We spend an hour on the couch together, laughing and talking as he holds me against him. I feel terribly embarrassed for not knowing minor details about the man who brought me the most pleasure I’ve ever experienced. Like the fact that he is thirty-one years old. He grew up in South Side and graduated from the University of Chicago when he was twenty-six with a Bachelor of Science Degree in Accounting and a Master’s in Business Administration. He made partner when he was twenty-eight which sounds like a major feat for someone so young. The man is as smart as he is attractive, and I feel completely relaxed listening to him talk about college and his family. He has a younger sister who lives in Detroit who is married with two kids, and his parents are still married after thirty-eight years and live in Maywood. I tell him about my parents and how they encouraged me to open my bakery. Being an only child, they are immensely proud of me and speak of me like I’ve invented a cure for cancer and not a fabulous white chocolate truffle recipe. We talk about how close I am with Juls and Joey, and how Juls and Ian are practically living together now. Inseparable and mad for each other. I tell him about my morning runs and how most days I wish I had an iPod to drown out Joey’s bitchy rants, but other days I enjoy them.
It is an amazing night, and not just because of the sex. I’ve never enjoyed just talking with someone the way I do with Reese. I don’t want to move at all. I could stay in his arms all night, but I know I shouldn’t. No sleepovers. After a few hours, I ask him to drive me home, and the look on his face when we pull up in front of the bakery is priceless. He had no idea I live here. Of course, he wouldn’t know that; you aren’t dating, Dylan. I kiss him briefly goodnight, wanting more than anything to invite him inside to see my place, but I don’t. I manage to be strong in this one moment. This is just sex, and if I want to keep doing this with Reese, I need to remember that.
I haven’t seen or talked to him since our amazing fuck fest on Tuesday, which is making things easier and harder at the same time. Easier because I’m realizing he sees this for what it is and it’s making me keep myself in check. And harder because a part of me doesn’t want him to see it this way anymore. I spend all day Wednesday staring at my cell phone, waiting for a text or a call from him, until I stupidly realize he never actually got my number from me. The one time he had called me, he’d called the shop directly.
Thursday, Joey and I are slammed with four consultations, two weddings, an anniversary cake, and a birthday cake request. The wedding consultations both take forever because the brides have decided to include the grooms’ inputs and no one can decide on anything. Luckily for me, Joey is great at getting people to compromise, a trait that I love more and more about him with each passing wedding consultation. After I’ve finished up with my meetings, I spend the rest of the evening in the kitchen throwing together the tarts I’d promised the gentleman on Monday. They’re relatively easy to make after I fuck up the first one royally. I end up using strawberries, kiwi, and mangos, and then top the tarts with an apricot jam. After managing to only eat one of them, I pass out in my bed and dream the same recurring Reese sex dreams, which keep getting better. I’ve stopped fighting it. It is useless really. Besides, the sleep I’m now getting is some of the best I’ve ever gotten. Especially when I wake up from an orgasm.
Standing behind the counter at eleven thirty a.m. on Friday, I let my mind wander to what Reese is doing at this exact moment. I can picture him strikingly sitting behind his desk, working on some audit or whatever and doing it in a way that only he can make sexy. His hair is a right sexy mess, his green eyes are narrowed in on his task, and his massive erection is waiting for me. The shop door opens and I shake my head to clear it.
“Something or someone on your mind, cupcake? I know that look.” Joey strolls in, returning from our favorite little sandwich shop down the street and placing the bag of the best chicken salad sandwiches in Chicago in front of me. My mouth begins to water at the smell and I suddenly realize that all I’ve eaten the past few days has been predominately sugar. I’m going to develop diabetes if I don’t watch myself.
“No, nothing on my mind except for this sandwich that I’m about to destroy.” The bell on the front door dings and I glance up, my heart thumping hard against my bones at the sight of the delivery man.
Joey hurriedly scurries to my side. “Ooohhh, goody. Today has sucked ass and I need something romantic from my favorite numbers guy.” The delivery man smiles and places a small brown envelope onto the counter, handing me a slip to sign on his clipboard.
“Your favorite numbers guy? And what about Billy?” I ask, handing the man back his paperwork and staring at him suspiciously when he doesn’t exit the shop.
“He’s not a numbers guy. He’s a lawyer. A hot ass lawyer who is taking me someplace uber fancy tonight.”
“Awesome. Did you need something else?” I ask the man who stands patiently waiting.
“I’ve been instructed to wait until after you’ve read the letter to leave,” he states nonchalantly.
“Oh, okay.” I turn to Joey who looks at me like he has no idea what is going on either as I open the envelope and pull out a small card. My heart begins hammering in my chest and I automatically reach up and place my free hand over it.
Dylan,
It’s come to my attention that the only number I have for you is the bakery number. Now how am I supposed to send you text messages saying I want you to sit on my face? Or I can’t stop thinking about the way it felt to be inside you? OR I want to see you sometime this weekend if you’re free. Please be free.
X Reese
P.S. If you would like these sorts of messages, please give your number to Fred.
Oh, man. I sigh loudly as Joey snatches the note out of my hand. Finding my notepad under the counter, I bite my cheek to stop from smiling so much as I scribble down my cell number and hand it directly to Fred, the delivery man.