Chapter 24
Libby
Iopen the door to my apartment and immediately wonder what Dax is thinking.
The entire thing, kitchen, living space, ‘bedroom,’ all of it could fit in the living area of his house.
But strangely enough, it doesn’t actually bother me.
I have never been ashamed of my home, no matter how small and quirky it is.
“It’s alive,” he says and for a moment, I am confused. Then I realize he is looking at the window. “The tomato plant from the night when you were–”
“A mess,” I cut him off. “I was a total mess, and you were a gentleman.”
Dax scoffs at that. “I think I was anything but.”
“You drove me home,” I say.
“And I shoved my hand down your blouse,” he points out.
“It was for my safety,” I say, and we both smile.
I can feel the heat in my cheeks at the memory but again, it doesn’t bother me.
Instead, because I feel pretty and because the Social knows how to make a muddled gin and tonic heavy on the gin, I twirl over to him.
“So, because your two lovely daughters were kind enough to give me a tour of your gorgeous home, I would like to give you a tour of my humble abode.”
“Absolutely,” he smiles. “But first…” Dax bends down and takes off his shoes, setting them next to the door by my array of more haphazardly kicked off shoes. Then he follows me the three steps before we stop.
“This is my kitchen, obviously. Complete with a tiny space dishwasher, tiny space pantry, and tiny space two-seater table.”
“I like the fridge,” he says, walking over to it and as he runs his hand over the surface I can tell he means it.
“Why thank you. It happens to be an original 1950s Frigidaire. And yes, it’s supposed to be that color. It’s supposed to be pea green.”
“Like I said, I like it.” He opens it up and reveals a six pack of craft beer, a bowl of grapes, some string cheese, and an array of yogurts. “I see you have all the essentials.”
“What can I say?” I like a good vanilla yogurt. You want a beer?” I slip past him, making no effort not to brush my front against his back, and snag two bottles. Then I open one of the drawers and pull out a bottle opener.
“Does that say Cheers on it? Like the show?”
“You do know the bar is here in Boston right?”
“Of course,” he says as I hand him a freshly cracked bottle, “I haven’t watched that in forever.”
Dax’s eyes sweep over the rest of the kitchen, which isn’t much, but it has everything it needs.
A few cabinets, a gas stove, a coffee maker, and coffee mug hooks.
Above the sink is an abstract painting of a woman looking upward towards the sun that reads Honey your soul is golden.
The old cabinets are painted an emerald green to match my dress and the backsplash is brick, save for one wall that is covered in black floral paper.
“Onward,” I say as I hold out my bottle and we trek another ten feet over to the window, the one holding the tomato plant which is crazily still thriving.
There’s a wicker partition separating the dining slash kitchen area and the quote-unquote living room.
The TV stand is old, wooden, and painted brick red.
The couch is retro, mustard yellow and boxy.
And the wall framing the street facing window is covered in more art and random photos.
“This is where I watch murder documentaries and Molly Ringwald movies,” I say.
“Is your hardware on the TV stand…” he walks over and touches one of the knobs. “A rabbit?”
“Peter Rabbit, obviously,” I answer, and a wide smile stretches across his face.
Then I take his hand and tug him in the other direction.
Tall, cube bookcases full of books, obviously, create a wall of sorts.
And on the other side is my bed, a queen with a colorful quilt, polka dotted white and black sheets, and more pillows than anyone could really need.
There’s a gold nightstand that I found at a yard sale, a lamp that looks like it belongs on the desk of a 92-year-old accountant, and lights draped over the golden metal bedframe.
“Fairy lights,” he says, our fingers still entwined.
“Your girls have good taste,” I say, knowing that’s what he’s thinking.
My ‘room’ resembles their book nook. “And that’s about it,” I conclude.
“Oh, other than the bathroom which tragically has no bathtub, but does contain a stackable washer and dryer which is a rare luxury in these old apartments.”
“A luxury indeed,” he smiles, his voice low and thick.
“It’s small, I know. But it’s home and I like it.”
“It’s cozy,” he says. “Nothing wrong with that.”
The air seems radiant, like coals in a campfire.
And after a moment of his warm eyes holding my own, Dax reaches out and takes my beer from me and sets both the bottles on the bookshelf between Sense and Sensibility, and Wuthering Heights.
Then he steps closer to me, cupping my face in his palms. I close my eyes, expecting the kiss to immediately follow.
But then I feel nothing, but his breath, whiskey and amber ale scented, I open them again.
“He had no idea what he had,” he tells me, and it takes a second before I realize he is talking about my ex.
“Yeah well, he didn’t seem to think so.”
“You’re gorgeous. Stunning even,” Dax says, and I don’t know how to respond. I’m not used to hearing those sorts of things. And he knows. Because he follows with, “You don’t believe me, do you?”
“When you’re told the same thing for years it’s hard to just change the way you think.”
“I understand,” he says, his hands still cradling my face softly. His thumbs brush over my cheeks. “I know words mean nothing sometimes. Especially when you’re used to them being sharp. So how about if I show you…”
That’s when he finally kisses me. It’s soft, not pushy. Close mouthed at first and earth shattering in its simplicity. Enough so that I have to hang onto him as my knees grow weak at the intimacy of it. Then, when we need air, our lips part and his tongue presses gently to mine.
I hold on tighter, my hands untucking his shirt, finding their way to the smooth skin of his toned back.
I’m not groping…I just want to feel him.
We kiss like that for a while, exploring each other’s mouths without urgency or need.
But when the desire grows tangible, we pull back and undress ourselves, our gazes embraced as each layer falls to the floor at our feet.
Once we are fully exposed, his eyes trace the curves of my hips, the swell of my breasts and everywhere else.
He reaches out and places his hands on my hips and kisses me again, slowly backing me to the bed. I lay back and he crawls beside me, kissing me again. His mouth makes its way down my neck, taking time to suckle every erogenous nerve down to my collar bone and further still.
I watch as he kisses my breasts, teasing them first then finally covering my nipples with his warm lips, taking time to pamper each one.
My back arches and I can feel the heat rushing to my thighs, making me wet with need.
Dax moves on to my stomach, my hips, back up to my breasts again to edge me further, his mouth kissing and sucking and tickling every inch of my body that I’ve been taught to hide and hate.
Then he kisses my inner thighs, the sensation of his tongue and the brush of his now past five o'clock shadow making my skin tingle.
He props himself up on his side next to me, his face near mine, looking down at me as I lay on my back.
Then his fingers wander and play, stroking, rubbing, flicking, and teasing. Not too fast, not too slow.
I gasp, bite my lips, moan, part my knees further apart, wanting and aching for more but hoping the sensations as they are don’t end.
“God, Libby,” he whispers huskily. “You’re so fucking beautiful it hurts.”
“Hurts? I think it feels pretty great,” I joke and he smiles.
“Does it?” he asks and then his fingers find my clit.
“Fuck, yes,” I moan as he picks up the pace, knowing exactly where to stroke and just how much pressure to use to throw me over the edge, moaning and writhing on the bed, gripping the sheets in my hands while I orgasm not once, not twice, but three times because even when I pulsate and come, he doesn’t stop, sending me into multiple fits of pleasure.
Afterwards, I lay there in a warm daze, and he kisses me with a small smile before climbing on top of me and pressing his still hard cock deep inside me. I am wet enough that he slides in with ease and both of us let out a contented groan.
“Fuck, Libby. You feel so good,” he says, his voice gravelly. “But I want you to feel good.”
Dax starts to glide, in and out, slowly, and harder with each thrust. There is no hurry.
We want to feel every sensation, revel in every nerve coming alive.
His arms, which are caged over me as we resume the missionary stance, start to shake a little, the muscles and veins on full display. And with that, he rolls onto his side.
“Roll over,” he tells me, before pulling my back to his front, spooning me.
A moment later I feel him inside me again and my God the angle is glorious.
Deep, full, and new. Dax grinds his hips against mine and we move fluidly, his dick leaving a wet trail of heat with each push and pull.
He reaches around and plays with my nipples while continuing to fuck me from behind and I moan again.
“Fuck, Dax…”
“You’re so hot, baby girl. So, fucking hot.”
His hand moves down to my clit again, stroking it and reigniting all the previous fire as if the flames never went out.
“Dax,” I whimper, I’m going to come.”
With that, he clutches my hip and thrusts deeper, harder, faster. “Come for me, baby girl.”
I can feel it coming, ripping through me at full speed. My toes curl and my jaw unhinges and as Dax feels the same in his own desperate body, he takes my hand in his lacing our fingers together and hanging on.
We both cry out as the orgasm ripples through our bodies, wave after wave until finally letting go. And for a moment we simply lay there, wrapped up in each other, catching our breaths, finding our footing.
After a moment, I roll over to face him, and we are both smiling. Dax brushes my messy hair from my face and kisses my forehead. I reach for a yellow, paisley blanket and pull it over us, and we cozy down.
“Do you, I mean, would you want to stay the night?” I ask, knowing the girls are with his sister-in-law.
I hold my breath waiting for the answer but let it out slowly when a smile stretches across his face.
“I was hoping you’d ask.”
And with that, we fall asleep, tangled together.