do you want?”
“How hungry are you?” She countered his question, shuffling in the direction of the table. Destiny glanced to the window, stared at the blinding white snow for a couple of seconds, and gathered the dishes into a pile. “What time is it, do you think?”
“Near three, I reckon. We didn't get out of bed until almost noon.” Linc raised his voice as he rounded into the freezer alcove. The radio beckoned, rearing temptation; he had to contact Satan, had to ensure Nadine's, aka Angel's, silence and cooperation. Talk about oxymorons—an angelic Nadine, and silence and cooperation from a woman renowned for her vindictive gossip.
I'm fucked.
Linc banged his skull on the doorframe.
Cross that path later.
He shot his limp dick a wry glance and straightened. Thinking of Nadine had at least one positive side effect, his cock and stones no longer ached.
What the hell—he had Destiny to himself for at least another twenty-four hours. Life couldn't get any better. All at once ravenous, he grabbed three giant potatoes from the open burlap bag, snatched a couple of apples, and hustled out.
The curve of Destiny’s ass played hide-and-seek with the T-shirt's hem as she did a little bump and grind, one arm waving the spatula in a figure-eight pattern while she sang, “Five golden rings.”
Linc winced. Off-key couldn't begin to describe the high-pitched squawks coming out of her wonderful mouth. Maybe if he set the right key, she'd catch on.
“Four calling studs, three French lovers, two vibrators,” Linc boomed, drawing out the last word. “And her own paratrooper in a pear tree.”
She jumped and half pirouetted, broke into a beam that put equatorial sun to shame, then cracked up, chortling and slapping a palm on a hip.
“More,” she commanded when he lapsed into silence.
“Here, catch.” His dick jumped and throbbed, doing its own happy dance. Linc lobbed each potato, noted the gracefulness of her movements as she tiptoed and snatched the first one, squatted low for the next, and leaned over at the waist to catch the last.
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, he had a fucking secret weapon for the annual family Thanksgiving football game.
“You play flag football, Destiny Driven?”
“You bet. St. Paul's started a league a couple of years ago. You have no idea how much fun it is to take some of those editors down. Writers too. And if you happen to be a mite”—she separated her thumb and forefinger a quarter inch—“clumsy, and they land hard”—rolling both shoulders, she continued—“it's all in good fun. Right?”
“Come here.” He crooked a finger.
“Give me a good reason.” She flipped the hand holding the spatula and inadvertently slapped her own cheek. “Ow.”
Linc couldn't stifle his guffaw. “Destiny, you are priceless.”
“Oh nooo.” She whirled to face the stove. “The ham's burning.”
Biting into an apple, he ambled up behind her, rested his chin on her head, and peered at the frying pan. “'S not burnt; it's crisp. That's exactly how I like my ham. Bite.” He nudged her lips with the apple.
She tilted her head back and rolled her eyes at him, but took a good chunk below the portion he'd eaten. A trickle of juice dribbled diagonally to her jaw. Irresistible temptation and he didn't even try to stay his reflexive response, lapping at the juice, licking the corner of her wicked, sinful mouth.
She batted him away.
“I'm cooking. None of that.” She jerked her ass against his groin. “Go do the tree.”
“Aye, aye, ma'am.” Linc flicked her a salute. “Anything you say, ma'am.” He clicked his heels together.
Afraid she'd start shredding “The Twelve Days of Christmas” again, Linc swatted her backside and hummed “O Tannenbaum,” and did an about-face. The music swarmed his soul, and he broke into song, letting the lyrics form and rise, letting happiness and joy settle the ache battering his rib cage.
Adorable. No other word for his Destiny. Fucking
“How hungry are you?” She countered his question, shuffling in the direction of the table. Destiny glanced to the window, stared at the blinding white snow for a couple of seconds, and gathered the dishes into a pile. “What time is it, do you think?”
“Near three, I reckon. We didn't get out of bed until almost noon.” Linc raised his voice as he rounded into the freezer alcove. The radio beckoned, rearing temptation; he had to contact Satan, had to ensure Nadine's, aka Angel's, silence and cooperation. Talk about oxymorons—an angelic Nadine, and silence and cooperation from a woman renowned for her vindictive gossip.
I'm fucked.
Linc banged his skull on the doorframe.
Cross that path later.
He shot his limp dick a wry glance and straightened. Thinking of Nadine had at least one positive side effect, his cock and stones no longer ached.
What the hell—he had Destiny to himself for at least another twenty-four hours. Life couldn't get any better. All at once ravenous, he grabbed three giant potatoes from the open burlap bag, snatched a couple of apples, and hustled out.
The curve of Destiny’s ass played hide-and-seek with the T-shirt's hem as she did a little bump and grind, one arm waving the spatula in a figure-eight pattern while she sang, “Five golden rings.”
Linc winced. Off-key couldn't begin to describe the high-pitched squawks coming out of her wonderful mouth. Maybe if he set the right key, she'd catch on.
“Four calling studs, three French lovers, two vibrators,” Linc boomed, drawing out the last word. “And her own paratrooper in a pear tree.”
She jumped and half pirouetted, broke into a beam that put equatorial sun to shame, then cracked up, chortling and slapping a palm on a hip.
“More,” she commanded when he lapsed into silence.
“Here, catch.” His dick jumped and throbbed, doing its own happy dance. Linc lobbed each potato, noted the gracefulness of her movements as she tiptoed and snatched the first one, squatted low for the next, and leaned over at the waist to catch the last.
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, he had a fucking secret weapon for the annual family Thanksgiving football game.
“You play flag football, Destiny Driven?”
“You bet. St. Paul's started a league a couple of years ago. You have no idea how much fun it is to take some of those editors down. Writers too. And if you happen to be a mite”—she separated her thumb and forefinger a quarter inch—“clumsy, and they land hard”—rolling both shoulders, she continued—“it's all in good fun. Right?”
“Come here.” He crooked a finger.
“Give me a good reason.” She flipped the hand holding the spatula and inadvertently slapped her own cheek. “Ow.”
Linc couldn't stifle his guffaw. “Destiny, you are priceless.”
“Oh nooo.” She whirled to face the stove. “The ham's burning.”
Biting into an apple, he ambled up behind her, rested his chin on her head, and peered at the frying pan. “'S not burnt; it's crisp. That's exactly how I like my ham. Bite.” He nudged her lips with the apple.
She tilted her head back and rolled her eyes at him, but took a good chunk below the portion he'd eaten. A trickle of juice dribbled diagonally to her jaw. Irresistible temptation and he didn't even try to stay his reflexive response, lapping at the juice, licking the corner of her wicked, sinful mouth.
She batted him away.
“I'm cooking. None of that.” She jerked her ass against his groin. “Go do the tree.”
“Aye, aye, ma'am.” Linc flicked her a salute. “Anything you say, ma'am.” He clicked his heels together.
Afraid she'd start shredding “The Twelve Days of Christmas” again, Linc swatted her backside and hummed “O Tannenbaum,” and did an about-face. The music swarmed his soul, and he broke into song, letting the lyrics form and rise, letting happiness and joy settle the ache battering his rib cage.
Adorable. No other word for his Destiny. Fucking
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