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“Oooh!”
I laugh. “Kidding, Autumn.”
She makes a fussy face at me, then grins. “I’ll come up with something.”
“I’m sure you will.”
Meandering through the rest of the park, we see the Turtle Pond and lament the lack of Shakespeare in the Park shows. We’re too early in the season for them, too late in the season for the lilac grove. But being between seasons on a Saturday means the park is not as crowded as it could be, and I am more than happy with that. It feels like Central Park belongs to only us.
A slow stroll through the Conservatory Garden leads us precisely where I wanted to be for lunch. “Ready to leave?”
“Only if there’s food involved.”
“You read my mind.” I take her to a hole in the wall with a two-top table out front and a blacked-out window. A hand painted sign above the door reads, “The Monk’s Revenge.”
“Are you sure about this? Looks sketchy.”
“This is the place.”
“If you say so.”
I open the door, hoping it’s as good as my guy said it was. Inside, it’s better.
A black and white checkerboard floor skirts next to a long counter-service bar, and in the back is a dark, quiet grouping of six tables. They packed the rest of the narrow and deep restaurant to the rafters with bottles of wine. The air smells plummy until a fresh scent permeates it—rosemary bread. My mouth waters.
The barkeep takes our order, then tells us to pick a seat. We select one in the far corner for some intimate privacy, and a moment later, he delivers our wine along with the herbaceous bread and a house-made whipped garlic compound butter.
“Oh my god, this place is amazing, Rowan. How did you find it?”
“I got a guy.”
She beams at me. “You sounded so New York saying that.”
I chuckle. “Thanks.”
“But really, how did you find it?”
“Rumors, innuendo, and the occasional bald-faced lie.”
“You’re not gonna tell me, are you?”
“Not on your life. I get to be a man of mystery sometimes. Just enjoy it.”
She giggles and gobbles down more of the sumptuous bread and wine, and I join her. By the time we leave, it’s less of a walk back to the hotel and more of a stumble. The wine was far too good to let them keep so much of it. Upon entering our room, we are too buzzed and bread-full for anything salacious to happen, and when she suggests a nap, I am overjoyed.
“You really are the perfect woman,” I mumble into the back of her hair, before dozing off to her giggles.
A few hours later, I am still intoxicated, though this time, it’s from Autumn. I cannot help myself and start kissing her neck the way she likes. She moans in her sleep, and I rub her hip. When she murmurs my name, my cock comes to life fully. I’m already spooning her, so I slip between her soft thighs.
She moans a little more as she rocks herself back to me, and her wetness grazes over me there. I let out a hiss. “You awake, baby?”
“Mm, hmm,” she moans sleepily.
“You sure?”
When she props herself up and back to take me into her body, I know the answer. Without another word, I enter her and groan from the intensity of it all. She gasps, “Oh god, yes.”
I hold her close—I need to feel her there with me. I will never get enough of this. Never. But I need to see her face, and I rearrange us until I’m on top of her and when I glide inside, her lips form a perfect O when she groans for more.
