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We find a pace together, not him fucking me or me riding him but us working together to give each other pleasure. His hands slip along my sides, up to my breasts to tease over the stiff nipples, and I swear an electric current shoots from them straight to my clit. I fall forward, meeting Cole in a sloppy kiss. He tastes like me, and I know I taste like him, but that only adds to my arousal.
Sex with Cole is all-encompassing like there’s no wrong, only right, only pleasure.
And when he grips my hips, squeezing the left one sharply, I shatter again. He holds me tightly, keeping me together as my body tries to launch into the atmosphere, and I feel the hot pulses of his orgasm filling me too.
I’m still panting and recovering when Cole murmurs, “I meant great morning, beautiful.”
I don’t get it at first. My brain is still a mushy mess of bliss, and my body is ready for a nap even though I haven’t gotten out of bed yet. But then . . . he said ‘good morning, beautiful’ earlier.
I lift up from my collapsed flop and peer at him with the one eye I can get open. The other is refusing on principle alone. “Was that a joke?” He shrugs but is grinning widely. “Oh, no, I think I broke you,” I say, feigning distress. “Your grumpy, asshole persona just needed a morning blow job, a couple of orgasms—two, mind you.” I hold up two fingers to illustrate the number. “And now you’re all Jokey McJokester.”
He chuckles, deep and rough, as he gathers me into his arms. He’s slipped out of me, and I can feel the rush of our juices leaking out to coat us, but Cole doesn’t seem to care at all, so I try not to worry about it either as we snuggle in a comfortable, complacent quiet.
Is this what it’s supposed to feel like all the time? It’s amazing.
Henry didn’t want sweat, cum, or spit on him before, during, or after sex. It was nothing like this, with touching and caressing, appreciating each other’s bodies, and wanting the other person’s pleasure. This is infinitely better.
Sex shouldn’t be sterile and mechanically cold. It should be messy, fun, and full of surprises, I decide.
“Hey, where’d you go?” Cole asks quietly, and when I focus on the here and now again, he’s looking at me with concern in his blue eyes.
I don’t want to tell him that I was thinking about Henry. Or well, not about him, exactly, but about how much I’ve missed out on . . . about how much I gave up. And for what?
Last night, I felt like I’d found myself again. Today, I’m sad that I lost her at all, but I’m going to learn from the hard-won lesson. So, I say the next thing on my perpetually-busy mind. “I was thinking about breakfast. More specifically, about what you’re going to make for breakfast.”
He doesn’t believe me, but he lets me lie and keep my thoughts to myself this time. “On it. Biscuits and sausage gravy?” Cole answers, waiting for my approval. When I nod, he helps me from the bed.
He goes down the ladder first, and unlike his gentlemanly behavior earlier this week, this time, he stares up at me the whole way down, even tilting his head to get a better view of me from below when I wiggle flirtatiously. We make our way to the kitchen, where Cole pulls an apron on over his bare body—gotta protect the goods!—and I wrap up in a blanket from the couch.
“I like naked breakfast,” I tell him dreamily, and he turns to give me a shot of his butt with a cocky smirk thrown over his shoulder. “It feels naughty.” I start the coffee maker, then sit at the island to watch him work. Talk about a morning show.
Cole is a good cook—or better than me, at least—and he expertly peels apart biscuits from a popping can, adds milk to a dry package of cream gravy, and browns sausage on the stovetop, which he adds to the gravy. Once he layers it all onto plates, he sets them on the island. After grabbing a blanket of his own, which he wraps around his waist towel-style, he sits beside me and we eat.
This is it.
My reservation is up today, and Mr. Webster left two days ago, which means Cole should already be home, working in his office or doing whatever he planned to do before meeting me. He stayed longer to help me, and now, that’s done too.
“I like it here. It feels like a little pocket of paradise where we’re the only two people alive and nothing else matters. I’m dreading going back to . . .” I think about what exactly I’d like to hide away from and settle on, “Life. I mean, I love my job and miss the people there, but I could also stay here, holed up away from the world with you. We could get groceries delivered to the main road, take walks in the forest, watch the sunrise and sunset every day, hang out in the hot tub, and start every day with orgasms and end with more orgasms. We could just stay . . . here.”
