choir belting out the Hallelujah Chorus.
Big Julie watched Marilyn come back from the bathroom, her wet hair hanging in dark hanks around her shoulders. The bulky white bathrobe was crossed tightly over her chest and knotted around her middle. Marilyn right out of the shower looked nothing like the hot, ferocious, no-holds-barred, wild woman whose clothes Big Julie had torn off just a short time ago. She looked, in fact, like the Pillsbury dough boy if the Pillsbury dough boy had fallen into the dishwasher and survived the pot-scrubbing cycle.
“Julie,” Marilyn said. Her eyelids drooped as she looked him over, but her mouth looked good, soft and slightly swollen. “We should do that more often. Way more often.”
Big Julie felt his heart sink. Under the best of circumstances, like say if Baby was wearing her black leather chaps and spurs and riding him harder than a cowgirl in a rodeo barrel racing competition, he could go two full rounds before he was knocked out. But with Marilyn looking like Mortitia dragged from a lake, he was done.
“That was great, honey!” he said, trying for enthusiasm. He jumped out of bed and pulled on his shorts. “I could eat a bear after that. What do you want for breakfast? They got everything here.”
Marilyn turned to the dresser, disappointed, and pulled open the bottom drawer.
“Whatever you’re having is fine,” she said, pawing through her clothes. “Eggs, maybe. Coffee.”
Big Julie grabbed the phone that Marilyn hadn’t thrown at him to call in the order, but when he looked up to ask Marilyn when should they bring it, he stopped. Marilyn was still bent over the drawer. The bathrobe was clinging to her butt and stuck between her thighs. He remembered once with Baby in and out of the hot tub, when her robe had been sticking just like that. And that hadn’t been once with Baby so much as three times, he’d been so damn hot for her, what with the water and everything.
Just thinking about Baby and the hot tub, he felt himself stir underneath the shorts.
Marilyn’s bathrobe gapped at the chest, and Big Julie could see a curve of breast. It looked nothing like one of Baby’s tits, which were round like halves of a baseball, big and symmetrical. When Big Julie rubbed his face on them, it was like his nose was gliding over a ski jump covered with soft, new snow, they were so firm but her skin was so delicate. When Marilyn was bending over, though, her tits looked more like Japanese eggplants, full, but more oblong. Except Marilyn’s tits weren’t purple like Japanese eggplants.
He imagined his face buried in the valley of Baby’s perfect tits. He could just about smell the new snow now, his tongue reaching out to catch a fresh snowflake.
“Open your bathrobe a little,” Big Julie said, his voice husky. “Let me see you more.”
Marilyn blushed. “You are bad, Big Julie,” she said, but she loosened the tie on her bathrobe and pulled on the crossover fabric. She glanced at him, at the ski pole in his shorts.
“Bend over like that again,” Big Julie asked. “Like you were. I like to look at you like that.”
“I think you’re ready to do a little more than just look, Julie,” Marilyn said, crossing over to the bed.
Big Julie thought about ski slopes and watched Marilyn approach, his eyes half-closed.
“Oh, Baby,” he said. “I am ready to jump.”
Chapter 8
By the time Hope shuffled yawning into the kitchen, looking for her first cup of coffee, Faith and Amber were in the kitchen making waffles for breakfast.
“We just need about another five minutes and we’ll be ready to eat,” Faith said.
“I wish we could put recipes for waffles in the vegetable boxes,” Amber said. “At least that’s not hard to mess up.”
“What you do is fine,” Suzanne said, coming into the kitchen and giving her granddaughter a smacking kiss before glancing at Hope, who had pulled a chair over to the computer and turned it on.
Big Julie watched Marilyn come back from the bathroom, her wet hair hanging in dark hanks around her shoulders. The bulky white bathrobe was crossed tightly over her chest and knotted around her middle. Marilyn right out of the shower looked nothing like the hot, ferocious, no-holds-barred, wild woman whose clothes Big Julie had torn off just a short time ago. She looked, in fact, like the Pillsbury dough boy if the Pillsbury dough boy had fallen into the dishwasher and survived the pot-scrubbing cycle.
“Julie,” Marilyn said. Her eyelids drooped as she looked him over, but her mouth looked good, soft and slightly swollen. “We should do that more often. Way more often.”
Big Julie felt his heart sink. Under the best of circumstances, like say if Baby was wearing her black leather chaps and spurs and riding him harder than a cowgirl in a rodeo barrel racing competition, he could go two full rounds before he was knocked out. But with Marilyn looking like Mortitia dragged from a lake, he was done.
“That was great, honey!” he said, trying for enthusiasm. He jumped out of bed and pulled on his shorts. “I could eat a bear after that. What do you want for breakfast? They got everything here.”
Marilyn turned to the dresser, disappointed, and pulled open the bottom drawer.
“Whatever you’re having is fine,” she said, pawing through her clothes. “Eggs, maybe. Coffee.”
Big Julie grabbed the phone that Marilyn hadn’t thrown at him to call in the order, but when he looked up to ask Marilyn when should they bring it, he stopped. Marilyn was still bent over the drawer. The bathrobe was clinging to her butt and stuck between her thighs. He remembered once with Baby in and out of the hot tub, when her robe had been sticking just like that. And that hadn’t been once with Baby so much as three times, he’d been so damn hot for her, what with the water and everything.
Just thinking about Baby and the hot tub, he felt himself stir underneath the shorts.
Marilyn’s bathrobe gapped at the chest, and Big Julie could see a curve of breast. It looked nothing like one of Baby’s tits, which were round like halves of a baseball, big and symmetrical. When Big Julie rubbed his face on them, it was like his nose was gliding over a ski jump covered with soft, new snow, they were so firm but her skin was so delicate. When Marilyn was bending over, though, her tits looked more like Japanese eggplants, full, but more oblong. Except Marilyn’s tits weren’t purple like Japanese eggplants.
He imagined his face buried in the valley of Baby’s perfect tits. He could just about smell the new snow now, his tongue reaching out to catch a fresh snowflake.
“Open your bathrobe a little,” Big Julie said, his voice husky. “Let me see you more.”
Marilyn blushed. “You are bad, Big Julie,” she said, but she loosened the tie on her bathrobe and pulled on the crossover fabric. She glanced at him, at the ski pole in his shorts.
“Bend over like that again,” Big Julie asked. “Like you were. I like to look at you like that.”
“I think you’re ready to do a little more than just look, Julie,” Marilyn said, crossing over to the bed.
Big Julie thought about ski slopes and watched Marilyn approach, his eyes half-closed.
“Oh, Baby,” he said. “I am ready to jump.”
Chapter 8
By the time Hope shuffled yawning into the kitchen, looking for her first cup of coffee, Faith and Amber were in the kitchen making waffles for breakfast.
“We just need about another five minutes and we’ll be ready to eat,” Faith said.
“I wish we could put recipes for waffles in the vegetable boxes,” Amber said. “At least that’s not hard to mess up.”
“What you do is fine,” Suzanne said, coming into the kitchen and giving her granddaughter a smacking kiss before glancing at Hope, who had pulled a chair over to the computer and turned it on.
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