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Every part of the last week has felt like the honeymoon phase of our relationship, or whatever this is. I haven’t spent much time thinking about it because he’s given me no reason to worry. Though he’s shit at phone conversations, rarely ever keeping his phone on him, leaving my texts unanswered for hours, we spend most of our now time together.
He loads coins into the slots as I glance around the rundown room full of battered machines. “You do have a laundry room at home, right?”
“Your point?”
“Just saying, you guys probably would save money, in the long run, buying used machines off the web or something.”
He locks his strong arms around me and leans in, running his nose along mine. His sunglasses rest on the crown of his head, a heather grey T-shirt stretches along his muscular chest as he crowds me. Fingering the waistband of his jeans, I inhale his sunshine scent deep, lost in the feel of him and almost forgetting about our conversation. Indecent as it may be, I lock my legs around him, my shorts riding high up my thighs.
He looks down between us, running his knuckles along the flesh of my inner thigh. “I love your long legs and this place right…” he grips my hair and gently tugs, exposing my neck before placing a soft kiss at the hollow of my throat, “here.”
“Hmmm, what else?”
“I’ll give you the CliffsNotes.”
He kisses the skin just below my ear and then lifts my hand, pulling my wrist to his lips. He runs a finger along the top of my tank, just above my cleavage and traces it slowly before cupping my face, running his thumb along my cheek.
“This face of yours,” he murmurs, planting soft kisses on my forehead, my eyelids, tracing the faint freckles on my nose before settling on my lips. His gentle kiss draws me in before he deepens it, capturing my moan as I melt into his hold. He doesn’t give a damn about the perception of others. He’s constantly touching me in public and private—no holds barred, no shits given. He claims me daily and holds little back now as he possesses my mouth fully, while I sink into him. I’ve never known affection like this, not ever.
He’s made every man preceding him a liar and shamed them within just weeks of his attention, his affection.
This is why I love doing laundry—or anything—with Sean.
With him, I’m in a constant state of arousal and intrigue. The man is oddly fascinating, and I’m never sure what’s going to come out of his mouth next.
“I don’t save money.”
Case in point.
“Why is that?” I pull away.
He does little more than lift a brow in reply.
“Ahh, let me guess, there’s no other time than the present. You’re a man who lives without a single thought of the future.”
“I’m pressing that in more ways than one,” he murmurs into my neck.
I draw my brows, and before I can question him, he speaks again. “I’d much rather give it away than save it.”
“Why? Is money imaginary too?”
He pulls back, grinning at me. “Now you’re getting it.”
I cup the back of his neck, running my fingers through spiky swirls of blond. “Is there any law you abide by?”
“My own.”
“A lawless man with no future. And you say I’m dangerous.”
“You have no idea how much,” he says, hauling me off the machine. “Come on. I want a cigarette.”
We sit in his car, facing the shopping center, our view between watching the traffic of the laundromat and the Mexican restaurant next to it. Inside, a woman stands in a corner on the other side of the glass, rolling out fresh tortillas. Smiling, she kneads the dough before flattening it out and tossing it on a burner next to her worktop. I get a little lost just watching her as Sean flicks his Zippo, his one cigarette turning into two and then three before he excuses himself from the car to tend to the laundry. I offer to go with him, but he tells me to sit tight. I do, lost in the monotony of watching the older woman make tortillas. Her job is just as repetitive as mine is at the plant. But where I steadily watch the clock until the proverbial whistle blows, her serene smile hasn’t budged, even when she’s not talking to her coworkers or the patrons that constantly greet her. She’s content, happy, and seems completely at ease with her task. I envy her, wishing I had the same peace at my job. Sean rejoins me and—without a word—lights another cigarette, the sharp slap of his Zippo the only sound in the car.
“This woman has been making tortillas the whole time.”
“She does it all day and all night.”
“That’s crazy.”
