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My hand shakes when I take it.
Riley frowns. “You okay?”
How do I explain what I’m feeling?
The gratitude for him thinking of me.
The rage over the fact that not only did Patrick never offer to make me something, anything, but that I also didn’t think it was fucked up that I made everything and anything for him.
I thought it was normal, me waiting on my future husband. It’s what I saw my Mom doing. Granny too.
I hated it, even as I emulated the pattern. I didn’t do it on purpose. It just sort of . . . happened.
The idea that I could start over with Riley if I wanted to is a relief. Mostly because he’s never taken advantage of my eagerness to please. I can also be intentional about things. Mindful in a way I wasn’t capable of before.
“I’m just thinking about all the expectations that have held me prisoner over the past few years.” I blow on my coffee, then give it a sip. It’s just hot enough to sting my lips. It’s also really freaking delicious with all that cream and sugar in it. “Yum.”
His grin is back. “Deep thoughts for a Thursday morning. Care to flesh out that idea on the deck upstairs? It’s gorgeous outside.”
“I’d love to.”
He isn’t kidding. There’s a crispness to the air, that first hint of fall I love so much. The sky is bright blue and clear. A cool breeze moves over the water as we settle onto a pair of chairs in the shade. Tom, never one to miss a gathering, joins us.
“If only we had this weather tomorrow,” I say. “I checked my phone this morning, and it is not looking good for the ceremony or the reception. They’re forecasting rain and wind.”
Riley winces. “We’ll figure it out. Now tell me more about these expectations you’re tryin’ to leave behind.”
He listens as I explain myself to him. He’s patient, doesn’t interrupt, and asks intelligent questions when I pause to drink my coffee. We talk. And talk. The air grows warm. This time it’s my stomach that grumbles.
Since Riley insists on helping me with the eggs, we make them together. I do a spin on a BELT, or bacon, egg, lettuce, and tomato sandwich. I sub pimiento cheese for the mayo and use slices of sourdough bread Riley told me they make over at Stede’s in the wood-burning oven. Shockingly, Tom isn’t into the eggs, but he does devour the bacon and bread.
We eat and talk some more. A lot more, actually. Only when I look up at the sky and realize it’s probably almost noon do I come up for air.
“I should check my phone.” I squint against the sun. “No doubt Goldie is freaking out. And we still have to finalize the seating chart for the reception.”
Riley runs a hand down his bare chest. “Can I fuck you first?”
A lightning bolt of lust cracks down my middle at the casual, confident way he says it.
“If your pussy is too sore, I could play with your ass a little. Loosen you up so we could try anal after the welcome party tonight.”
JesusfuckingChrist.
“I want to,” I manage. “So bad you don’t even know. But we start that, and I have a feeling we’ll never leave your bed. How about a quickie instead?”
His mouth curls into a devilish grin. “You’re sore. I won’t fuck your pussy, but I’ll eat it. How about that?”
My mug hits the table with a thud. “Yes. Please, God, yes.”
And that’s how I find myself slipping through the front door of my family’s house with the taste of Riley’s cum still in my mouth. He went down on me and gave me an orgasm so good it left me shaking.
Felt only fair to return the favor.
I put a hand on my face as I creep up the stairs. My skin is still hot to the touch.
It was Riley’s hand there a minute ago. You answer when I call or text.
I’d given him a yessir that made his jaw tick.
I swear, the man’s turned me into an animal. I should feel like a dirty little stay out, sneaking home after one P.M. in the same clothes I was wearing yesterday.
Instead, I feel like a human firework. Sparking with heat and excitement. Anticipation.
I’d texted Goldie on my short walk home.
Louise Wade
I’m so sorry I’m constantly running late this week.
Goldie Smith
You have more important things to do [winky face emoji]. Seriously no rush. Mom is here now and she’s been a huge help/huge pain in the ass. How’s the D? Please tell me, I need the distraction.
I’m still smiling when I reply.
Capital D Delicious.
“Well, good morning! Or should I say good afternoon?”
I jump at the sound of Mom’s voice.
“Hey! Hi!” I parrot like an idiot.
She’s sitting in her usual chair in the family room, an open magazine in her lap. Taking off her reading glasses, she nibbles on the temple arm and looks at me.
