Twelve days.
Twelve authors.
Countless ways to orgasm.
**Mature content -- for 18+ only**
This holiday season, twelve talented and self-anointed Smut Queens come together to give Wattpad readers a special thank-you gift for all the love and apprecia...
To new readers: Hello!!! Welcome!!! What you're about to read is a nice, mellow little hookup between two happily married people in their early thirties. It's pretty tame compared to all the sexy, titillating brilliance my compatriots have to offer.
That said, I hope it moves you to hop on over to the real story and read through all the angst and pain and adventure that came before it. There's more to these two characters than French lessons and shower sex.
To my grizzled veterans: This is just a sex scene! There's no heart-wrenching plot twists! There's no foreboding one-liners! Consider this my thank you for bearing with me through all the torture. I love you all.
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Alex's POV
"Mmmkay, how about this one?" I asked, leaning forward on the counter, one hand wrapped around a smudged glass of wine while I watched my husband finish up the dishes. "Nous sommes perdus."
His brows drew together with concentration as he scrubbed harder at the crust of half-burnt spaghetti sauce on the side of the pot.
"We're lost!" he said finally, triumphantly, grinning up at me. Half of me wanted to laugh and ruffle his hair at the abject pride in his smile. Half of me wanted to clamber over the counter and tackle him to the floor at the cocky arch of his eyebrow.
"Mmm," I hummed noncommittally, taking a sip of wine to drown the impulses. "But in the time it took you to remember it, the friendly Parisian we snagged to help us find our way walked off in exasperation."
The victorious smirk turned down into a playful scowl, and he lifted one hand and flicked soapy water at me. Water droplets hit my cheeks and, plastering on my best war face, I rose up off the stool and reached across the counter to smack him, but he dodged backwards, laughing. The sound of his laughter rang at love's resonant frequency and my heart vibrated in my chest, humming its approval.
Why had we waited to do the dishes? We should have done them right after dinner. Now that the boys were in bed, all I wanted was to drag my husband to our bedroom and fuck him as thoroughly-- and as discreetly-- as humanly possible.
"Okay, now english to french," I said to distract myself, shifting uncomfortably in my seat as he stepped back up to the sink, rinsing the pot and setting it in the drying rack. "How do you say..." I trailed off, rolling my lower lip between my fingers as I thought. "How do you tell the waiter we're ready to place our order?"
Silence descended as he stuck a saucepan beneath the water, brow wrinkled in thought.
"You couldn't lob me a softball?" he asked after a long second, soaping up the sponge and setting in on the residue the water hadn't washed away.
"That is a softball!" I argued, letting my shoulders slump in dramatic disappointment. "How much easier does it get? You want to say "hello" instead?"
