Chapter 21
TWENTY-ONE
WIL
I’m at the stove when Abbey comes out of the bedroom dressed in my robe again. I’m making eggs and bacon—quick and easy. I brewed French press coffee, and I pour her a mug as she slides onto one of the barstools at the counter.
“Sorry I don’t have an espresso machine to make you an Irish cream latte,” I say as she takes the first sip.
Her eyes flutter shut, and she hums. “This is better than an Irish cream latte.”
“Oh, really?”
She opens her eyes and meets mine. “I’d rather drink day-old gas station swill with you than the most exquisite latte without you.”
I hold her gaze and it’s all I can do to not walk over to her, put my hands on either side of her face, and kiss her senseless. But I’ve got eggs on the stove, and I’m not about to let the yolks overcook the first time I make Abbey breakfast, no matter how distracting she is.
“Are you saying my coffee tastes like gas station swill?”
She smiles. “This is the best coffee I’ve ever had.”
To hell with the eggs. I walk around the counter and kiss her senseless.
After breakfast (the yolks were overcooked, but she didn’t complain), after I’ve loaded the dishwasher and wiped down the island, Abbey flops back into the broad cushions of my sofa.
“This couch!” She spreads her arms out wide. “Where did you get this couch? The cloud factory? I can’t get enough of this cloud couch.”
“Are you saying you want to spend the day on my couch?”
“If the couch fits.” She yawns. “I’m exhausted. Someone kept me up most of the night.”
“You didn’t seem to mind.” I walk into the living room and sit next to her. She instantly curls herself against my chest. I could get used to this.
She yawns again. “I need a shower and another cup of coffee. Do you have some clothes I could borrow?”
“I’ll find you some sweats and a toothbrush and show you how to work the shower.”
She snorts. “Only rich people say things like that.”
Later, when she’s dressed in an old pair of Gophers sweatpants and a Twins hoodie that dwarfs her, she curls into a corner of the sofa like she belongs there. I toss her a blanket and sit down next to her, close, our legs touching.
“Hey!” She strokes her hand over the wool blanket, red buffalo plaid. “This is exactly like the one I borrowed from your car. You have more than one of these?”
“Borrowed?” I echo. “Borrowed would indicate that you plan to return it at some point.”
“Oh, true. The blanket you gave me.”
“Ha! The blanket you stole from me. I bought a new one.”
She tosses the blanket aside and moves to straddle me. “Who needs a blanket when I’ve got you to warm me up?”
And then she kisses me, and moves herself against me, and those sweatpants of mine are on the floor before she knows what’s happening.
We lie together on the cloud couch. We’re both sweaty, sticky, satisfied, spent. I’ll never get enough of this woman. And I’ll probably never understand this intense connection between us. I want to ask her if she feels it, too—the electricity, the relief, the homecoming, the rightness of it all.
“I’ll be right back.” I pull myself away from her.
“Mmhmm.” It seems that she hasn’t yet regained the power of speech.
I’m quick to take care of business so I can get back to my new favorite place—the cloud couch, or, in general, wherever Abbey is.
I’ve got it bad.
I glance at my reflection. For the first time in—I don’t know, years?—the purple wells beneath my eyes have lightened, the deep furrow between my brows has smoothed out. The corners of my mouth turn up.
This must be what happiness looks like. Her presence is a calming balm, a meditation, a cure for everything that ails me.
She takes a turn in the bathroom, and I make us a little nest—extra pillows, the plaid blanket. I pour her a second cup of coffee. Then I sit on the cloud couch—I’ll never be able to call it anything else—in only my boxers and wait.
She walks into the living room and stops abruptly, her eyes soft, her smile widening. I know how she feels. Even though I’ve explored every inch of that pale, dewy skin, the sight of her here, sexed up and softened, her hair wild and wispy—makes my heart stutter.
“Come back,” I say.
Her eyes flash as she makes her way to the cloud couch.
“Come here. Closer.” I hold out my arm, and she settles against me. I tuck the blanket around her as she lays a cold hand across my stomach. I startle at the icy sensation.
“Sorry,” she whispers.
I tighten my hold on her, relishing the feeling of her soft, smooth skin against mine. “Do you have plans today? I should’ve asked.”
“Yes,” she says.
No. Something in my chest tightens. I want her to stay, and I need her to understand that it’s not only because I want to give her more orgasms but because I crave her company.
That she’s quickly becoming my favorite companion—companion?
What the hell? Am I 90? My cheeks heat, and I’m glad she can’t see it.
I need her to stay. “You do?” I ask. “Have plans?”
“Yes. This.”
I blow out a breath. Yes. This.
“Want to watch a movie?”
“This would require you to get up off this couch and put a movie in?”
“Yes.” I plant a kiss on the top of her head. Shit. Is that too much of a boyfriend move? Am I her boyfriend? I’m not sure if we need to discuss this or if we’ve already moved past it. Or maybe she doesn’t do labels. “The VCR is across the room.”
“Hmm.” She grips my side, tugging me closer.
Eventually, I pry her arms loose and walk over to the TV. We watch The Sandlot, one of the greatest movies of all time—baseball or otherwise. Abbey hasn’t seen it and I love how she smiles and groans and laughs.
“I think I like Squints the best,” she says.
“You got a thing for glasses?”
She reaches for mine and sets them on the coffee table. Then she kisses me as Wendy Peffercorn dives into the pool to save Squints.
Abbey falls asleep during the end credits, and I follow, tangled with her on the cloud couch.
When I wake, I’ve got a crick in my neck.
She’s curled herself around me, straddling my leg.
One of hers is tucked against my stirring cock, her center heated and damp against the bare skin of my thigh.
I huff out a breath and shift to relieve some of the pressure, but she makes a sound that’s half whimper, half moan, and I freeze. Then she starts to move.
Oh, she—she’s rubbing herself against my thigh.
She moans again and then heaves herself up to catch my mouth with hers. She breaks away long enough to say, “Make me come,” against my lips and it’s my undoing, those words, that breathy whisper, this woman. “Please, Wil.”
I reach a hand down between her legs, spread her apart.
“You’re so wet,” I murmur, then I flip her over so I can slide my body down, kissing and sucking her breast, her stomach, her thigh, and finally—yes, there—the tang of her sharp on my tongue.
Her wetness soaks the scruff of my day-old beard.
I hum into her, and she grasps a fistful of my hair.
Yes. I’ll make her come. Today, tonight, tomorrow. For as long as she’ll let me.