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“Would it be weird for someone to bring us breakfast in bed?” His question brings a laugh bubbling out of my lips, jostling his head against my chest and making his unshaven jaw stubble into my skin.
“Rex, it’s well past time for breakfast. It’s almost dinnertime.” I inform him, lighting up my phone to show him the time. He responds by snuggling in closer to me, his armtightening around my stomach and his leg crossing over my thighs.
“Never too late for breakfast.” He mumbles, his breath tickling my skin. The sensation makes me shiver, almost as much as his hard-on bouncing against my thigh with his movement does. I clear my throat to distract myself from his utterly sexy nakedness and opt for more questions.
“What’s your fav breakfast?” I ask, my arm gaining some feeling back, enough for me to use it to trail my feather touches down his ribs. Goosebumps blossom across his skin at my touch, bringing a smile to my face.
“Chilaquiles.” He answers without hesitation, the words some shit I’ve never heard of.
“Umm …” my brow furrows. “What the fuck is that?” Rex snorts, which turns into a deep-as-shit chuckle I absolutely love hearing.
“It’s a breakfast served in Mexico. Fried tortilla dipped in salsa or salsa Verde with crème, feta, and a fried egg. No dippy eggs for me. Raw shit is gross.”
Did he just call them dippy eggs?
“Ohhkayyy, then.” I laugh. “I was not expecting that. Here I was thinking I’d hear you say French toast over pancakes or something.” I shake my head with a slight eye roll at myself for assuming this cultured and well-traveled man would prefer eggs and fucking bacon. All Rex does is look up at me without removing his cheek from me, the hair there scrapping across my heart and leaving delicious red splotches behind.
Physically … and metaphorically…
Fuck, those eyes are gorgeous.
The way he’s looking at me leaves me breathless, distracted, and ready to go another round in the ring of this bed. Maybe the bathroom.
Fuck, I’m game with both.
My cheeks heat with the thoughts, the memories, of him fucking me until well past morning light and into a sleep deeper than anything I’ve ever experienced before.
Is it supposed to be that good?
I rack my brain for the moments I shared with Chip, nothing coming close to this intense, and wonder if I’d done it all wrong. I remember a lot, but most of our time together is a blur, drowned out by hospital stays and appointments. Doctors with shitty news and medications.
So many fucking meds, IV’s, tubes, and wires.
It’s because of those things that I’ve not gotten close with anyone else since his death. And guilt floods me, even now, at the prospect of another relationship.
I’d promised Chip everything and couldn’t deliver.
“Babe, what’s wrong?” Rex’s words are laced with concern as he sits up, propped on his arm, and looks down at me.
I feel like total shit.
Tears prick my eyes, my chest tightening at how much Rex and I don’t know about each other. How much I don’t know if I can do this again. The emotions, the joy and contentment, I felt over last night and this morning flee like a criminal just passed the barrier of their prison.
Still … that look in his eye causes me pause, makes my heart skip a fucking beat, as it bears down on me in all my naked glory.
I’m exposed. More than I’ve ever been. I recognize it more now than I have, possibly ever.
Did I ever love Chip like this?
“Baby …?” His deep voice catches with nerves I can feel, palpable at such a close distance and accompanied by a furrowed brow line that makes my stomach knot.
“I … um.” I don’t know how to say the words I need to say, but I know that if I’m ever going to make anything work ever again, I’ll need to fucking say it.
“You, what, babe?” He leans down to me and caresses my face with such gentleness, the tears spill over.
“I guess it’s my turn to answer the twenty-one questions.” A watery, half laugh spills out of me like my emotions. I try to sniffle them back, but Rex catches the tears on his fingertips and wipes them away.
“You can tell me what’s going on, babe. No judgment.” Rex does not share in my attempt at humor. Instead, he looks at me like I’m about to run away and he’s wondering how he can catch me. If he should. If he could.
