“No. Because you don’t like it.”
“Don’t tell me what I like.” I said this through clenched teeth, because—fucking fuck fuck—I could smell her arousal, her heat, her body.
“Beau—”
“How about, if I don’t like it, then I promise I’ll stop?”
Shelly looked torn, but she also looked tempted. So I gently uncurled her fist from my hair and brought her hand to my mouth. Her palm facing me, I licked the tender flesh just below the joints of her index and middle fingers with the flat of my tongue while I held her stare.
Her eyes rolled back in her head and her whole body shivered.
I took that as a yes.
I decided I would take my time. I’d wanted this for so long, and—based on her reaction—this might be my only chance. I wanted to savor every second.
Parting her with my thumbs, I licked her, slowly. The burst of flavor on my tongue wrenched a groan from my chest. I curled my arms and hands around her legs, holding her still as I feasted, sucking softly.
“Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit,” she said in a sudden rush, her body tensing in a panicked wave. “I’m coming. Fuck, Beau. I’m coming.”
I was surprised. And disappointed. But also prepared.
I slipped two fingers inside her to catch her release, and continued the slow, measured pressure of my mouth. Clearly, it worked for her.
She pulsed around me, and I groaned again at the sharp tremors around my fingers as I slid them in and out.
“Oh. Fuck. Me.” Her words were strangled, and I was pretty sure she hadn’t realized she’d said them.
I glanced at her face. It was contorted with confusion and elation, rousing in me a bone-deep satisfaction and primal pride.
“Stop. Please stop.” Her voice was sharp and breathy, like she was caught between pain and pleasure.
I immediately obliged and did so grinning.
“Tomorrow? Same time? Same place?” Yeah. I was smug.
“Ahhhgraha,” was her nonsensical response.
Climbing back up her body, I took advantage of her dazed state and left wet kisses on her skin. Again taking my time as I took note of what aroused her, what made her squirm, what tickled, and what had her stretching, arching, straining to get closer.
By the time I’d made it to her mouth, she’d recovered her breath and her eyes were open. Though they were hazy, drunk on orgasm and sex, they still hit me square in the chest.
I needed to be inside her again. I throbbed with it, ached with the need. I needed to be inside her while she looked at me with her fierce gaze.
Maybe she read the intent behind my eyes, or maybe she was acting on her own desires, but her hand circled my cock and stroked, her body arching lazily beneath me. “Beau.”
“Shelly.” I kissed the corner of her mouth, licking her lips lightly as I pressed myself into her palm.
She looked at me, sober and sincere. “Make love to me.”
That pesky rubber band that had been plaguing me for weeks snapped, my chest expanding, ballooning with warmth and want and wonder. I settled myself between her thighs, teased her still-sensitive flesh with a slide of my skin, and then I entered her.
Shelly sighed as she moved beneath me. It sounded content. It sounded happy.
She watched me.
I watched her.
Kissing, touching, and cherishing each other, we made love.
And it was essential.
* * *
The aroma of coffee coming from the kitchen woke me up. I rubbed my eyes against the early brightness of day and glanced at my surroundings. Shelly’s side of the bed was empty.
I shouldn’t say Shelly’s side of the bed. It was her bed. So all sides were hers. But the side she’d slept on—just left of center—was empty.
Meanwhile, I was naked. Except for my smile.
After what we’d done the night before, I figured my smile should be enough. Nevertheless, I stood and searched for my clothes as I stretched. Then I remembered they were in the living room, so I headed that way. I made quick work of pulling on my jeans and shirt and then spotted my open wallet on the floor by the sofa. Tucking it in my back pocket, I strolled to the kitchen.
Shelly sat at the kitchen table in front of a laptop, a mug of something in her hand, a teakettle on the table, dressed and showered and ready for work. She was even wearing her boots.
“What time is it?” I glanced around the kitchen searching for a clock.
“Almost seven.” She didn’t turn from her laptop. “Have some coffee.”
“I thought you didn’t drink coffee.”
“I don’t drink coffee, I’m having tea. But I know you drink coffee.”
The fact that she’d made coffee especially for me shouldn’t have pleased me so much, but it did.
“Did you sleep?” I filled a mug and shuffled to her. On my way to the table I spotted Laika and Ivan passed out in the living room. “Your dogs like to sleep.”
“I took them for a run. We got back half an hour ago.”
“You already went on a run?” I hovered at her shoulder, not sure if I should look at the computer screen. I spotted the potholders I’d given her, one folded over the handle of the teakettle, the other beneath the copper bottom, protecting the table’s surface from the heat.
“Nice potholders.”
“Thank you, they are my favorite potholders.”
“They are your only potholders.”
“Why would I need more? Mine are perfect.”
I couldn’t stop my goofy grin and I decided to give in to my curiosity. “What are you looking at?”
“Teacups.”
“Teacups?” I studied the screen. Sure enough, it was wallpapered in pictures of teacups.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“It’s relaxing.”
“Hmm . . . skootch.” I claimed the seat next to hers and slid mine close, draping my arm along the back of her chair and kissing her neck before turning my attention to the computer screen.
We sat that way, sipping coffee and tea, and admiring teacups for a while.
“Whoa, look at that one.” I pointed at a black and white teacup, which I gathered was rare. All the other teacups we’d seen were colorful. Also, its rim wasn’t circular, but instead shaped in a hexagon, as was its saucer.
“Yes. It’s a Shelley.”
“A Shelly? Like you?”
“Spelled almost the same, except with an ‘e’ between the last ‘l’ and ‘y.’”
“Ah. Okay.”
She scrolled through a few more, going slowly as though to make sure I had time to study each one. Several had intricate flowers hand-painted on the insides where the tea would go. Sometimes, instead of flowers, there were scenes, landscapes, or people’s faces. The possibilities were endless, and no two seemed to look the same. I had no idea there were so many different types of teacups.
“So . . .” I looked between Shelly’s profile and the laptop screen. “You like teacups.”
“I like to look at them.”
I noted she still hadn’t looked at me since I’d entered the kitchen.
“You have a lot? Of teacups?” I searched the kitchen, looking for one of those china cabinets.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I would worry,” her eyes darted to the side, toward me, and then away, “that they’d break.”