Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
M y next memory is waking up to the bright sun, the warm sheets, and the feeling of Matt’s body pressed against my back. I turn my neck and find his chocolate brown eyes staring at me lazily.
“Hi,” I say. “Trouble sleeping?”
“Best sleep I’ve had in years.” He smirks. "But I've been lying here for the past twenty minutes staring at you, naked like this, and it is torture." He traces a finger from my neck down my spine, all the way to the top of my ass. "I've been waiting and waiting for you to wake up."
“Hmmm... Someone is impatient." I repeat his line from last night. "What do you want to do, Matt?"
He says nothing but gives me a predatory smile and pushes his hips against my back. I gasp when I feel that he is already rock hard. I turn to kiss his face, his jaw—now peppered with morning stubble—and his cheeks, his lips. His hands explore, caressing every inch of me. I think of how meticulously he devoured me last night.
My body reacts instantly, moisture pooling between my legs. I stay on my side, hypnotized by his hands and the way he touches me. It feels like he's leaving behind a mark with every caress—like he's branding me.
When his hand finally finds its way between my legs, he moans into my ear. "How. Are. You. So. Fucking. Wet. Already."
He rolls over to his nightstand to grab a condom and is pushing against me in no time. We stay spooning, and I use my hand to guide him inside of me ever so slowly. We rock together, against each other, the sex just as intense as the night before.
Afterward, we lay there for a while, not speaking, limbs intertwined, him inside me, still hard. I grab his forearm and absentmindedly start tracing his tattoos.
"I like these."
Matt's eyes are closed; I wonder if he fell asleep.
"They're a mixed bag," he says eventually. "I started getting a few here and there. Some mean something—like these." He points to a few symbols. "These mean prosperity, luck, good fortune. And these"—he points to a series of three numbers: thirty, eighty, eighty-two. "These are the birth years of my dad, me, and Eric. But some of the others mean nothing—like this." He points to what looks like a tiny hot dog. "Someone dared me to do that one. At some point, I realized it looked ridiculous, so I found a guy to help me create the full sleeve to try to make it all look cohesive."
"Do you want more?"
"Have you ever met a tattooed person before? Of course I want more." He smiles. "I didn't notice any on you during my inspection last night."
"No, none for me. Not that I wouldn't. I'm a little indecisive with big choices."
"I like it. A blank canvas. Perfect as is."
I grab his hands and bring them to my mouth. "I think I like your hands best."
"Really? Not my lips?" He laughs.
"I like those, too. But these," I say as I hold mine up next to his, marveling at the difference in size. "These are magnificent."
* * *
We emerge from the bedroom by midmorning to find sustenance in the form of bagels and iced coffees he had delivered. He also insists on making banana pancakes with the browning bananas that sit on the counter.
“One of my few specialties,” he tells me with a shy smile as he mixes together the batter.
“Were you planning on me sleeping over, Mr. Johnson?”
“Planning? No. Hoping? Absolutely.”
The pancakes are delicious and we eat sitting side-by-side at the counter in nothing but our underwear.
"This is good,” he chews through a bite.
“The pancakes?”
“No, me and you. This." He gestures between us. "I know we haven’t known each other very long at all, but it feels good. Feels … right.”
I nod in agreement, but I'm not sure what to say or what more it might mean. I slowly get up and start gathering my belongings.
"Do you have to go?"
"Yes, I do. I have standing plans with a friend most Saturdays."
He pushes my hair back behind my shoulders.
"When can I see you again?"
"Soon," I offer. It's impossible to think clearly with him this close to me—his smell, his eyes, his lips.
"Okay." I see a flash of disappointment cross his face, but he recovers quickly.
I accept Matt's offer to have his driver take me home—walking the streets of New York in my outfit from the night before stopped being cute about fifteen years ago. As I sit in the back of the black SUV, watching the city streets zoom by, I can't help but smile. My lips are chapped, my hair is wrecked, and I have a dull but very pleasant ache between my legs.