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“Oh God,” she chants like a sinner in prayer as our orgasms wreck our bodies.
Sukie collapses against me, her body sated and spent.
“That was…” she pants, slowly getting her breathing under control. She pulls back and looks at me. “Wow.” She smiles, then presses her lips to mine. Her kiss is soft and sweet.
Her stomach interrupts our intimate connection with a loud rumble, and I chuckle.
“Hungry, baby?”
Sukie blushes. “A little.”
I grip her neck. “Let’s finish showering, and then I’ll feed you.” I taste her mouth again before we rinse our bodies and step out of the shower.
Sukie dresses in the jeans she wore the night before, then slips one of my t-shirts over her head. The fabric swallows her tiny frame, but she fixes the problem by tying a knot in the shirt so it cinches around her waist just above her jeans.
I finish dressing, and we head out of the bedroom to the kitchen. Silence hangs between us, but it isn’t awkward or uncomfortable. It feels natural and easy being in the same space, which is significantly different from before we gave in, submitting to our feelings and wants.
I move about the kitchen, starting coffee, and Sukie wanders to the fridge. She walks to the counter, carrying eggs and milk, then searches through cabinets until she finds what she is looking for; a bag of flour and some sugar.
Sukie looks at me. “Pancakes, okay?”
“Sounds good.”
She continues sifting through cabinets. “Why do they call you Harlem?”
“I’m originally from New York.” I lean my hip against the counter, watching her whisk her ingredients into a bowl.
“New York. I’ve never left Massachusetts. How’d you end up in Salem?” She turns the stove on, waiting for the cast-iron skillet to warm.
“Needed a fresh start.” I’m truthful, but I hope she won’t require more of a detailed answer than I’m willing to give.
“What about your family? Are they still in New York?” Sukie ladles the batter onto the hot cast iron surface.
My body tenses, reluctant to speak about my family.
Sukie looks up and studies me for a second. “I take it you’re not on good terms with them?” She reads me like an open book.
“That’s putting it mildly.” Noticing the coffee is finished brewing, I fix us each a cup.
“You don’t have to talk about it.” Sukie flips the pancake. “Some things, including people, are better left behind us.” She sighs, then mutters, “Even if the ghosts of the past still won’t let go.”
Her last statement couldn’t be more accurate.
“They aren’t good people, babe. I had to cut them from my life.” The air in the room thickens as my past attempts to cast a shadow over me, so I change the subject. “How do you take your coffee?”
“You don’t strike me as the type to have caramel macchiato creamer lying about, so I’ll take whatever you have.” She continues cooking.
I go to the fridge, grab some creamer from the shelf, and pour it into our mugs. I stir them, then turn to hand Sukie a coffee and find her staring at me, her brow raised and smiling.
“Sweet Italian cream?” Her tone is playful.
I step into her space, and she tilts her head back.
“I like sweet things,” I rumble, then sip my coffee, watching her pupils dilate. “You should flip that.” I smell the pancake overcooking.
Sukie turns back to the skillet. “Shoot.”
I sit my mug down, grab a couple of plates, some fresh butter I purchased a few days ago from a local seller, and maple syrup. Sukie stacks the pancakes on each plate as I butter between the layers. We work as a team as if we’ve been doing it for years.
