.

He pulled his on.

And we fell asleep in his treehouse room with my mom over the mantel, smiling in the moonlight.

“We’re here,” I said into the phone as Toby parked his brand new, dark blue, twin-cab Ram in a visitor’s parking spot at my grandmother’s attorney’s office.

I didn’t question the truck.

The state of the Gamble Brothers the last week had been at best, uneasy, at worst, downright crabby.

This was because my sister, too, had received a letter.