I set a punishing rhythm, giving her everything she needs, and she meets me thrust for thrust, her nails raking down my back. The sounds she makes—breathy moans and gasped curses—drive me insane.
“Yes,” she cries out. “Right there. Don’t stop.”
I have no intention of stopping. I reach between us, find her clit, and she comes apart immediately, screaming my name as she clenches around me. The sensation pushes me over the edge, and I follow her with a groan, burying myself deep.
We collapse together, sweaty and satisfied, and I roll onto my back, pulling her with me.
“That’s a hell of a way to wake up,” I say when I can finally speak.
She laughs, the sound light and happy. “Figured I’d return the favor. You’ve been taking such good care of me. Thought it was my turn.”
“You can wake me up like that anytime.”
“Noted.” She kisses my chest. “I’m starving, though. Can we have breakfast now?”
“You just had your way with me, and now you want me to cook?”
“Yes. Is that a problem?”
I grin, smacking her ass lightly. “Not even a little bit. Come on, let’s feed you.”
An hour later, we’re in the kitchen making sandwiches for lunch. Well, I’m making sandwiches. Sloane is ‘helping’ by stealing ingredients and making commentary.
“You’re very precise about your sandwich construction,” she observes as I carefully layer turkey and cheese.
“There’s a right way and a wrong way.”
“And the right way is ...?”
“Meat, cheese, lettuce, tomato, condiments. In that order.”
“What if I want condiments on both slices of bread?”
I look at her like she’s suggested we burn down the cabin. “Why would you do that?”
“For even flavor distribution!”
“That’s chaos. That’s anarchy.”
She laughs, stealing a piece of turkey off my sandwich.
I catch her around the waist and pull her against me. “Touch my turkey again and I’ll have to punish you.”
Her eyes darken. “Promises, promises.”
We’re about to abandon sandwich-making entirely when my stomach growls loudly, making us both laugh.
“Food first,” Sloane says, patting my chest. “You need to keep your strength up.”
“I really like the sound of that.”
We eat our sandwiches curled up on the couch, and I ask her about her job. About what she wants to do with her life beyond the marketing firm.
“Honestly? I don’t know anymore,” she admits. “I used to have all these dreams and plans. But somewhere along the way, I just ... stopped dreaming. Stopped planning.”
She mentioned that before, and I’m curious what else he stopped her from doing. “What did you stop doing?”
She’s quiet for a moment, thinking. “Hiking. He thought it was too dangerous. Going to concerts, he hated crowds. Spontaneous road trips. Dyeing my hair fun colors. Wearing clothes that were too attention-seeking.” She laughs bitterly. “I used to love trying new restaurants, but he always wanted to go to the same three places. I wanted to travel, but he said we needed to save money. I gave up so much without even realizing it.”
