by DM Davis
He pulls at my shirt. “My turn.”
I lift my arms, and he dispenses with my shirt, bra, and yoga pants as if he’s done it a million times.
He probably has. I cringe at the thought of how I compare to all the others.
He bites my breast and growls, “Out of your head and here with me.” His brown eyes pierce mine as he hovers over me. “Stay with me.”
The vulnerability in his voice, the tenderness in his eyes reminds me that I’m not the only one who’s a little broken.
I palm his cheeks, holding his gaze. “I’m here. Promise.”
Sitting back, he pulls me into his lap, my legs wrapping around him.
“You won’t leave me.”
“No,” I answer, though he wasn’t really asking.
“I won’t let you.” With one arm around my back, he pushes my shoulder until I lean back enough for my breasts to rise to meet his mouth. “I was made for you.” He flicks his tongue across my nipples. “And you for me.”
Each exquisite lash of his tongue draws a moan from my lips and has me grinding my panty-clad clit against his fully-clothed erection.
He cups my rear, slowly gyrating his hips. “I want you to come for me, Dove.”
A sound that I can only describe as a coo leaves my lips as he sucks a nipple into his mouth and his hand slides under my panties, sinking two fingers inside me.
I grab on to his shoulders, needing to meld with him, pulling him closer. We move in sync, gyrating with precision, maximizing clit to cock contact as his mouth ravages my breasts and his fingers take me over the edge. It’s a choreographed dance we’ve never learned yet instinctively know.
His muttered curses as I contract around his fingers—knowing he’s close to coming—only fuels my release, taking me higher, wave after wave crashing me against his hardened shore, breaking apart—shattering—as he erupts.
Laid out and decimated, he cocoons me with his body. His soft lips and gentle caresses piece me back together in front of the fire that burns nearly as bright as our passion.
Our hunger satiated, my eyelids draw heavy, but my mind drifts. No longer impeded with voracious want, the doubt seeps in.
Shattered.
Decimated.
That’s what I’ll be when he realizes I’m nothing.
Unworthy of his time.
His touch.
His love.
He’ll leave like the others when the spell that binds us is broken.
The timer sounds, jerking me awake. I disentangle from the sleeping vision beside me to check on the chili. It looks delicious and smells even better. My girl can cook. It’s been too many years since a woman has cooked for me. My ex rarely did, and my relationships since never involved food, only sex. In and out. Quick. No entanglements and most definitely no shared meals.
A noise from the living room has me looking past the kitchen bar to see Lauren stretching, her eyes fluttering, breasts barely concealed with the blanket edging its way south. A little further and I’ll feast my eyes and mouth on something other than chili.
I put the lid back on the pot and pick up my discarded t-shirt. “Here, slip this on.” I help her sit up and then pull the shirt over her head, holding the bottom while she slips her arms in. She’s sexy as fuck in my shirt.
I offer my hand. “I believe the chili’s done, but you should confirm.”
She takes my hand and stands, tugging at my t-shirt, which falls right below her plump bum. I growl and turn her towards the kitchen. “Go before I strip it off you.”
Her giggle has my head shaking in disbelief. This thing between us feels right…and easy. So, fucking easy. Like memory foam—we fit.
I follow her to the kitchen and watch her stir the chili, my eyes doing the wandering my hands would like to do.
“It’s done.” She smirks over her shoulder, catching me ogling her most wonderous assets. Her blush doesn’t deter her from checking me out in my boxer briefs, the fresh pair I put on before falling asleep.
“Don’t look at me like that, or I’ll be coming in this pair too.”
Her laugh is contagious, and I begrudgingly laugh at my reverting teenage self who comes in his pants while dry-humping his girlfriend. But if it keeps my cock out of her pussy in support of her desire to abstain from sex, then I’m all in. I’ll buy more undergarments—hers and mine—in support of our sexual escapades.
“Ready to eat?”
I nearly choke on my tongue, her innocence not letting on that she might mean me eating her. I wish. “Yes.”
Sadly, she pulls two bowls from the cabinet, and I know she truly did mean eat chili—and not her. Sad truth.
We settle against the hearth, our backs to the fire, bowls propped in our hands. She blows on her spoonful before taking a tentative bite.
“Ah, yep, that’s hot.” She sets down her bowl and takes a drink of water. She watches as I take my first bite, having let my spoonful cool off longer. “Remind me to take some chili and soup to my mom tomorrow.”
I nod as I savour my bite. “Bloody hell, woman, is there anything you can’t cook?”
She thinks I’m kidding, but everything she cooks is perfection. I’ve never had better.
Expectantly, she brushes off my compliment and goes for self-deprecation. “Yes, plenty. I’m horrible at fruit pies. I can never get them right, or if I do, I can’t replicate the results. They’re too runny. And…I don’t know how to fry anything.” She says the last like it could actually be a deal breaker, like I care if she can fry food.
“You’re from the South and don’t know how to fry? Isn’t that sacrilege?”
“Actually, Texas isn’t really part of the South. I believe it’s because Texas originated from Mexico, and the Southerners never accepted Texas as one of them.”
My girl, always giving me more than I ask for. No one-word answers from her.
“I don’t care if you can’t fry or bake pies. What you can do is plenty enough for me.” I scoop another bite. “You keep cooking like this, and I’ll be a happy, fat professor in no time.”
She looks horrified. Should I tell her I gained forty pounds after my ex dumped me? Probably not. I don’t want to ruin the look in her eyes when she sees me near naked.
After a few more bites, she sets her bowl on the hearth and lies down on an exhale.
“Are you done? You didn’t eat much.” I’ve yet to see her finish a meal.
“Yep.”
“I wish you’d eat more. I don’t think you’ve eaten enough today.”
She yawns, turning on her side. “I’m fine. Believe me, I’m not going to waste away.”
I let it go, not wanting to push, but not agreeing with her either.
“Do you want to go back to England?”
Her question—out of the blue—surprises me. “Do you mean to live or visit?”
“Both, I guess.”
“I go home every summer.” I place my bowl aside and lie down next to her, propping up on my arm, toying with one of her curls. “I’d hoped you’d come home with me this summer. Meet my family.”
Worried blue eyes meet mine, and the uncertainty there tugs at me. “You want me to meet your family?”
“Yes, but mostly I don’t want to leave you for the summer. Come with me.”
“I’d love to, but I can’t go for the whole summer. I can’t leave my job for that long. Plus, I don’t have that much vacation time.”
“Quit. Move in with me. Marry me. Let me take care of you.”
“What?” She sits up faster than I can catch her, my flippant reply sending her reeling.
I put my hand up to still her fearful reply. “Come home with me for however long you can.” The rest will take care of itself.
Once her head hits the pillow, I position myself between her thighs. I’m not letting her scurry away. “Come with me. We’ll go for a week…two…as long as you can.” I brush her lips with mine. “Say you’ll come.”
“I’ll come.”
I press my forehead to hers. “Thank you.” I roll to my back, holding her hand. “As for living in England, when I came to the States, I didn’t envision going back permanently. I saw myself staying here.” I look to the side, meeting her stare. “But now that I’ve met you, I think of going back. I’d like to show you where I grew up. How I grew up.” I shrug. “I’d live anywhere with you.”
A smile tugs at her lips. She rolls towards me. “I think I’d live anywhere with you, too.” She lays her head on my chest. “But I’m a modern girl. I grew up in America. I like modern conveniences. And I don’t mean indoor plumbing. I like hot showers and large refrigerators, modern appliances, a toilet and toilet paper that doesn’t feel like sandpaper. Hair dryers and washing machines…dryers. I’m not a roughing it kind of girl. I love the ocean and the beach, but I want to come home to a clean, hot shower to wash the sand away. I’d live anywhere with you, but if you want to camp out in a poverty-stricken country, I’m not that girl.”
I smile at that and kiss her head. “Understood.”
We’re quiet a moment, my hand alternating between playing with her hair and rubbing her arm. “If money was no object, what would you do for a living?” Might as well get in more twenty questions.
“A singer, a doctor, and a novelist. Not necessarily in that order,” she spouts, not even having to think about it.
Interesting. “Why didn’t you pursue singing? You have the voice.”
“Too shy. Too insecure.”
“And doctor?”
“Honestly, I never thought of it when I was younger. It wasn’t until I was older that I realized how fascinated I am by medicine and the human body. So, it’s a…hobby.”
That’s quite a hobby. Even more interesting. “And novelist?”
“That’s the one I think I could still do with what I have now. I have to take the time to do it. What about you?”
“We have writing in common. I need the time. Next would be a venture capitalist. I think I’d like to start my own VC firm, but I’d like a partner. Someone who has as much to gain or lose as me. Total dream would be an astronaut.”
She looks up. “VC firm?”
“Venture capital company. Basically, provide seed money for startups. Consult with their vision, direction, investments. Whatever’s needed.”
“Wow. That’s impressive.”
I chuckle. “Not impressive. I’d give them money and help point them in the right direction. They’d have to do all the work, and I’d sit back and reap the rewards.”
“If they’re successful.”
“Yes. If they succeed. Which is why I’d want a partner to share the burden of finding sound investments.”
“Maybe we should quit our jobs. Find a little beach house—with indoor plumbing—and write. Make love, eat, sleep, write, repeat,” she says dreamily.
“I vote for that.” I roll her to her back, hovering over her. “You think I’m joking, but I’m not. We’ll talk about that idea again.”
“How many kids do you want?” She thinks she’s changing the subject, but her words only feed the beast in me who wants to whisk her way to an ocean-front property and plant my seed deep inside her, and watch her body bloom with our children as we write side by side for the rest of our days.
“Is that an offer?”
“No. It’s a question.” Her brow quirks. She bites her lip, trying to stay her smile.
“Hmm, it sounded like a heavenly offer to me.”
“Heavenly?” She still doubts my intentions.
I kiss her nose. “Heavenly.” I plop on my back, watching the firelight reflect on the ceiling. “Two to six.”
“Kids?!”
I catch her gaze as her incredulous look softens.
“Too many?” I could go with less. Figured I’d reach high and settle for middle ground.
“Not as long as your wife agrees.”
“Well, does she?” I’m not letting her brush it off as if I’m talking about having children with someone other than her.
“Maybe you could carry them, and I’ll breastfeed.”
She didn’t say no. “Maybe you could carry them, and I’ll carry you while you breastfeed.” I prop up on my arm. “I’d massage your feet, rub lotion on your pregnant belly, feed you all your cravings, and keep you satiated in every way possible.”
“You’d be a good dad.” She’s softening to the idea.
“You’d be an amazing mum.”
“Mum?” Her eyes shine. “Would they look like you? Be handsome and strong, protective and caring?”
“Yes, mum. Unless you’re opposed to the name.”
“Not opposed, it didn’t occur to me that I wouldn’t be mommy but mum.”
“I like mommy, too.” My little blonde-haired, blue-eyed children running around calling after their mommy—looking like her—loving like her. “They’d be beautiful like their mommy, thoughtful and kind, generous and selfless.”
“Brown curly hair and chocolate almond eyes with expressive brows and cherub-red lips,” she insists.
I pull her into my arms, a chuckle on my lips, a fullness in my heart, and a cock ready to make these idyllic children come to life. “Maybe a mix of both.”
“Mayb—”
I steal the words straight from her lips. Enough dreaming, enough teasing about our future, enough of using our mouths for things other than pleasuring our bodies. I whip off my briefs and her t-shirt and settle between her legs on a gasp and a groan—hers and mine. I’m taking our dry-humping to another level. Only one of us will be clothed, and since her panties are silky—she wins.
“MY MUM IS ECSTATIC TO MEET you this summer. I told her we still have to work out the particulars, but she was happy with any length of time you could come visit. Though, I didn’t mention my stay would only last as long as yours.” He smirks. “She’ll have to get used to my change of priorities.”
Priorities? I’m his priority?
“Yes,” he answers my silent question.
“Wha—”
He chuckles and skims a kiss across my cheek. “The disbelief is written all over your face. You’d make a horrible poker player.” He pushes through my stupor. “You’re top of my list, Dove. Get used to it.”
My head spins with how fast he moves and how easily he speaks about his feelings. What guy does that? None I’ve ever known. I’ve always heard the British are closed-off about their feelings, keeping their emotions close to the vest. But this Brit is the complete opposite. At least with me.
“…she agrees with me. You’re beautiful.”
Shit. I checked out again. “What?”
He smiles instead of being exasperated at having to repeat himself. “I sent Mum a picture of us from the night of the faculty party. She says you’re even more beautiful than I described. She said our babies will be more beautiful than words.”
I pull back in horror. “No she didn’t. She hasn’t even met me…she can’t…babies?”
“Bloody hell, you’re easily ruffled. Yes, she talked about us making beautiful babies. Heavenly blessed, angelic little cherubs too beautiful for words I believe were her exact words.”
My face heats as the blush creeps upwards from my neck. “Well, that’s embarrassing.”
He quirks a brow. “Embarrassing?”
“Yes, your mother even thinking about us making babies—is embarrassing.”
He laughs as he pulls me to his side of the couch. “No, that’s bloody hot is what that is.”
I know he talking about us actually making babies and not about his mother thinking about it. But still…
“Tell me about your brother…the conference.” I jump to a more comfortable topic.
Theo smiles, his knowing eyes not letting me go, though he does let the topic go.
“It’s a medical conference. He’ll be here Saturday through the following Friday. You’ll like him. He’s a great guy, and I know he’ll adore you.”
“He’s your brother. I’m sure I’ll
love him.”
“He’s also the perfect doctor for your back issues—an orthopedic surgeon. He’ll probably have some thoughts on how to make it better and maybe help with your pain.”
I cringe at the thought. “I’m sure the last thing he wants to do is give free advice. That has to be a huge pet peeve for doctors, always getting asked medical questions.”
“Not for family. He won’t mind, trust me. Plus, I already mentioned your surgery to him.”
“But I’m not family.”
“Yet. You’re not family, yet. You will be, and in my heart you already are. So, he’ll see you as that as well. Besides, he was interested in your case and offered to talk to you about it. I didn’t ask.”
He’s trying to convince me, but I’m not sold. I don’t want to inconvenience Connor. He’s here for a conference, not to give away free medical advice. “Is he staying with you or a hotel?”
“He’s staying at the Anatole where the conference is being held. So, not too far from us.”
“Maybe I could cook dinner the Saturday he arrives or Sunday.”
His perfect-teeth smile conveys his agreement before he even speaks. “He’d love that—I’d love that.” He plants a kiss on my head, and I settle into his embrace a little deeper.
I’m going to miss this when we have to go back to work and reality next week, but for now, I’m going to eat this up and enjoy our little bubble of solitude where only he and I exist.
We talk about mundane things, neither of us really watching the TV. It’s only background noise and something to look at.
“Tell me about your sister.” He lies down, pulling me with him, situating us on our sides, my back to his front.
“Nicole is a sophomore at The Cleveland Institute of Music. She’s six years younger than me. She plays the harp and piano, incredibly talented. She’s outgoing, way more comfortable in social situations. She’s been performing since she was three, so she’s used to being the center of attention. She is funny and loving. And nowhere as sensitive as I am—or she’s better at hiding it. Very pretty with great hair—brown and really thick. Her eyes are a different blue than mine. Bobby and I have the same blue, and she and Tim have a lighter shade. She’s the only one of the four kids with lily-white skin—the kind you see in soap commercials. She’s my best friend.”
