Sixteen

 

Rode Hard, Left Wet

 

 

Ari called over her shoulder as she stepped inside, the door clicking shut behind her with a soft finality. “I’ll be quick. Promise. You can finally get a break from babysitting.”

A muffled, half-laughing reply floated from the living room—Stephanie, probably—but Ari didn’t wait to catch it. Her mind was already upstairs, ahead of her feet, chasing the fantasy of a hot shower and five minutes of peace. She moved quickly, the wooden stairs creaking beneath her, familiar and comforting. The day had been long, a blur of errands and obligations, and the ache behind her eyes pulsed with the kind of fatigue that didn’t just sit in the body—it settled in the soul.

She reached their bedroom and nudged the door open.

Then everything in her stilled.

Her breath caught.

There he was.

Sprawled diagonally across their bed, one arm folded behind his head, the other draped carelessly over his stomach. Dead to the world, completely oblivious, and absolutely, unfairly beautiful. Sunlight spilled through the slats in the blinds, tracing soft golden stripes over his skin and the rumpled sheets beneath him. His shirt—one of those worn, paper-thin muscle tees—was bunched just enough to reveal a teasing sliver of skin and a hint of hip.

But it was the exposed armpit that stopped her in her tracks.

Not in a sweet aw, he’s sleeping kind of way.

No. This was a why is that smug little patch of skin suddenly the sexiest thing I’ve seen all day? kind of way.

Ari tilted her head, one brow rising as her pulse did a slow somersault. Her entire body, tired as it was, shifted into a different gear—one that had nothing to do with showers or rest. Every instinct in her sparked awake, electric with wicked intention.

“God help me,” she muttered, easing toward the bed like a cat tracking prey. “I’ve lost all shame.”

She climbed up onto the mattress with slow, deliberate grace—a panther in leggings and her husband’s oversized Beautiful Losers shirt. Her knees bracketed his hips, steady and sure, claiming her territory. The familiar scent of him—clean sweat, cedar, and skin—rose to meet her, making her vision blur just a little.

Jon stirred beneath her, voice gravelly with sleep. “Hmm? What time is—?”

“Shh.” She pressed a finger gently to his lips, her gaze fixated on the stretch of arm exposed beside her. “Don’t talk. Don’t move. Just… lie there looking edible.”

He blinked up at her, half-lidded and suspicious, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Why do you look like you’re about to commit unspeakable things on a Wednesday afternoon?”

“Oh, I am.” Her smile curled, slow and dangerous. She traced a single fingernail up his arm, from wrist to shoulder, pausing at that maddeningly tender curve where arm met torso. “You left this whole situation unguarded. And now I have needs.”

His laugh was husky and slurred, still caught in sleep. “You’ve officially snapped.”

“I’ve been sick for months,” she whispered, leaning down, lips brushing the underside of his forearm. “I’m overflowing with affection and bad decisions. Don’t fight it. You’ll lose.”

“Unhinged,” he mumbled, though his hand was already sliding instinctively up her thigh, responding before his brain could catch up.

She kissed his bicep. “Certifiable.”

She kissed the crook of his elbow. “Should I be worried?”

She kissed just beneath his arm—slow, firm, unapologetic.

“…Okay, now I’m worried.”

“Why? You’re a mix of eager and hesitant. That’s my favorite combination.”

“You’re lucky I love you.”

She grinned against his skin, lips trailing from his fingertips all the way back up to that dangerously tempting stretch of armpit. She lingered, savoring the heat of him, the rhythm of his breath as it faltered under her touch.

“You’re lucky I didn’t bite you.”

He caught her gaze now, eyes dark with equal parts curiosity and warning. “Yet.”

“This is true.”

A low laugh slipped from her throat, her breath skimming across his skin. “Get ready. I’m about to ride you like a thoroughbred and rub one out.”

Jon groaned and threw an arm over his face. “Please stop talking.”

“Relax. I’m fully clothed. This is strictly recreational.”

He peeked through his fingers. “You’re insane.”

“And yet, you married me.”

He groaned again, dragging both hands down his face in defeat. “A decision I now realize may have been a cry for help.”

She gave him that look—that devastating, all-knowing smile that said she was only getting started. “Too late now. You said vows. In front of friends, family… and God watching.”

“Pretty sure God left the chat five minutes ago.”

She leaned in, brushing her nose against his. “Then you really have no one left to save you.”

And with a shift of her hips—slow, fluid, intentional—she removed all doubt about what kind of mercy she wasn’t here to offer.

Jon exhaled sharply, like the air had been punched out of him. “Okay,” he rasped, eyes locked on hers, “but if this kills me, I want death by wife on my tombstone.”

She pressed her lips to his jaw. “Oh, baby… it won’t take nearly long enough for that.”

He froze beneath her. “That’s… somehow hotter and more threatening than I expected.”

“You knew what you signed up for,” she murmured, hips rolling just enough to make his breath hitch again. “And I haven’t even gotten to the bad decisions part yet.”

He made a halfhearted attempt to take control—his hands finding her waist, trying to shift her, flip her, reclaim some kind of upper hand. But she didn’t budge.

One eyebrow arched. “Oh? Are you trying something?”

“I’m considering it,” he said, his voice low, fingers tightening on her hips with a flicker of hope.

She let him hold that hope for exactly half a second—just enough for it to be dangerous—before she pushed his wrists gently but firmly back to the mattress.

“Don’t mistake enthusiasm for control,” she whispered, her hair falling around them like a curtain. “I’m not done admiring the view.”

His groan was tortured, resigned, and a little awed. “I regret everything… and nothing.”

“Correct answer.” She kissed him, deep and indulgent, like a reward.

Then she pulled back, just enough to meet his eyes—mischief glittering in hers. Without looking away, she trailed her fingers up his arm again, fingertips dancing under his armpit.

“You know,” she said, voice thick with amusement and lust, “I could get used to this—having you right here, completely at my mercy. Honestly? Your armpit is kinda sexy.”

He blinked. “My armpit?”

“Don’t laugh. It’s the little things.”

She traced lazy, teasing circles beneath his arm, watching his breath catch with every touch. Her hips pressed closer, moving with hypnotic rhythm. He was unraveling beneath her, and she hadn’t even broken a sweat.

“Almost there,” she whispered, voice low and full of promise.

He searched for her gaze, needing something to anchor himself—but she kept her eyes just out of reach, keeping him suspended on the edge. He was weightless, drowning, desperate for release. And still, she held him there, watching the desperation bloom.

His body trembled with need, his pulse pounding in his ears, but he couldn’t bridge the gap. Couldn’t reach her. Couldn’t remember who he’d been before she turned every cell of him into wanting.

And the worst part? He wanted more.

Then, in a voice soft and dangerous, her whisper came:

“Tell me to stop.”

Her lips brushed the sensitive skin beneath his ear.

He swallowed, the word catching on a breath he no longer controlled. “Don’t.”

She didn’t.

And when the moment crested—sharp, breathless, undeniably hers—she grinned against his skin and murmured with wicked delight,

“Told you it wouldn’t take long.”

He let out something between a laugh and a groan, still panting. Of course she’d timed it. Of course it had a punchline. With hips.

Death by wife, indeed.

He couldn’t even pretend he wasn’t wrecked.

Note to self: never challenge a woman who can weaponize both your armpit and your ego in five minutes flat.

Before he could recover, she tugged her shirt over her head, flung it playfully at his face, and leapt off the bed in one graceful motion.

“Wait, what? Where…?” he gasped, watching her retreat.

She paused at the bathroom door, tossing him a wicked grin. “You need to relieve Steph from babysitting.”

Jon collapsed back into the sheets with a groaning laugh. “I feel completely used… and yet, I can’t even pretend I didn’t love it.”

Her laugh echoed from the bathroom as the water started.

“Oh, you were definitely used,” she called back. “And you’ll be used again—don’t you worry.”

He shook his head, dragging himself out of bed, limbs like jelly. “God help me, you and your pregnancy fetishes… I just hope this doesn’t turn into another blowjob-palooza.”