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“Smartass.”
I lie on my back, lift my legs, and wrap them on top of his shoulders. He lines his dick up with my sex and pushes inside, filling me. I stare up at him as he fucks me. He’s all muscle: rippled chest, cut abdomen, square jaw, those blue eyes of his shrouded with desire. “You feel so good,” I say.
He smiles, leans down, and kisses me. “You feel better.”
I don’t know how many minutes later he makes me come with his fingers on my clit and he pumps out an orgasm as he watches me. We collapse against the bed and catch our breath. I could do this with him forever but my traitorous stomach growls, interrupting the moment.
“Uh-oh,” he says. “The beast has woken. I need to feed you.”
Ten minutes later he’s dressed in athletic shorts, a T-shirt, and a ball cap, and I’m zipping up my Mrs. Ralph Lauren dress.
“I’m starving,” he says. “You’re wearing out an old man. I need sustenance.”
“You’re not old.”
“I’m thirty-eight. You’d better be legal or I’m suing Ma Maison.” He pinches my ass.
“I’m twenty-four.” I push back a smile. “Shut up, old man.”
We hit a little grill where the plastic encased menu hawks twenty different kinds of omelets. It’s bacon and eggs and endless fresh-brewed dark coffee. Perhaps I’ve landed in heaven and nothing else will ever taste or feel this good again.
“I didn’t even ask if you wanted to hang out today,” he says, eyeing me over his coffee cup. “It’s Sunday. You probably already have plans.”
“Nope, I normally chill on Sunday. I’d love to hang out with you.” It dawns on me – it’s Sunday. God’s day. “Why are you asking? Do you want to go to church?”
“No.” He frowns. “Do you?”
“I’m good.” I signal the waitress for a coffee refill. She stops by with the pot and gladly accommodates along with dropping off the check. “I’ve got a deal with God. I pray to Him every now and again, confess my sins, do penance, and He lets me skip the weekly services.”
“You have a nice God,” Dylan says wiping his mouth with a napkin.
“A super nice God,” I say. “We’ve had a rocky relationship for a while. Lots of fights and time outs. It took us years to get to a good place.”
“Good for you,” he says. “God and I are still in a fight. Let’s hit the trail.” he says, and throws down a few bills. “Ready?”
“Sure.” I stand and follow him, wondering how I’m going to ride a bike in a country club dress.
Ten minutes later Dylan walks out of the convenience store where we just grabbed bottled water and trail mix, stops in his tracks and stares at me, a funny look on his face. “Did I tell you the first thing I thought when I saw you step off the train yesterday?”
“No.”
“That I was a lucky man. You looked so pretty I was half tempted to tackle you right there on the train platform.”
“Thank you I think.”
“Welcome. I wanted to skip the game. Drive back to my sordid little hotel and have my wicked way with you.”
“Funny how life works,” I say, heat building inside me. “Wish for something long enough and it happens. Maybe not in the way you expect.”
“From your lips to God’s ears, Lucky Charm,” Dylan says. “Right now, I’m picturing you bike riding in that dress. A beautiful summer day on the trail. The wind blows your skirt up and I catch a glimpse of those lace panties.” He drops a hand down my waist, grazes my ass. “You are wearing your panties -- right?”
I blush. “You’re bad.”
“You guessed my middle name -- Dylan Bad McAlister. Follow me,” he says and holds out his hand. “I’ve got an idea.”
We visit a nearby sporting goods store and suddenly I’m the proud new owner of jeans, a pair of shorts, a few T-shirts, and runners. “You dress down nice,” he says, peering out at me from under that ball cap and his Aviators as the cashier rings up the purchases.
“No ball cap, honey?” I ask.
