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When I was dating Stephan, I tossed and turned all night. He cursed my insomnia. Some nights, he gave up and slept on the couch. Or I slept on the couch to keep from disturbing him.
It didn’t bother me. I never understood the romance of sleeping next to someone. It’s not as if I absorb the closeness while unconscious.
Right now, feeling the warmth River left, inhaling the faint scent of his shampoo—
There is something about it, something intimate about the sheer domesticity.
After I sneak to the ensuite bathroom and move through my morning routine, I slip into my silk button-up shirt and shorts and meet River in the main room.
He smiles the second he sees me. Then he notices my attire and his smile shifts fromI’m happy to see youtodamn, I really see you.
He does. Which is strange.
I’ve been on two dozen dates with “great matches” and none of them see me. He does. Why? Is it the algorithm or me or some other factor?
The question dissolves as his eyes pass over me. Desire pushes all my thoughts aside. Then I notice the rest of him—he’s only wearing boxers—and my brain shifts into full want mode.
Must have River now.
It feels so good, to release my thoughts, to not live in my head, even if it’s for a minute.
“Good morning.” He says it with ease, like he’s said it to me a million times.
“Morning.” The words are more awkward on my tongue. I don’t remember the last time I invited someone to sleep with me. Even with Stephan, I rarely stuck around for long enough to see him in the mornings. I had to run, or finish work, or study.
He motions to the ceramic pot on the counter. “Tea?”
“Are you going to offer crumpets, too?”
“Eggs Benedict.”
“And I’m the fancy one?”
“It’s easier than you’d think.” He motions to the table. “Sit. I’ll bring it when it’s done.”
I don’t follow his instructions. I meet him at the counter and wrap my arms around him. He’s warm and hard and safe. I don’t remember the last time someone felt this safe.
“You keep distracting me and I’ll burn breakfast.”
“We could skip breakfast.”
“Do I need to tie you to the bed to make you behave?” His voice drops to something low and breathy.
“Yes.”
“Later.”
It’s appealing. Very appealing. But it’s scary, too. Trusting anyone that much. How much I want to trust him everywhere.
Despite my desire to test his claim, I go easy on River. I fix a mug of tea and slide onto the kitchen island, watching him work from the table. I’m close enough to see the muscles in his back, but not so close I absolutely have to touch him.
He melts butter and blends eggs with the comfort and ease of someone who’s done it a thousand times.
“Do you normally cook like this?” I ask.
“On weekdays, I keep it simple. Eggs and toast.”
“That’s simple?”
