Yesterday from Dexter:My place, 9?
I’d replied with a thumbs-up and at nine p.m., I’d parked on the opposite end of his street to avoid spreading rumors. Seconds after I’d knocked on his door, he’d pulled me inside and attackedme. Not an exaggeration. He might as well have been a monkey climbing a tree.
We’d made it as far as the great room, humping and grinding on Dexter’s enormous sectional. But soon, clothes had been shed, and there’d been no chance of slowing down or moving upstairs. So I’d bent him over the sofa and fucked him. The room had echoed with soft moans, grunts, and the steady slap of skin on skin. I’d pulled his hair and gestured at our reflection in the sliding glass door. Dexter’s ass in the air, my hands on his hips, my cock driving into his hole—it had been a good show.
Afterward, we’d cleaned up and sprawled out in front of the television, passing a pint of chocolate ice cream between us and chatting about inconsequential things like the accuracy of medical dramas and the time he’d fallen off a horse at summer camp, hit his head, and needed stitches.
“Blood everywhere. Kids were screaming, running amok, and the poor counselors were teenagers with minimal experience with bloody wounds.”
I’d motioned for him to pass the container. “What did they do?”
“One of them drove me to the hospital and waited with me to see the doctor. I had to stay for concussion protocol. My first of many. It made for a long-ass day for that poor counselor. He tried to call my mom, and of course she was in a meeting.” Dexter had pointed to a small scar at his temple. “But ten stitches later, I was back on a horse the next day.”
I’d nodded, but before I could ask any probing questions about his mother or his history with concussions, Dexter had moved on to the healing properties of chocolate.
I had a funny realization that behind the good-natured chatter and easy mannerisms, Dexter was a complex man who talked around topics that bothered him. And the fact that he wasn’t in a hurry to get rid of me or to leave my house post-orgasm was telling, too. I didn’t think it was my winning personality. No…my guess was that Dexter was lonely. I wondered if he hoped a child would cure the condition.
But then he was straddling my lap, feeding me ice cream from his spoon, and sharing chocolate kisses. And that was more important than the psychoanalysis he most likely wouldn’t appreciate.
We’d made our way upstairs for round two, showered, and fell asleep.
I glanced at my watch and tugged at my numb arm, gently rolling Dexter off me.
He blinked and rubbed his eyes. “What time is it?”
“Four o’clock. Do you have to go to the shop?”
Dexter hummed and burrowed under the covers. “Five more minutes.”
I dressed, used the bathroom, and returned to find him snoring away. “Wake up. Alberto will be waiting for you.”
“Ughhhh…”
“Come on. I’ll make coffee.” I pulled the duvet away, admiring his toned back and beautiful ass before delivering a quick smack on his rear. “Get dressed.”
I made coffee and poured some into a thermos I found in a kitchen cupboard. I helped myself and waited for him. That wasn’t the norm. We usually didn’t linger in the mornings. Whoever happened to be staying over left without fanfare of any sort. Dexter was a big boy. He’d been running his business and looking after himself for years. He didn’t need my help getting out the door.
No, this was on me. I had a bad habit of taking on the role of caregiver—whether or not I was needed. Maybe so, but in this case, I just wanted to help.
Dexter raced into the kitchen. His hair was slick with product, he had toothpaste at the corner of his mouth, and his tee was inside out. He shoved his feet into a pair of sneakers and lifted one onto the barstool to tie his laces.
“You made coffee.”
“I told you I was going to.” I pushed the thermos in front of him and licked toothpaste from his lips. “For you.”
He grinned from ear to ear. “Thank you.”
“Hmph. I’m leaving.” I started for the foyer. “Fix your shirt.”
“What’s wrong with my—oh.”
At that hour of the morning, I should have had a decent rein on my self-control, but the sight of a bare-chested Dexter fumbling with a shirt and messing his hair was too irresistible. I moved to his side, captured his face, and sealed our lips as I snatched the fabric from his fingers. I broke the kiss, turned the pink donut T-shirt right-side out and yanked it over Dexter’s head. I flattened a stray piece of hair and made myself step away.
“Better.”
Dexter didn’t say anything. He just smiled, grabbed his keys, thermos, and a jacket. I followed him to the garage rather than the front door so he wouldn’t have to reset his alarm. We nodded and went our separate ways.
Even at four-thirty a.m., there was always a chance that someone might notice two cars coming from the same direction, traversing the empty streets to town. I checked my rearview mirror as Dexter turned left and veered toward the donut shop on Main Street while I headed straight for home. I caught my reflection and chuckled. This wasn’t smart, but itwasfun.
