I shrug. “I’ve always thought ‘nice’ was way fucking overrated.”

With my typical lack of shyness, I push my pants down and step out of them. My dick juts out proudly, eye level with Kate, straining for her attention. But before she touches me, I remember James—our five-year-old.

“Where’s the evil elf, by the way?”

“I dropped him off at your sister’s. He’s decorating gingerbread cookies with Mackenzie and Thomas.”

“And biting their heads off?”

“Of course.”

Here’s an interesting fact: how you eat a gingerbread man says a lot about your personality. Head-first eaters are ambitious, independent, and magnetic. Feet-first are the more artistic, creative types, and those who start with the hands are kind and nurturing. Same rules apply for chocolate Easter bunnies.

Maybe you’re wondering how I came to know this information?

I looked it up. Because James is a head-first eater.

And Kate and I were . . . unsettled . . . by all the headless chocolate bunnies lying around last Easter.

But—good news—he’s not a serial killer in the making, he just has the same driven, bound-to-be-a-success temperament as his parents.

During my research, I also discovered that sociopaths and CEOs share a lot of character traits—but we’ll talk about that another time.

There are other, more crucial matters at hand.

“So, we have the whole apartment to ourselves?” I ask.

Kate licks her lips happily. “Yep.”

My dick gets even harder, thinking of the possibilities. “That means we can fuck in the living room? The hallway? The kitchen?”

A center island is the perfect height to comfortably eat a woman out while she’s perched on the counter.

Coincidence?

I think not.

Kind of makes you rethink the meaning of “eat-in kitchen,” doesn’t it?

Kate replies, “Yes. Yes. And definitely yes. I’ve missed kitchen sex.”

I’ve missed bending her over the arm of the sofa and pounding her from behind.

Oh—and sleeping naked. I haven’t slept naked for a year and a half. Not since my son crawled into our bed in the middle of the night and asked why I wasn’t wearing pajamas. Telling him the truth—that it’s liberating and makes it more convenient to screw his mother—was out of the question. So I just said I forgot.

He thought that was funny. And I’ve slept in boxers almost every night since.

When people tell you having kids changes things—they’re not screwing around.

But all thoughts of our child fly out of my head as Kate envelops my dick in her warm, wet mouth. My head lolls back, relishing the sensation of her stroking tongue. But after a few seconds, I have to look and take in the sensual sight of Kate’s head bobbing up and down, doing what she does so very well.

My hand skims her spine. I lift the sheer red fabric, exposing her firm ass, scarcely covered by the red silk panties. My stomach contracts in hot pleasure as she sucks me harder. I pull on the red ribbons tied at her hips and the panties fall away. Then I knead the soft flesh of her ass before sliding my fingers between her open legs—into her warm pussy. She’s already slick for me; her muscles tighten around my fingers as I pump them slowly.

I pull my hips back and I slide out of Kate’s awesome mouth. I cradle her face with my hands and bring her up to meet my lips. We kiss playfully, my teeth scraping along her jaw to her neck, licking and sucking—both of us moaning. I wrap an arm around her waist and lift her to her feet, dragging us to the couch.

Without a word, Kate assumes my favorite position—bent at the waist, her stomach draped over the arm, feet apart, her delectable ass high and waiting. Her hands brace against the cushions and my hand rests on her shoulder. My other hand grasps my dick and makes two teasing passes across the opening of her sweet cunt. She wriggles back against me, reaches out her hand, and pushes behind my thigh—trying to maneuver me where she needs me to be.

Always so eager.

Although our sex life is fantastically frequent, we can’t be as . . . vocal . . . as we once were. Not with a kid in the house. So I plan on taking advantage of this opportunity to hear Kate’s voice in all its hedonistically desperate beauty.

I cover her—my chest flush with her back—nudge her silken hair with my nose, and bring my lips to her ear. “Do you want me to fuck you, baby?”

“Mmm,” she groans. “Yessss.”

I nip her earlobe. “Tell me.”

“Fuck me,” she whispers.

Yeah. She’s gonna have to do better than that.

I straighten up, smiling, and tease her again with the head of my dick. “I’m sorry, I didn’t quite get that.”

Her hips squirm with frustration, and she yells, “I want you to fuck me, Drew!”

Almost.

“God, now . . . do it . . . please. Fuck . . .”

Beautiful.

I push inside her with a moan and her back arches. I rest my hand on her hip, holding her in place as I rear back. Then thrust in long and slow and deep.

“Yes,” she keens loudly. “Just like that.”

I look down where I move in and out of her—disappearing into her gorgeous, welcoming body. It’s a view that never gets old.

“Christ, you feel good, Kate. Always so goddamn good.”

It’s true. And it’s got nothing to do with the fact that Kate’s is the only pussy I’ve ever been inside without a rubber.

It’s her. The life we’ve made together—the way she matches me in every way—her desire, her humor, her mind.

Her soul.

I used to think that stuff about soul mates was bullshit. The idea that out of the billions of people on Earth, there was only one that you’re supposed to be with. That you belong to. Sounded like a fairy tale, a stupid chick flick, or a terrible romance novel that my sister would read.

But now . . .

Now I believe there’s something to it. Maybe not for everyone—but definitely for us. Because I just can’t fathom having this profound, intense love that borders on obsession—the good kind—with anyone except her.

It’s crazy. Like . . . a miracle.

The rhythm of my hips speeds up, ’cause it feels too fucking amazing not to. And Kate drives back against me, meeting me thrust for thrust and moan for moan.

But then I find the strength to grasp her waist with both hands.

And still our movements.

I pull out and Kate groans, “Don’t stop.”

I spin her around, cup her ass, and press her against me with a squeeze. She stands on her toes to trail hot kisses across my throat.

“I want you on top,” I explain with a grin. “I want you to ride me.”

Kate wiggles her eyebrows. “So you can watch my ‘bells’ jingle.”

I laugh. “Exactly.”

She pushes my shoulders, backing me up to the couch. I sit down heavily and she wastes no time climbing aboard. I surge up into her—deeper from this angle—and once again thank God for the wonderfully tight grip of Kate’s snatch.

She closes her eyes and rocks against me. I yank the strapless nightie down, freeing her breasts, and they jiggle as she rotates her hips in tantalizing circles. I palm them in my hand, so soft and full. Kate gasps as I pinch her already puckered nipples. And she groans when I replace my fingers with my lips. Suckling greedily, I rub my tongue against the pointy peak, savoring the exquisite taste of her skin. Kate rises and falls on me quicker—bucking harder.

When I grasp her nipple between my teeth, she holds the back of my head—pressing me against her—pulling my hair. I moan around her flesh and lave at her breast.

And then Kate stiffens, and the sound of her screaming my name echoes around the room as her inner walls clamp down. My fingers dig into her hips as I thrust up once, twice more, then I’m pulsing inside her, grunting and cursing against her chest.

For a few moments we stay right there—catching our breath. Until Kate leans back and gently brushes my black hair from my forehead. “Were you surprised?”

“Very pleasantly, yes.”

Her smile is joyful. “Good. It’s nice to finally give you a present that you didn’t already know was coming.”

I kiss her soft lips. Then glance down the hall toward the kitchen. “Speaking of coming . . .”

* * *

Later, after some quality countertop time, Kate and I lay bare ass on the chaise longue, under a downy red throw blanket—recuperating.

I check my watch. Shit. I have to go, though a big part of me—the large lower part—wants nothing more than to stay right in this spot with my wife. But I kiss Kate’s forehead and force myself to stand. I grab my discarded shirt from the floor, slipping my arms into it.

Kate rests back on her elbows. “What are you doing?”

I can’t find my underwear, so I slide on my jeans without them—being ever so careful with the zipper. “I’m going to head into the office for a few hours.”

“But . . .” Kate stutters. “. . . but it’s Christmas Eve.”

“I know. But Media Solutions is finally ready to have a sit-down with Hawaii. We’re going to video conference at nine our time. That only gives me three hours to prep.”

Media Solutions is a conglomerate I’ve been courting for weeks, and I’ve finally got them right where I want them on a deal that’ll revolutionize social media. Think Twitter, reality TV, and YouTube combined—posting broadcasts from and on your television, the star of your own channel.

Narcissistic techies will bow down like it’s the second coming of Steve Jobs.

I give Kate a wink. “But your holiday seduction was definitely worth the lost work time. That Mrs. Claus outfit is going straight to the top of the spank-bank pile.”