I wake up a second time, but this time more fully, and I’m more immediately alert. I’m on my left side and Franco, huge and broad and hard and warm is in front of me, so close my nose is pressed against him. I’m too sleepy, drowsy, and content to open my eyes, but a rush of happiness floods through me like a bolt of adrenaline:
This is Franco. We’re in bed together. Cuddling. We slept together, and we’re both still here.
I murmur sleepily, happily. If this is how it’s going to be, then I’m all about it.
Ugh. I have to pee; as soon as I’m aware of the sensation, it intensifies, until I’m aware that my bladder is full-on screaming, aching. Reluctantly, I roll away and get out of bed, go to the bathroom, wash my hands, and head back to the bed—I do it all on autopilot, still half asleep and hoping to get back in bed and get back to the cozy, drowsy, happiness.
When I get to the bed, Franco has rolled over onto his back and, judging by his breathing, is still sound asleep. The blanket is rucked around his hips, leaving his upper torso bare, and a bolt of desire and need shoots through me at the sight of his naked, muscular body. I slide back into bed, turn my back to his front, and close my eyes. I feel Franco stir, hear him make a wordless, sleepy sound. His arm drapes heavily over my waist, and his breath huffs hot on the back of my neck.
I’m drowsy, but I know I won’t be going back to sleep; I’m too hyperaware of Franco, now.
I feel a change in the air, though. His breathing is different. I remain still, not pretending to be asleep but not really letting him know I know he’s awake, either. His hand flattens against my belly, and I feel him take a deep breath, hold it, and then let it out slowly.
“You’re here,” he mumbles, his voice thick and groggy with drowsiness.
“So are you,” I say.
“Best night of sleep in my life.” He runs his hand to my hip, and his fingers catch almost accidentally at the string of my bikini bottom.
“Waking up with you…waking up in your arms…” I hear myself, and my voice is so small, so quiet, so fragile. So unlike me, but a more true version of me—the hidden, secret, delicate Audra who’s always lived deep inside, way down behind my walls, within the shell of strength and athleticism and take-no-shit-don’t-give-a-shit attitude. “It’s…I love it.” The final three words are so quiet I can barely hear myself say it.
His lips touch the back of my neck, just above my shoulder blades. “I love it, too,” he murmurs.
His nose nuzzles against my nape, and his hand cups my hipbone. I press my butt back against him, and I feel the hard, thick evidence of his arousal against me. I’m in no hurry, though. Let this take as long as it takes—let it go slow. Let it take all morning.
I arch my back, baring more of my neck to his kisses, and his lips explore around the knot of my halter bikini top, peeking above my sleep shirt. He moves to my hairline, and down to my shoulder blade, and across to the base of my neck again, each kiss soft and slow and gentle. I breathe in deeply, inhaling the affection in those kisses. I push my ass harder against him, and he pushes forward against me, nestling the ridge of his erection hidden behind his board shorts more firmly between the globes of my ass, which is hidden by the thin fabric of my bathing suit bottom.
Too much fabric. I want it all off. I want to be bare with him.
But even more, I want to explore this with him as slowly and deeply and openly and deliberately as possible. This will be not just sex—this will be so, so much more. This will be the beginning of love, and I know it, and he knows it. It thrums and throbs between us, pulses in the air, hangs thick in the atmosphere between us.
He’s in no hurry either.
His palm skates up my waist, over my belly, slides across my diaphragm, and then glides just beneath my breasts; I arch my back, needing his hands on them. He clutches me just beneath my breasts, and I almost groan in frustration but hold it back. I’m fraught with need, but I want to draw out each particular second of this experience, so I don’t miss a single sensation or emotion.
I’m waiting for him.
Letting him guide me.
Succumbing to his pace.
Giving myself to him, rather than taking what I want as I want it. I’m trusting him to take us where we want to be.
It’s total surrender, and I’m breathless with it.
I feel his lips touching and kissing across my nape again and, at the same time he tugs my T-shirt off. Then he pauses, and I feel a tug at the knot of my bikini top—he’s using his teeth to free the knot. A moment later, I feel the strings fall free, and the top sags loose. He lowers himself, kissing his way down the centerline of my spine to the second, lowermost knot. And again, his teeth tug at the loose strings, and the knot falls apart, and his kisses skate and dance and slide up my bare back, and his hand gathers the bikini top between my breasts, tugs once, and then he tosses the top aside, and I’m bare to his touch. Oh, god. God. Yes, god. His palm descends on my bare flesh, my nipple puckering in anticipation of the roughness of his strong hand, and he’s clutching me, kneading, caressing, tweaking my nipple. God, this is so incredible. Arousal slams through me, and I feel myself clench, heat throbbing in me, essence of need making me slippery and damp.
I lose myself in his touch, then. He kisses my neck and shoulder, my back, hairline, behind my jaw. Around my ear. I twist, needing more of his kisses, and fall onto my back. He rolls into me, and I twist my head toward him, and our lips meet, almost by accident. He groans, a ragged sound of ecstasy, and his hands toy with and tease and caress my breasts, tweaking my nipples until I’m aching with arousal. And then, our lips locked, tongues tangling, his fingers dance downward. He’s growing impatient, now. He tugs at the elastic of the bikini bottom, his fingers hooked in just below my navel. I lift my hips, and he yanks the tiny collection of string and fabric off and then his touch begins to explore between my thighs, and fuck, I need him. I need to touch him.
I can’t help myself. It’s been so long and I can’t make myself hold out anymore, I can’t wait for him.
I untie his board shorts, loosen the front and he lifts up and I yank them off, impatiently.
I grasp him, moaning at the feel of him.
He catches his breath, his hips lifting at my touch. “Fuck, Audra. I haven’t come in so long.”
“Me either.”
“You touch me like that much longer, and I’m done. I won’t last a second with your hand on me like that.”
“Good,” I whisper against his lips, grinning. “I’m in no hurry. I just need to touch you. Feel you. Be here with you, connect with you.” I stroke him slowly. “I just need you, all of you, in every way there is.”
His fingers are busy, exploring me, touching me. “I feel like a damn teenager. Seriously, I’m ten goddamn seconds from coming all over your hands.”
I gasp at his touch, writhing my hips upward. “I’m in no better shape, Franco.” I lose my breath. “Jesus, ohhh god, yes, the way you touch me, Franco, it’s so perfect.”
I grasp his arousal, squeezing, halting in my strokes as his fingers find my ecstasy and drag it out of me, making me writhe, making me whimper, taking me to the edge within seconds and flinging me over, throwing me screaming his name into the throes of climax.
And then, once the waves of orgasm have subsided a bit, I’m stroking him again. I know how close he is, and I’m watching eagerly. I keep my strokes slow and lazy, but he’s losing it, groaning, thrusting.
“Oh god, Audra,” he growls. He tries to get up, tries to move. “I need you, Audra.”
I move downward, sliding my face across his chest and down his belly, and I taste him. Feel him slide between my lips, stretching my jaw. I taste him, flick my tongue against him, swirling, licking. He knots his fingers in my hair and his breathing catches, and he’s moaning low in his throat.
And then, abruptly, he pulls away. Rolls up onto his knees, staring down at me, breathing raggedly, chest heaving, saliva-coated erection bobbing and swaying and glis
tening.
“Franco, I wanted to—”
“Later,” he murmurs. “That’s not how I want this one to go.”
He lowers himself over me, and I spread my legs wide and reach for his face, guiding his mouth to mine, and as his body moves to cover mine and I feel his weight on me, I caress his cheek and bury my fingers in his hair. His lips slash across mine and I’m breathing him, tasting his tongue, and then I feel him against me, nudging, sliding against my entrance.
There is absolutely no hesitation. I know exactly what I’m doing, this time. I’m not lost in a haze of lust, and I know the potential risks and I don’t care.
I need him.
All of him.
Bare.
Now.
I notch him between my lips and thrust my hips up against him. I cry out as he fills me in a slow, burning, sensual slide. His moan matches mine, and then his mouth devours mine and I’m whimpering…sobbing, as we find our rhythm together.
I wrap myself around him, my arms clinging to his shoulders, fingers clawing into his muscle, my legs hooked tight around his waist, my face buried in the side of his neck, the salt of his skin on my tongue. I’m writhing, he’s pulsing deep, and we’re matching thrust for thrust and whimper for moans.
There’s nothing but him and me, and we are lost in a whirlwind of union, and all of our senses are tangled together. I feel only him, taste only him, hear only him, smell only him. I open my eyes and see his back arched and flexing, his buttocks tensing and releasing as he thrusts, and my own ankles locked together at the small of his back.
I seek him, and I find his mouth, and I kiss him as he comes. I swallow his desperate grunts, and kiss him through his cursing and I devour my name as it falls from his lips.
When he’s finished, he goes limp on me, but only for a moment, and then he tries to roll off me.
I cling to him and refuse to let go. “Stay,” I whisper. “I love the way you crush me like this.”
He pulls away enough to kiss me, and this time, the kiss has no end. It moves, it morphs into more than a kiss. He’s softening inside me as we kiss, and he’s leaking through me and I don’t care. I want all the mess we can make.
We kiss, and we kiss.
I could kiss him forever, until I’m breathless and my lips are swollen and I can’t breathe.
Then we roll together so he’s on his back and I’m straddling him. He’s flaccid, slick and sticky, and I take him into my hand and toy with him and play with him and tease him and stroke him, and he watches as I bring him back to life, stroking him to full hardness, and then I lift up and take him into me once more. He palms my breasts as they sway above him and I brace one hand against his chest as I ride him slowly, and with my other fingers I touch myself. His thumb takes over at some point, but I’ve lost all sense, only aware of the aching slide of him, at the throb of my orgasm as it rises through me. I roll my hips slowly, taking him in deep, long grinding thrusts. And then he’s grunting and moving and I’m whimpering and thrashing, and then I feel him throb inside me and he’s crying out my name and I’m screaming his as I come, and I feel him unleash inside me in a hot wet rush and I’m coming around him and he’s coming inside me and we’re lost in this together.
After a too-brief eternity, it’s over and I collapse onto him, and I feel his breath ragged on my scalp, and his heart beating wildly in his chest.
I lay on him, and he holds me, and we’re content like that for who knows how long.
Eventually, I lift up, prop my elbows on his chest, and gaze at him. “Clean me, feed me, and fuck me again, in that order.”
He rumbles a laugh. “How about we take a shower together and I take care of two of the three at the same time?”
“Oh, I was planning on that,” I say, smirking. “I’ll just need you all over again as soon as we’re done eating.”
“How long can we stay in this condo?” Franco asks.
“I have to be back for work day after tomorrow.”
“Good, so we have all of today and most of tomorrow to stay in bed?”
“And then, when we’re home, we can take turns between my place and yours, fucking until we’re exhausted.”
He cups my face in his palm. “Audra…this isn’t fucking anymore, and we both know it.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Do we have to call it that other thing? Can’t we call it something different?”
“Yeah, we can, but just once we need to acknowledge, out loud, what this is.”
I huff, pretending to be irritated by his insistence. “Fine.” I kiss his lips again, a quick peck. “Franco, carry me into the shower and make love to me up against the wall.”
He rolls out of bed with me in his arms, getting to his feet without putting me down, carries me into the bathroom and sets me on the closed toilet seat lid. Turns on the shower, and then bends over me and kisses me as the water runs hot.
We don’t make love in the shower, though.
We take turns washing each other clean, rinsing off, and then I press him up against the wall and sink to my knees and…well, I make love him with my mouth. Slowly. I grasp his hips and use only my tongue and mouth, and I take so long the water runs lukewarm, and I swallow every last drop of him and wash him all over again…and then he carries me into the bedroom, throws me, dripping wet, onto the bed, pulls me to the edge, goes to his knees, and makes love to me with his mouth in return, making me scream and thrash and come so many times I lose count.
And then, clean, momentarily sated, we spend hours eating and talking and watching Netflix, and then we go out to the beach and swim and tease each other with dirty words and promises, and then he takes me to dinner and plies me with wine and sweet words and sweeter promises, and we spend the whole night through making good on every single one of those promises.
We don’t come up for air until well past dawn the next day, and then we sleep till afternoon, only to wake up and do it all over again until we have to scramble, flustered and smelling of sex, to the airport to catch our flight home.
Unbeknownst to me, Imogen had conspired with Jesse to change my return flight home so Franco and I could sit together. I spend the entire trip, including the layover, passed out on Franco’s shoulder.
Hours later, I stumble bleary-eyed and bedraggled to Franco’s truck, and fall promptly asleep on the drive home. Which becomes a true drive home, as he takes me to his place.
He carries me in to his room and cradles me in his arms in his bed.
I wake up as he climbs in behind me.
I twist, blinking sleepily at him over my shoulder. “Hey, Franco?”
He smiles at me, a tired curve of his lips. “Yeah, babe?”
“I don’t think I’ve said this yet, but…I’m in love with you.”
He twists me so I’m on my side, facing him, chin against his chest and gazing up at him. “Audra, I am so hopelessly in love with you it’s actually kind of stupid.”
“You’re stupid for me?”
He nods. “Completely.”
A long silence; neither of us fall asleep, and I can feel Franco thinking.
I nip at his chest with my teeth, playfully. “Say whatever you’re thinking, Franco.”
“You’re sure? It’s kind of crazy.”
“Hit me with all of your crazy.”
“Sell your condo. Live here with me.” I don’t answer for a long time, and I feel Franco getting antsy. “Too soon?”
I shake my head. “No, not too soon.” I smirk up at him. “While you were sleeping on the flight from Atlanta, I emailed a friend who’s a realtor.”
He blinks. “You did? Why?”
“To tell him I’m interested in listing it.”
He blinks again. “You…did?”
I laugh. “There’s an open house in two weeks.” I hesitate. “My realtor anticipates it selling in a matter of days.”
He sighs and laughs at the same time. “You knew I’d ask.”
“I knew if you didn’t, I’d just…m
ove in.” I push a strand of hair away from his eye. “I don’t ever want to spend another night apart from you.”
“Good,” he says. “I wasn’t planning on letting you.”
A long, easy quiet settles between us.
“Franco?”
“Hmmm?”
“Are we taking this from zero to a hundred way too fast?”
“Yeah. But this has been developing between us for months.” He’s so sleepy, now. He only slept a few hours on the leg from Atlanta to Chicago, while I slept the whole time.
I feel him falling asleep, and I drowse with him, content, happy, in love…and not at all scared of it anymore.
Epilogue
Once it was clear that Franco was asleep and I wasn’t going to sleep again anytime soon, I hold him, his head cradled against my breast, and sort through emails from the last week and a half, mostly updates and questions from my clients. Then I answer a barrage of texts from Imogen, asking for updates. I text her a photo of us right now, Franco’s head on my chest, his hand on my breast.
I include a message beneath the photo: I’m selling my condo and moving in with him.
Imogen sends a shocked face emoji, and then an all-caps text: OMG!! ARE YOU F-ING SERIOUS??!!
I send back the same shocked face. Totally legit. Should be moved in here within a month, max.
Imogen: You’re sure? I mean, that’s fast, Audra.
Me: Never been more sure of anything in my life. It’s just…right.
Me: And, Imogen? Thank you. More than I can say.
Imogen: We just gave you a little nudge. Me, Jesse, and James.
At that moment, my phone rings: LAUREL MADISON.
I answer the phone, using the quietest whisper possible. “Hey, Laurel. I was thinking about you, actually. I’ve been a shitty friend lately, and I’m sorry. I said we’d stay in contact, but I sort of fell off the face of the earth.”
She responds, but it’s distorted, tangled in sobs. “I—he—we—”
“Laurel, Laurel, breathe. Calm down. Talk to me, tell me what’s wrong.”
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