She's my cherry pie
Blue box: Did you remember to put the leftovers away?
Yellow box: We put it in the fridge, second shelf. Did you get the ice cream?
Blue box: Mini fridge by the bed.
White box: Are we interrupting your conversation?
Wade thrust deep suddenly, making me cry out. I wrapped a leg around him and rolled my hips into him, loving the feel of him pressing down on me. It had been a week of apologies. Some of them were more… physical.
“I think we’re boring our boxes, babydoll,” Wade chuckled, voice all low and growly.
“It’s the missionary,” I said, breathless, and most certainly not bored.
“But the kissing!” Wade protested. He punctuated his statement by kissing me breathless. We panted into each other’s mouths, just sharing air and spaces and smiling dorky blissful smiles.
Yellow box: I recommend adding chocolate sauce.
Blue box: Oh! I have some in the mini fridge.
Yellow box: On your yummy parts!
Blue box: 69?
Yellow box: It’s like you know me.
Wade started giggling, which made me giggle, which made everything move and clench in new and interesting ways, which devolved into Wade shifted and putting my ankles over his shoulder, and folding me like a pancake to whisper in my ear about cherries on top. He went harder and faster until I lost track of what he was saying and accidentally ripped the bedsheets, coming with a scream. He followed soon after leaning down and pressing kisses to my neck and shoulder as we came down.
White box: We should eat our cherry pie with our cream filling.
“Don’t you think that’s enough orgasms?” I panted, exhausted and tingly.
“Depends,” he considered, running a hand down my side and making me shiver from the overstimulation. “Do you know how many that was?”
“Not a clue,” I admitted. Wade pulled out and slid beside me, pulling me into his arms.
“Then yes,” he paused, considering. “For now.”
Blue box: Don’t threaten me with a good time.
Yellow box: Well, you are witnessing the death of a bachelor.
White box: And the groomsbride is a whore.
Blue box: We’d have to be getting married for that.
“Then let’s do it,” Wade said, enthusiastic as always. “Let’s find the nearest Elvis impersonator and seal the deal.” I chuckled, but shook my head.
“Give me a proposal I can actually tell our kids about,” I suggested.
“Got it,” Wade agreed. “Not post sex marathon.”
Blue box: On a knee and with a ring.
“No diamonds, cuz slavery and Kathy Bates.” Wade pressed a smacking kiss to my head.
Yellow box: We just want to grow not-old with you.
White box: Like an Adam Sandler song.
Yellow box: With better fashion sense.
White box: Because I got those ‘I can quit you’ vibes.
Yellow box: With less rainbows.
Blue box: And 50% less penis.
Yellow box: Grab the harness and choose your weapon.
Blue box: Shame you missed your birthday peg.
“We could do it now?” Wade offered eagerly.
“Flesh is weak and spongy,” I reminded him. “No more snu snu.” My stomach growled. “Lunch?”
“Dinner,” Wade corrected. “There’s a little pizzeria next door to this great roof view.”
“When I can feel my legs,” I agreed. Wade chuckled.
“I’ll run us a bubble bath.”
“Bring the armada.”
Blue box: Sir Quackington will win the day this time.
White box: Lady Malardly and her Merry Flappers will see about that.