13. Joni
Joni
Why is being with this man so easy? I always start our time together with my guard up, on high alert and ready for him to do or say something that proves we’re incompatible, but damn if he doesn’t keep proving the opposite.
And damn my eyes for stealing glances at him every time I try to focus on the TV.
We’re watching a movie. Well, there's a movie on the screen, but I’m too busy trying not to watch him—and failing.
His arms look too good in that shirt, and I know all too well how good it feels to run my hands over his biceps and shoulders, his firm chest . . .
I glance again and catch him looking at me, too. Those eyes. That smile.
“Do you know the main character’s name?” he asks, letting his eyes drift toward the TV for a second before pulling them back to my face.
“Is it Jack?” That doesn’t sound right, but it’s the first name that comes to me.
“Couldn’t tell you, beautiful. I’m not watching this movie any more than you are.”
It was a simple admission, not an invitation for me to climb onto his lap, not a suggestion that I straddle his dick or “mmmm” at how it’s straining against his pants or press my pussy against it, and it certainly wasn’t a plea for me to pull my shirt over my head and fling it at the coffee table.
I think it missed the table, but I don’t bother looking over my shoulder to see because that would delay kissing him, and I’ve been wanting to kiss him since he tried to convince me I should pick that ridiculous blue wallpaper.
The man disagreed with me, and I wanted to kiss him. And it wasn’t just to shut him up about the wrong wallpaper.
I can’t be around him anymore without wanting to touch him in some way. This is a problem—one that could’ve been prevented. But I let it happen, and now, I want it to happen all the time.
The way we’re touching right now is a terrible idea, but I’m not sure a bad idea has ever felt so right. I want it. He wants it.
He tugs on my long, flowy skirt to bring it higher. I lift up onto my knees to release the fabric. His fists have it bunched around my hips in a matter of seconds. Two seconds more and he’s squeezing my ass while our kiss becomes frantic.
When his hand slides closer to the center strap of my thong, I arch my lower back, encouraging his fingers to move lower, to slip between my legs.
I rarely wear anything other than jeans or shorts, and I had no idea he was going to stop by, so I didn’t wear this skirt just to grant him easier access.
It’s warm out, and I chose it for comfort.
The ease of access is a definite bonus, though, because I’m about to take Glynnis’s advice and ride this man’s impressive dick.
I undo his belt and the button on his pants.
As I slide his zipper down to free his erection, his thumb pulls my thong roughly to the side and goes straight to my clit.
He wants to get me off first, which I generally appreciate, but that doesn’t matter to me right now.
I want to be in control, to take what I want, to not wait or follow a man’s lead for the first time in far too long.
Enzo reads my intention as I pull away from his thumb.
He maneuvers his body beneath me, creating the needed space to shove his underwear and pants down to his thighs.
I take over holding the narrow fabric to the side of my pussy, and as soon as he’s settled back into place, I wrap the fingers of my free hand around his dick and notch the head at my entrance, smiling at him as I glide it back and forth to prepare us both.
His intense expression is so empowering . . . adoring and lust-filled and gracing the most gorgeous fucking face I’ve ever seen. He’s making it abundantly clear that he’s more than happy to follow my lead, to let me do what feels good on my own terms.
And it feels so much better than good when I slowly slide down his shaft until I’m fully seated, full of him. The glide is perfection all the way down, and now that I’ve taken every inch of him inside me, the fullness is incomparable.
A younger, more idealistic version of me might’ve said we were a perfect fit, like we were made for each other. The older, wiser version of me knows better than to say that . . . out loud. But I don’t mind thinking it, and I definitely don’t mind feeling it.
I don’t mind the feel of his firm grip on my hips either. It’s stabilizing, and while I’m not usually a woman who needs to be stabilized, in this moment I do, because otherwise, I might melt against his chest and let this feel like more than I can allow it to be.
I press my shins into the couch cushions to push myself up, inch by inch until only the tip remains inside me, and then I banish every too-intimate, too-sweet, too-close thought and ride his perfect cock like this is my last chance to use it.
It could be. It always could be.
I slip out of my bed shortly after sunrise, leaving Enzo sound asleep. He’ll reach for me if he wakes before I come back inside, but I need to check on Oliver. He didn’t eat much yesterday.
He’s not getting worse, I don’t think, but he’s not rebounding. At best, I have a depressed alpaca on my hands. The worst isn’t even something I can let myself consider. For now, I’m weighing solutions to cheer him up, and hoping it’s not what I fear it might be.
Oliver is sitting under his open-air shed, wide awake but not up and about yet.
I tell myself this is an improvement. He’s been choosing to sleep in the barn more and more often the past few weeks.
That’s not the norm for most alpacas, but it’s way out of character for Oliver.
The only walled-off space he likes is his trailer.
“Hey, big guy!” I offer him some feed from my hand. He eats it without a hint of enthusiasm. “Are you punishing me for something? You going to hold a grudge forever?”
He tilts his head, offering me his favorite scratching spot on his neck. I take the hint and comply. He has me well-trained, but I don’t mind. It’s a good sign that he wants attention. And he’s eating. Whatever is going on with him could pass as quickly as it began.
I’m a vet tech. I know how finicky animals can be. Sometimes, they’re just like kids. One minute, they’re scaring you with a sudden illness, and the next, they’re back to running in circles and rolling in the dirt.
Oliver will be pronking and wagging his tail again soon.
When he starts to nibble on the fresh hay that I’ve put down for him, I refresh his water. He seems content now. A little compassion goes a long way when you’re feeling down. I get it.
I try to reenter the house as quietly as possible, but Enzo is already up, making coffee.
“How’s he doing this morning?” he asks.
It’s sweet of him to ask about Oliver, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel my defenses weaken. Finding him standing in his underwear in my kitchen like he’s woken up here so often it’s practically his second home is a surprise, but not at all jarring.
This is the kind of thing that would normally have me pulling away physically and shutting down emotionally, but all I want to do is hug him and share my relief.
“He seems to be back to his cantankerous, aristocratic self.”
I step closer, and Enzo’s smile becomes wolfish. “I’m glad he’s better, but waking up in your bed alone was no fun. Take all your clothes off, and you can have coffee.”
“Are you bargaining with my coffee in my house?”
“I’ve gotta work with what I’ve got, beautiful.”
“I prefer to drink my coffee with my clothes on.”
“When was the last time you drank it naked?” He brings in a chair from the dining room and sets it next to the counter, picking up his questioning as if he’d never left the room.
“With one leg elevated? While getting your pussy licked first thing in the morning? Coffee warming your mouth while someone else’s warm mouth—”
“You probably want me to grab a shower before you—”
His fingers curl into the front waistband of my jeans, and he yanks me forward. “I don’t.”
I can’t believe I’m doing this. It feels silly, but decadent and sexy as hell at the same time.
With my bare backside against the counter, I let him lift my leg and plant my foot on the seat of the chair next to my body.
He pushes against my raised knee to pivot my leg, splaying me open as I take my first sip of the strong coffee, and then he drops to his knees on the hard tile while he nestles his face between my legs.
His inhale is dramatic, and it only makes me feel a little self-conscious. When he drags his tongue through my seam and moans, my resistance dissolves like sugar in hot coffee. Why shouldn’t I let him do this?
The sun is shining. The birds are chirping. The tension in my neck and shoulders is melting. What a perfect fucking morning this is turning out to be.