My definition of a perfect evening has always been watching television in bed while eating chips and/or peanut M&Ms and reading a hot romance at the same time.
Boy, have I been wrong all these years. My new definition of a perfect evening is what's happening right this second. Mack has his head between my legs, and he's doing something with his tongue.
Something wonderful.
I squirm against him. "There! There! Yes!" I call out. He's very good at this. Like he should teach classes.
"Do. Not. Stop," I order. Poor guy. He's been doing this for a while, and I'm slightly concerned his tongue will get injured-repetitive stress injury-but he seems unconcerned. Like he could go all night.
Oh, God. I hope he can go all night.
Despite his cardio fitness, I reach my end a minute later. My body c
