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I love how confident he is, how sure. He moves inside me with deep, hard thrusts, and I know he’s not going to stop until my orgasm hits. How he holds his own pleasure in, I don’t know, but he doesn’t stop, he keeps going, and sure enough, my tummy begins to tighten, and the exquisite tension begins deep inside me, and thenooohhh… the wonderful, exquisite pulses start, and I squeeze around him, making him grunt as he continues to thrust me through it. Oh wow, I’ll never get tired of this, orgasms are just fucking amazing, the best thing in the world, better than ice cream and chocolate and coffee and wine combined, and that’s saying something!
“Ah baby,” he says, “you feel so good…” And then he gives a couple more thrusts and stiffens. “Fuck,” he adds, and I feel his hips jerk and his cock twitch inside me as he comes. Oh, I love his throaty groans, the feel of his warm skin sticking to mine, the sensation of having given him such pleasure.
“Oh my God I love sex,” I say, collapsing onto the pillow.
He buries his face in my neck. “Ah jeez… Don’t make me laugh.”
“I mean sex with you,” I elaborate, feeling as if all my bones have been removed, and loving the feeling of him finishing inside me. “It’s just something else. Mmm. Fill me up, big boy. Wow. That feels so good.”
He does laugh this time, then gives me a kiss on the shoulder before he finally withdraws. I lie there, watching him as he disposes of the condom, rises to get a bottle of water, brings it back and drinks half of it, then gets back into bed and passes it to me. I finish it off, and then he puts it to one side and pulls me into his arms.
“Are you all right, sweetheart?” he asks, brushing my hair away from my face before kissing me.
“Mmm. Superb.” I smile, cuddling up to him. “Wow. That was just amazing.”
He cups my cheek. He has a puzzled look on his face.
“What?” I ask.
But he just shakes his head, slides down the pillows a bit, then gives me a long, luxurious kiss.
I rest my head on his shoulder, allowing myself a small private smile. I’ll let him think about what just happened, and maybe we can talk about it tomorrow, once he’s had time to muse on it.
*
The next morning, although we’re tempted to stay in bed all day, we agree it would be fun to go for a walk around the park and get some fresh air, and maybe visit the Botanic Gardens or the Museum. I wondered whether he might be reluctant to go out in case Alex or someone else he knows sees us together, but he doesn’t seem bothered.
We walk through the park, enjoying the cool breeze and the smell of the autumn leaves, then stop and have breakfast at a café in the Gardens. Both ravenous, we tuck into eggs, bacon, and toast with piping hot coffee, while we talk about everything under the sun, just enjoying being in each other’s company.
Damon is happy to talk, but several times I look over to find him lost in thought. I’m not sure whether he’s reflecting on what happened last night. If he was any other guy, I’d say he was thinking about the rugby, but when he was talking about Kennedy he said,I’m too in my own head and analytical for her, so I know he’s more reflective than most guys.
I don’t push him to talk, though, and I just enjoy his company as we stroll along the Avon, ducking under the willows and watching the tourists on the punts that sail up and downstream.
As a shell goes by, the rowers pulling hard at the oars, he tells me how he’s been a member of the Wellington Rowing Club since uni, and how he used to row as part of a coxed four with Alex, James, and Henry.
“Do you miss not seeing them all as much?” I ask. I know that after they graduated, Alex put forward the suggestion that they all move to Christchurch to open up Kia Kaha. James, Henry, and Tyson agreed as they had family here, but Damon, who was Alex’s closest friend, made the choice to stay in Wellington. It was a tough decision for Alex, but I know part of it was because he wanted to be closer to me once Gaby left for uni. If he’d known I’d end up at uni in Wellington, he might have made a different decision, but it was nice to have him close by for a few years.
“Sometimes,” he admits. “Obviously I’ve got Kip and Saxon, and I’d miss them if I moved away. But they’ve always got each other, being twins.”
“Do you feel like the odd one out?”
“They’ve always been great older brothers and included me in everything,” he says. “They’ve never shut me out, even down to wanting me as a director of Kingpinz.”
But I can sense the words he doesn’t want to say—that twins have a special connection, and he’s always been on the outside of that.
I curl my fingers around his hand where he’s holding mine. “Do you ever wish you’d gone to art school rather than doing your degree in computing?”
“Sometimes. But all I would’ve been able to do is paint pretty pictures. With my software skills I can design things that can help people in their everyday lives.”
“That’s a pretty poor view of artists you have there. You don’t think that creating art—painting, music, writing—improves people’s lives? Helps them escape? Gives them hope?”
“I guess. At the time that I was making the choice, painting felt indulgent. It still does. I only paint at the end of the day, if I’ve worked hard and feel I’ve earned it.”
“Oh, Damon.”
“What?”
“Are you trying to make me cry?”
