“Give me your mouth,” she pleads.
I lower my lips to hers, nipping and licking, fusing us together. Tingling sparks dance along my spine and I pump faster, giving her everything I’ve got, everything I’ll ever have.
I feel her flutter around me, tiny spasms gripping my dick, gaining intensity. “That’s it, baby, come with me . . . right there . . .”
Dots of light dance behind my eyes, and I bury my face against her neck. Her hips surge up one final time and hold, as I thrust forward and magnificent pleasure swells in my veins. Beyond the blood rushing through my ears, I hear her chanting my name as we spike together, coming at the same time—sharing that perfect fucking space where all that exists is her and me and bliss.
Breath against my shoulder, like the flutter of a bird’s wings, is the next thing I’m conscious of. It takes some effort, but I lift up and look into Sofia’s dazzling eyes. Her smile, tender enough to break my heart.
I brush the hair back from her face and press a delicate kiss to her lips. Without another word, I slip out of her and stand. Sweeping her into my arms, I head for the bedroom.
Because the night’s not over yet—not by a long shot.
? ? ?
Sofia collapses onto her back, laughing breathlessly. I peel off the second well-used condom of the night and toss it into the trash can beside the bed. We lay side by side, in comfortable quiet until a loud grumble from her stomach breaks the silence.
She tries to hide behind her hand, but I enjoy watching the embarrassed flush that spreads from her tits to her cheeks.
“We skipped dinner, didn’t we?” I say.
“Unless you count the fruit garnish on the Tequila Sunrises.”
I tap her leg. “Come on. Let’s see what we’ve got in terms of sustenance.”
I walk down the hall. Naked. I happen to like being bare ass. It feels good, natural. Sure I live on a busy city street and we don’t have curtains, but if people want to look up at my window, might as well give them something to look at.
Sofia follows, my blanket wrapped around her shoulders—I assume for warmth. We left modesty in the dust a ways back—around the first time she played jockey on my face.
She sits at the kitchen table while I get a bowl from the fridge and put it in the microwave to heat. I set two plates on the table, then two glasses of cold water. I feel Sofia’s undivided attention follow me as I move—enjoying the view.
When the microwave chimes, I take the bowl out—and burn the holy hell out of my fingers in the process.
“Shit!” I wag my hand, then suck on the injured digits.
“Careful,” she warns in an amused voice, “don’t singe any good parts.”
Using a towel, I carry the steaming bowl to the table. “Thanks for your concern.”
I dish us out two gooey, heaping servings of homemade macaroni and cheese. Sofia moans on the first bite, and my dick—no longer in fear of injury—takes notice.
“This is so good, Stanton. Did you make it?”
“Nah, I don’t cook. And neither does Jake usually, but his momma’s macaroni and cheese is the one meal he committed to memory. He can’t go a week without it. It keeps well in the freezer, which is convenient.”
We’re quiet for a few minutes, focused on the food. Then Sofia muses, “Today was a good day.”
I watch her hair fall over the bronze skin of her collarbone, the soft, languid glow in those hazel eyes. And it’s nice—just being here. With her.
“Sure was.”
After our plates are empty, I venture, “Can I ask you a question?”
“Of course.”
I push the blanket off her shoulder, revealing the stunning swell of her right breast, heavy in its natural fullness. Her breath catches as I trace my finger down the side, to her rib cage, over the jagged eight-inch scar that mars otherwise flawless skin.
“How’d this happen?”
When I first noticed, it didn’t feel right to ask—not my place. Our early encounters consisted of getting each other’s clothes off as quickly as possible, staying hard as long as possible, and coming as many times as possible—without risking dehydration or unconsciousness. Didn’t leave a whole lot of time for talking.
But now . . . lately . . . I’ve found myself wanting to know more than how Sofia likes to be sucked or fucked. And more than the rudimentary stuff Brent or Jake would know.
I want her fantasies . . . a few of her secrets.
There’s no painful clouding of her features, no flinching at the mention, and for that I’m eternally grateful.
“Plane crash,” she says matter-of-factly.