Lumbersexual (Novella) (18 page)

He nodded.  “I think you’re right about that.”

Later that night, we hung out on his couch, watching Netflix and messing around.

Gently, because he still had a boot on his foot.

And his hand snaked down and touched my lower abdomen.  I gasped, remembering Yazmin’s crazy words from earlier.  “You’re stimulating my second chakra.”

He paused.  “What?”

“Down there, it’s the key for sexuality, but also identity.  You’ve helped me to figure out who I am.”

“I know who you are.  You’re the one for me.”

I was so grateful that he didn’t laugh at me.  He just gathered me in his arms and kept going, a finger, oh yes, right there in the right spot, and then another, and then another.  It was gentle tracing of fingers, and then more insistent.  And then it was soaring, kissing, caressing, until my body had a starburst of pleasure, then waves of release.

And slowly, our clothes came off, discarded off to the side.  And then it was kisses and slow licks and sucks.   

Loving.

And then he took both of my hands, held them over my head, and looked into my eyes as he came, shattering apart over me, underneath all the galaxies and the heavens.  

He lay there on top of me, collapsed, his beard tickling my shoulder, his cock hard in me, his warm skin against mine.  And I traced the tattoos on his arm up and down.

“Gonna get the Yosemite Falls tattoo here,” he pointed to his shoulder.  “With the Big Dipper here,” pointing to his neck.

“I love that.”  I paused.  My stomach growled against his.

“This means—”

“Yeah.  S’mores.”

He laughed.  “I’ll keep that promise, too.”  We got cleaned up and dressed, and I followed him into the kitchen.  Opening up a cabinet, he started handing me things.

“Chocolate.”  An eyebrow raised.

I giggled.  “Good.”

“Marshmallows.”

He handed them to me, and I nodded with my most serious face.  “Better.”

“Graham Crackers.”

“Now you’re talking.”

“You. Me. Now.”

I smiled.  “Let’s go have a campfire.”

About the Author

Leslie McAdam is a California girl who loves romance, Little Dude, and well-defined abs. She lives in a drafty, old farmhouse on a small orange tree farm in Southern California with her husband and two small children. Leslie always encourages her kids to be themselves—even if it means letting her daughter wear leopard print from head to toe. An avid reader from a young age, she will always trade watching TV for reading a book, unless it's Top Gear. Or football. Leslie is employed by day but spends her nights writing about the men you fantasize about. She's unapologetically sarcastic and notoriously terrible at comma placement.

Always up for a laugh, Leslie tries to see humor in all things. When she's not in the writing cave you'll find her fangirling over Beck, camping with her family, or mixing up oil paints to depict her love of outdoors on canvas.  

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