Thatcher and Emma House Sit

“We have to make a quick stop.” My wife is determined to drive me insane. First she teases me by wearing a tight dress all night, showcasing the best ass an artist could imagine. Now she’s requesting a pit stop before I can take her home and peel her out of it. I growl a response to her and she swats my arm. “We told Wesley we’d check in on his place while he’s in France.”

“The kid has cousins for that.” Obviously I’m going to drive over there with Emma, but I’m still going to growl about it. “Wasn’t Stellen looking to escape that Stag pad? He should be staying there.” Four of my brothers’ kids all live together in student athlete housing while they’re finishing their degrees. The other young Stag kids are scattered around in law school and graduate school and whatever fancy-ass certifications take them outside the boundaries of the three rivers.

Emma runs her fingers through her red curls. She doesn’t have a single streak of silver yet, while my own head is sprouting white hairs every day and my beard is what the kids call “salt and pepper.” I add “run fingers through Emma’s hair” to my mental checklist for when I finally get her in bed.

She turns to face me, smiling. “Your show was beautiful, Thatcher. I love seeing you talk about your work. And you look very, very sexy in a suit.” She traces my rolled-up cuff with her finger. I gave up on my jacket hours ago and the second the last investor left the art gallery, I loosened the tie and rolled up my sleeves.

I arch a brow and adjust my posture. My wife thinks I look sexy, and now I have to go into our son’s apartment and not fuck her, and that’s a damn travesty. Emma giggles at my discomfort, and I add “spank Emma” to the growing list of things I need to do later.

I find a parking spot right outside Wesley’s building and toss the car in park. She hops out and I follow, rubbing her backside in the elevator and squeezing her shoulder as she unlocks the big door to the industrial loft where Wes lives with his lady. Emma flicks on the lights and sniffs. Something has clearly been left in the sink and she sighs, walking over to the crusty mess. “Oh, shoot.” She looks at me. “I forgot to grab their mail from the lobby. Can you do it, Thatchy?”

I arch a brow. She only calls me “Thatchy” when she’s looking for a naughty adventure. I’m not sure what she has up her sleeve, but I’m getting really antsy to figure it out. I plant a kiss on her neck from behind her. “Be right back.” She smiles and damn it, even 24 years into this whole thing, my stomach swoops in response.

I take the stairs down to the lobby and grab the huge pile of mail spilling out of Wes and Cara’s box. I can’t remember how long they’ve been gone or when they’re due to return, but it seems like most of this is junk, so I quickly sort out the catalogues and credit card offers to drop in the recycling before I head upstairs with the important stuff.

I push open the apartment door and gasp when I see Emma bent over, fussing with the dishwasher. She’s on her knees on the kitchen floor, skirt riding up, luscious ass aimed directly at me. “That’s it.” I throw the mail on the table and lock the door behind me.

Emma looks over her shoulder and must see the intention in my eyes because her own eyes flash and she says, “oh my.”

I offer her a growl and haul her up off the floor, plunking her butt on the edge of the counter. “I can’t wait another second to be inside you, wife.”

“Thatcher, this is our son’s house…” Emma seems equal parts nervous about that and ready for a deep dicking. I nod and shove her skirt up, exposing her black panties.

“Our son is in France.” I reach a hand toward her center and feel heat and wetness. I smile. “And it seems like you need me as much as I need you, Chezz.”

She moans in response as I move a thumb along her clit from the outside of her panties. “Yes,” she breathes, and her fingers dig into my shoulders. I step between her legs, hauling her closer to me so she’s balanced right on the edge of the counter.

“Look at you, so sexy. Mrs. Emma Fucking Stag.” I scoot the panties to the side and smile at the silken wetness beneath them. “When we get home I’m going to lick your pussy for an hour.” I stroke her with my thumb.

“Yes, please. Oh!” She bears down on me when I slide a finger inside. She’s warm and soft. I’m really, really enjoying her increased libido in her late 40’s. We usually need lube these days, but Emma must be turned on by my desperate need for her. Her pussy is ready for me.

I unzip my slacks and reach inside, palming my cock as Emma glances down, watching. “You’re very hard, Thatcher. That’s obscene.”

“Yes.” I pull my length out over the top of my boxers. My tip is seeping and I smear the moisture around with my finger as I notch up, tilting Emma’s torso back until we fit together. “Oh, fuck, babe, that’s good.” She nods and I start to move, giving it to her good.

Emma reaches to pull my shirt up and rub my stomach as I stroke in and out, short rapid thrusts that have our bodies slapping together noisily. “Thatcher, touch me, please.” Emma wails as she tips her hips and searches for friction on her clit while I slam into her. I’m seconds away from exploding so I nod my head and reach between our bodies. I press my thumb gently against her clit and she lowers one hand on top of mine, smashing me harder and shouting for more and more pressure. I give her what she needs until her head drops back and she moans my name. I feel her walls pulse around me and I rest my head on her freckled shoulder as my balls empty out inside her.

I’m surrounded by red-gold curls as I spurt and spasm, my pleasure erupting inside my wife, whose legs are sticking straight out, toes flexed in her sparkly sandals, as she shudders through her own orgasm. The tension leaves her body and she folds against me. I wrap her tight in my arms, breathing in her scent, holding her as our hearts pound noisily in sync.

Eventually, Emma laughs and kisses the tip of my nose. “That was wild, Thatcher.” I slide out of her, glistening and wet, and I reach for a paper towel as Emma hops down from the counter, her own paper towel in hand. We dab ourselves clean-ish and Emma wriggles her panties back in place, still giggling.

She starts the dishwasher and tosses our paper towels before stepping back into my arms. I still haven’t zipped my pants, but I did manage to tuck my junk back into my boxers. I start making out with my wife like we’re 20 years old and carefree, like maybe this is our first apartment together. I memorize the small sounds Emma makes as I nip at her lips, but then I quickly become aware it’s not just her making noise.

Emma gasps, hearing a key in the lock and voices in the hall. I pull her close against my chest and turn to see our son slide the door open. “What the hell?” His eyes fly wide as he takes in the sight of his parents making out in his kitchen. I should feel ashamed, I think, but I’m too drunk on my orgasm.

“Wesley! You’re back!” Emma steps back from my embrace, revealing my unzipped pants. I remain facing the counter, trying to fix myself as Emma dashes across the room to embrace the young man with the worst timing imaginable. Or maybe the best. It’s hard for me to think straight. His girlfriend, Cara, snickers and leans against the wall.

When I turn around Wes is shaking his head, incredulous. “Were you … making out? At my house? Why are you here? God, this is so gross.”

“You’re welcome, son, for checking on the place and dealing with your moldy dishes.” I should reach out to hug him or at least squeeze his shoulder, but my hand has just been inside his mother, so I shove it in my pockets instead.

Emma smiles. “Baby, I’m so glad to see you. Both of you!”

Wes blinks at her. “So, I’m thinking I’m pretty jet lagged…” Cara nods enthusiastically, still giggling.

“Hm.” I reach for Emma, tugging her close against my side. “We’ll get out of your hair.” Emma hesitates, like she wants to see their pictures of the Eiffel Tower or something. I tug her hand. “Come on, Chezz. I have things to do at home.”

“Things?” It’s like she forgot my to-do list. I like that I fucked the sense out of her.

“Things.” I tell her.

“Oh, god, this is like a nightmare.” Wesley wails as Cara continues laughing. I tug Emma in the hallway and toward the elevator, where we both stifle our own giggles.

I run my fingers through her hair, brushing it back from her face, and smile. “Next time,” I tell her, “We’re letting the kids check on each others’ apartments. Okay?”

She nods. “Good.” I drive us home and make good on my promises.

If you swooned for the Stag brothers, check out the rest of the series! Thatcher and Emma’s son Wesley stars in Forging Passion.