15. Maria #2
Grant’s sitting at his desk, reading glasses on, staring at an invoice or supply note, or something.
He looks up, smiles, and take off his glasses, laying them on the desk next to him.
I think he’s a little self-conscious about needing to wear glasses for reading, which is ridiculous really.
He looks cool in them. Like a professor, or a scientist or something.
I think he worries about his age. I know he’s the oldest of the three men—he’d been their leader in the army—and yes, he has a few gray hairs amongst the brown, but honestly, he’s still in peak condition.
He looks miles better than most men half his age, and I’d have thought any woman would be proud to be noticed by him.
He’s got nothing to worry about at all. But of course, people don’t work like that, do they?
We all have our little fears and phobias.
The little burdens we drag around with us.
And not all of them are strictly rational.
“Hungry?” I give him my biggest smile, and step forwards. “I was bored, so I made some cupcakes.” I push the plate towards him, still smiling, and he leans back in his chair, putting the invoice down on the desk next to his glasses.
“Wow,” he says. “No one’s ever made me cupcakes before. Can I take one?”
“Of course,” I laugh. “I made them for us all. Only I couldn’t find any vanilla, so I used coffee instead. And the frosting might be a little crunchy because you don’t have confectioner’s sugar, so I used the normal stuff.”
He reaches out and takes the nearest cupcake, and I take one too, just to keep him company.
“They look delicious, Maria.” He takes a bite, chews thoughtfully, and smiles broadly, his eyes widening. “These are good… very good.” He takes another—larger—bite and chews enthusiastically, before swallowing.
“Yes, these really are excellent. Thanks Maria.” He finishes his cupcake, licks his fingers, and looks wistfully at the final cake on the plate. “Can I…” he asks, hesitantly.
I laugh. “Yes, of course. There’s more in the kitchen. Help yourself to it.”
So, he does.
I sit down to eat my own cupcake, and we sit together in companionable silence whilst we finish our little snack.
“You know we’re going to insist you make these regularly from now on, Maria?
” he smiles at me as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, a few stray crumbs spilling onto the desk in front of him.
“At least, I am, and I can’t imagine Abe or Regan feeling much different about it once they taste your cakes for themselves. ”
“Suits me. I’d be happy to. In fact, I’d really like to try baking bread too. It’s something I’ve never done, but always wanted to try.
“Well… sure, why not?” He leans back in his office chair, relaxed.
“You and Sandro really seemed to have found your feet out here. I’m glad you’re settling in so well.”
“Well, you, Abel and Regan have made Papa and me so very welcome. We truly are grateful, Mr. Naylor… Grant, really we are.
“No one calls me Mr. Naylor, Maria. I’m Grant, just the same as Abe is Abe, and Regan is Regan.
“Yes, Grant, sorry. I know. It’s just that… well it’s different with you. It feels different. Feels like you’re in charge, somehow, compared to the others.”
He sighs at this, the smile slipping. He slumps a little forward in his chair.
“Yeah,” he says sadly. “I know. I get it. Everyone else is one of the guys, and then there’s me. Story of my life. But… someone has to be in charge. Someone has to make the decisions, or else nothing would ever get done. It’s just… well, between you and me, Maria…”
“Yes?”
“Between you and me, I sometimes wish it wasn’t me.
I sometimes wish it was someone else doing the deciding, you know?
And then I could just be one of the team.
Not having to think all the time. Not having to worry, to plan ahead.
Not having to feel so responsible… Oh, I’m sorry…
” he waves his hand awkwardly, as if trying to dismiss everything he’s just said.
“You bring me cupcakes, and in return all you hear from me are complaints. It’s just that… well it’s just…”
My chest tightens painfully at the sight of him, sensing his pain. I put down my cupcake and step across to him. He looks up at me, his eyes misty, his face so sad and yet so strong. He’s held the line all these years. Held himself together, held the three of them together, through thick and thin.
He tries to smile, fails. Looks away. But I don’t let him. I slide gently into his lap, lean down and gently, softly, kiss his lips.
“It’s okay, Grant.” I whisper.
He looks up at me again, his face a picture of strength and resilience.
“I’ve always been there for them. Done my best, anyway.”
“I know.”
“Not always been easy.”
“No, but they know that. They love you for it, and…”
“Yes?”
“I… I think I do too.”
We sit there, I don’t know for how long. I hear the steady ticking of the office clock, feel his arms around me, his face buried softly in my hair. Neither of us wanting to move. Neither of us wanting to speak.
And then, perhaps inevitably, I become aware of something else.
Alongside the affection I feel for him, alongside my need to comfort him, to make him happy, to let him see what a good man he truly is, I begin to feel something deeper. Something warmer. Hungrier.
Not just tenderness anymore.
Need.
Growing inside me. I lift my eyes to his, and he stares down at me.
“Take me to your room,” I whisper.
Wordlessly, he picks me up as if I’m no heavier than one of my cupcakes, and carries me effortlessly down the corridor to his bedroom.
Gently, he lowers me onto his big, old timber-framed double bed. Still without a word, he undresses in front of me. The bed creaks a little as it takes his weight alongside my own.
Now he is reaching for my own clothing. I let him undress me, watching him as he does so. His eyes never leaving my body as my shirt comes off, followed by my jeans and underwear.
He reaches for me, slowly, softly, stroking and caressing my body, like I’m some rare sculpture to admire, or fragile form to protect.
We kiss, and his breath is warm, slightly sweet from the cupcake, his scent masculine… tobacco, leather, and wood shavings. It makes me think of campfires, and hunters, of woodsmen and carpenters, all plying their crafts. Solid, reliable, steady.
He’s a little leaner than Regan, yet somehow, he conveys the impression of massive, pent-up energy, of explosive force, of superhuman, irresistible strength. It exudes from every pore, as if carved deep into his soul.
I close my eyes, and we kiss, each of our tongues seeking the other. His salt-and-pepper stubble rasps softly against my cheek.
My body responds to his touch and I feel the heat deep inside me. I’m wet, and my nipples are hard as stones. His strong yet delicate fingers explore my body, grasp me to him, as if he never intends to let me go.
I feel his manhood against my thigh, it’s firm, throbbing, ready for me.
He presses down on top of me, and my thighs naturally spread open to accommodate him.
He nudges against my opening, pushes forward, gently, delicately.
Inch by inch, he takes me. My insides hot, the sweetness pulsing like a fire inside of me.
I want him. I need him… I arch my back, thrusting my hips forward, yet still he moves slowly, slowly, teasing me, frustrating me, making me ache to feel the fullness of him inside me, until finally, he’s there.
We’re combined as one, and I am complete.
He is deep inside of me. I am his, and he is mine.
We rock gently together, backwards and forwards in a mutual rhythm, a shared expression of our love. The sensations sparking and fizzing inside me each time his manhood presses against me, deep inside me. It’s almost too much, almost… and yet at the same time, I don’t want this to ever stop.
When the climax comes, I am caught up in it, as if swept off my feet, ripped in half, and scattered to the four winds.
I cry out, my back arching one final time, jerking as he comes inside me.
And I am coming too, my muscles straining, my knees weak and trembling, the waves of ecstasy hitting me, like breakers pounding against a shoreline.
Slowly, gradually, the sensations diminish, my ragged breathing softens, my raging pulse returning to normal, and I sleep, nestled safely in his protective arms.