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A chuckle rolled through his chest, vibrating through my body. "Guess that proves it," he said, pulling slightly, finding resistance as I wrapped him up tighter. "Let me up, honey. Gotta deal with the condom," he informed me, making me let out a grumble as my legs unfolded and fell weightily toward the mattress. My arms released him next and he quickly pressed up, and rolled away to stand off the side of the bed, moving away from me toward a door to the side of the room, closing it after himself.
I didn't want to be alone right then. Not even for a minute. Because my mind went ahead and did what I knew it shouldn't. It ran away with itself. It seemed to shoot off in a hundred directions all at once, completely frantic, but somehow the data still all came to me clear and crisp and full of happiness, dread, excitement, and worry.
Because it didn't matter how good I felt right then, and it might have been better than I had ever felt before, it was fleeting. Sometime soon, maybe in just another day, maybe a week, but no more, it would all be gone. Mark would be a fading figure in my rearview.
The few short hours of contentedness, of domestic bliss, would be nothing but a memory I would try to forget at first. Because if I remembered, it would make me angry and bitter for having to lose a chance at a life other than the one I had chosen for myself. That would fade eventually, though. It would become a waking dream I would summon up in the wee dark hours of the night in some shithole rental I was sharing with my brothers, after a long day of the same old stuff I had been going over for a decade, on a mission that while it was justified, was still somehow empty. Right then, in those moments of drudgery, of discontent, of bone-deep desire for something more, that was when I would bring it up, I would roll it over like a video, rewinding and replaying my favorite parts one hundred times over.
I worried though that parts of it would blur around the edges, faded by time. Would I forget the exact timbre of his voice? The words he said that made my belly wobble? The intensity with which he looked at me? The feeling of possessiveness I got hearing him come with my name on his lips?
Would it all lose its impact?
Would it eventually be nothing but a time-soaked silent film in dull sepia-tone low contrast?
Would there be a day when the name Mark Mallick wouldn't mean anything?
Somehow, there was a sharp, piercing sensation inside at the very idea.
"That's a deep look," Mark said suddenly, making me jump and turn to find him standing at the side of the bed, somehow coming out without me hearing. "You alright?" he asked, a small crease between his brows.
I forced a smile I knew didn't meet my eyes and scooted up on the bed, reaching to slip under the covers. "Yeah, fine. Just cold." I exhaled hard, dropping my hands down at my sides, and looking around. "Oh wow," I said, a real smile pulling at my lips. "I didn't really get a chance to look around before."
Mark's smile was devilish as he slid in with me, reaching for me, pulling my back against his chest. "Yeah, you were a little too busy worshipping my cock to notice the window dressings."
The laugh was genuine and much needed as his fingertips started to whisper up and down my arm, his other arm a heavy weight across my lower belly. "You really are good at what you do."
"Making you come? Yeah, baby, I'm a fucking pro if the way your pussy was squeezing me was any indication. Oh, you mean at decorating," he added, sounding light and sweet and carefree.
It was almost enough to make me feel the same way.
Almost.
He definitely was good at the orgasm thing. But his decorating skills weren't lacking either.
The bedroom wasn't a huge space, given the small house in general. But the floors were like that of the ones downstairs. The walls were a deep chocolatey brown. The bed was a massive king-size deep wood, charmingly dinged in places, but beautiful. I found I liked that about his decorating style. He didn't seem to like new and shiny. He preferred pieces with a history, with character, with a story to tell. There was no TV to speak of, somewhat surprising me, and a very unique dark wood set of nightstands and dressers.
"Where did you get those?" I asked, motioning to the long dresser across from the bed beside the door to the hall.
"My brother Hunter, the one who is covered in ink, he's a tattoo artist, but he makes furniture for shits and giggles. Happens to be really good at it too. When he has the time, I use him to build shit in the houses I renovate."
