I still don’t use an alarm clock.
My internal clock is as dependable as ever, but I don’t wake up at 5 a.m. like I used to—I get up even earlier. Because these days it’s not a run or the thought of fresh coffee that gets me going in the morning.
I sense Chelsea before my eyes open. The press of her hip against my leg, the feel of her long, delicate arm draped across my bare chest, the tickle of her breath along my collarbone, the scent of lilac in her hair. The promise of lazy kisses, soft moans, and tight, wet heat.
We’ve been married for about two years and there hasn’t been a single morning when I didn’t wake with a smile tugging at my lips. Not one fucking time. Because she’s beside me—half on top of me—and the six little shits we love more than anything are tucked safely away upstairs. They’re all really good sleepers. That’s key.
Getting laid with six awake kids in the house can be a challenge. It takes planning, stealth. When moments of spontaneous opportunity strike, they’re never without risk of discovery. They require awareness—attunement to the movements and sounds beyond the closed door. What the kids are doing, where they are—if they’re going to interrupt us with any one of a thousand ridiculous but urgent questions.
It can be a pain in the ass—though I wouldn’t trade it for the world, wouldn’t change a single thing about the life we’ve made together.
But here, now, in this bed, in the still darkness of morning—it’s different. We can move how we want, say what we want—fuck in any position or on any surface that we can think of.
Because this is our time.
In these moments we’re not a defense lawyer and a part-time museum curator, we’re not parents, we’re just Jake and Chelsea. A man and a woman who are crazy about each other.
Without opening my eyes I slide out from under her arm and down the bed, taking the blankets with me as I go. Once in a while, she’ll surprise me and wake up before I do. Those are fun mornings. There is no greater wake-up call in the history of the world than the sight of Chelsea Becker’s thick auburn hair covering my crotch and her plump, pouty lips wrapped greedily around my dick.
But today, I have the upper hand—and that’s fun, too. I flip to my stomach and push Chelsea’s thin nightgown up over her hips, exposing her to my now open eyes. She doesn’t wear underwear to bed—there’s really no point; it’d be on the floor come morning anyway. Her pussy is pink and perfect—smooth and bare except for a tiny auburn landing strip that never fails to turn me way the hell on. I rub my nose against the dusting of hair and inhale. And her scent—fuck—that gets me going, too. Clean and warm, like honeysuckle.
Her leg shifts near my shoulder and she lets out a little sigh.
Slowly, firmly, deep between those waiting lips, before gently circling her clit with the tip of my tongue.
Her foot slides up, bracing against the bed, her leg bent at the knee—and that little sigh turns into a longer moan. I open my mouth and kiss her, my tongue still dragging up and down, tasting her growing slickness.
I fucking love that. How easily she gets wet. Sometimes she’s drenched before I even touch her. Once I asked if she dreamed about me going down on her, if that was why she was always so ready. But she just blushed and wouldn’t answer.
I spear her with my tongue now—gliding in and out—sucking gently on that plump bundle of nerves.
Her voice is husky with sleep and heat when she moans.
I can’t tell if it’s an expletive or an order. Either one works for me.
I crawl back up, turning Chelsea to her side and settling in behind her. My hand glides up her stomach to pull the top of her thin-strapped nightgown down so I can cover her breast and rub my palm against the peaked nipple.
Chelsea’s hand comes up behind my head, guiding me to her mouth for a slow, deep kiss. I release her breast, lift her leg, and nudge my hips forward—my pelvis pushing against her ass and my cock sliding between her legs, hard and hot and searching. Chelsea breaks the kiss, turns her face toward the pillow, and pushes her hips back against me—telling me without words that she wants it and she wants it now.
I grip myself at the base and drag the head of my cock through her wet folds—rubbing against her clit, teasing her hole. My little wife whimpers, then she digs her fingernails into my thigh. “Jake . . .”
A chuckle rumbles behind my lips. Looks like teasing isn’t on the menu today. This also works for me. I line myself up and thrust hard inside her—deep to the hilt.
Chelsea’s back bows and she breathes out a welcoming groan. I lift her leg and start pumping in and out—smooth, shallow, building jabs. Her inner muscles squeeze me fantastically, while the rest of her body goes slack with pleasure, her spine relaxing back against my chest.
I kiss her shoulder and lick her neck and bury my face in the waves of her silky hair. The sounds of our pants and slapping skin fill the air and our bodies grow slick with exertion—her pushing back against me as I withdraw and stroke up into her. And time stands still. Or more—it loses meaning. All that we know, all that matters, is the growing, electric pleasure coursing through us, sparking between us.
Making love sweetly has its place; long hours of endless foreplay are great, too. Hell, I can even get into the romance stuff—candles and rose petals and warm baths. But hard, fast fucking should never, ever be underestimated—’cause it’s awesome. Even for married people, even for couples with kids.