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There are too many ways I want him and I don’t get through many before the pressure builds and breaks and keeps breaking. I bite my lip to silence my cry as I ride it as long as I can. After, I flick off the vibrator, blowing out a long breath.
Holy shit.
It’s my best self-induced orgasm possibly ever and I’m mad about it because I know next time, I’ll be thinking about Timothy again.
I’m up early,definitely notthinking about Timothy as I shuffle about the kitchen wearing a robe and bunny slippers. I’m deep conditioning my hair because it’s been a while, so it’s wrapped in a towel twisted on top of my head, but I need a coffee while I wait to rinse it. Celia taught me how to use Timothy’s fancy espresso machine, and today, I want a latte with hazelnut syrup.
I’m not saying the great orgasm last night has inspired me to spend the morning treating myself, but I’m not denying it either.
I’m pouring steamed milk when I hear Timothy walking down the stairs.
My cheeks warm. I’m going to have to face him, despite what I saw last night, and what I did after. I don’t know how.
“Want a coffee?” I ask without looking.
“Wow,” Timothy drawls out. “This must be embarrassing for you.”
My face goes center-of-the-sun hot and my spine snaps straight. The normal thing would be to glare at him, so I turn to do that, only—
He’s standing in the kitchen wearing a robe with neon pink zebra stripes and T. rex slippers, with a plain white towel wrapped around his head. He motions at his robe and slippers with an imperious flick of his wrist before making the same gesture at me.
I laugh, all awkwardness gone. “Yeah,” I agree dryly, “I’m the embarrassed one here.” This is the most Timothy he’s been, and the relief at having my best friend back leaves me giddy.
Maybe Nic was right. He just needed some time.
Timothy grins. “Turning up in my kitchen wearing the same thing as me.” He shakes his head and tsks.
“You wear it better,” I say, grabbing another mug from the cupboard.
“I can make my own coffee,” he says, stepping closer and taking the mug from my hand.
There’s the smallest hint of an edge to his voice, so I flick his arm. “I know that. Maybe I want to make you a coffee.”
“Maybe I want to make you breakfast,” he counters. “As an apology for last night.”
It takes everything I have to keep my cool as my face heats. I tap my finger against my chin and look at the ceiling, pretending to concentrate. “Last night, last night…what happened last night?”
He grins again. “I’m not forgettable.”
I smile and sip my coffee, giving him a little shrug for an answer before I turn to lean against the island.
Timothy passes close behind me and I feel his breath on my neck as he bends close, saying, “Can’t be sure, but I thought I heard some buzzing coming from your room.”
“You didn’t,” I say with a breeziness I’m not feeling. When he peeks around at my face, I blush.
“Huh” is his reply as he goes back to making his coffee. “Sit, I’ll make you breakfast.”
“You nervous about today?” I ask, taking my coffee to the table. He’s getting his staples out this afternoon.
“No,” he says, going quiet as he pulls some green onions and peppers out of the fridge.
I drink my coffee and watch him as he starts chopping. I like watching this domestic version of him. He looks so comfortable, so calm, even as he bobs to a song in his head while cracking eggs. I’m sure he knows I’m watching him, but he gives me the space to do it. He cuts the omelet in half with a spatula before sliding it onto two plates.
He sets the plates on the table, along with forks and knives, and takes the towel off his head before he sits next to me. My eyes drop to the deep V of his robe. He’s shirtless—no surprise—but now I’m wondering if he’s wearing anything under those zebra stripes.
“A little nervous,” he concedes to the question I asked him ten minutes ago.
I reach my hand across the table and take his, squeezing his fingers. “I’ll be with you.”
