Taste of Lacey(82)

By: Linden Hughes

“That’s it, baby. Give it to me,” Rye growled. She latched on to his shoulders and rode a mountain-high wave of pleasure. When his rod massaged the spongy center of her womanhood, she splintered into pieces with her orgasm.

Rye followed, heaving a tortured moan as he filled her copiously with his release. “I love you,” he whispered as he lathered soft kisses against her lips.

“I love you too.” Then she started laughing.

Rye scowled. “What in the hell is wrong with you, woman?”

“I won,” came her smug reply.


“You wrote on my list ‘make love to your husband in your old bedroom at your parents’ house,’ and I did it, so I won the dare. Now what do I get?” she asked, turning to look at him. She swiped the sweat off his brow and pushed his damp hair away from his eyes.

He pulled her into his arms. “Me. You get me for the rest of my life.”

Her heart expanded until it practically burst. “I’ll take it.”

An hour later, startled by the boom of fireworks, Lacey roused from a sound sleep and shook Rye awake. They cleaned up in the attached bathroom before making their way to the swing on the back porch. For a while, they watched the display and rocked slowly back and forth. It was a peaceful setting until her mother appeared.

A frown marred her mother’s otherwise unwrinkled brow. “You two sure did disappear for a long time. You weren’t acting mannish with my daughter, were you, Ryder McKay?”

Laughing, Rye held up his left hand and wiggled his ring finger with the platinum band wrapped around it. “Not your daughter. My wife.”

Her mother’s eyes grew wide, and then her face softened. “I guess you’ve got a point.”

Without saying a word, Lacey snuggled against Rye’s muscular side and returned her gaze to the colorful sparks lighting the sky. It was a very good point.