9. Cat
9
Cat
Dream Narrator
I feel like I’m under a weighted blanket as I wake up. I . . . oh.
It’s not a blanket.
Nash whispers, “Did you sleep well?”
He slowly pushes his dick inside me. I tell myself I should object to him climbing on top of me while I was still asleep, but this is not a bad way to start the day.
I’m definitely a little sore. There is a mild sting as he gently fucks me awake, but when he kisses my neck while whispering all the dirty details of the dream that he claims he had about me, I relish the burn.
Maybe he’s making this dream up as he goes along, but if a bedtime story is good, his wake-up story is a thousand times better.
I quit trying so hard to chase consciousness and give in to my groggy state. My limbs are still sleepy.
He’s being dirty, but not particularly dominant. Aside from the near sleep-sex start to this encounter, his demeanor is sweet. Dirty-sweet, but still adoring and gentle. I feel worshipped, not violated.
Who would object to that?
I consented the moment I realized what was happening and smiled at him. It may have started as an involuntary smile, but it became intentional the second he smiled back.
Damn, this is nice. I never would’ve imagined I’d like this. I might not like it with someone else, but there’s something different about this guy. He makes me feel different.
And I like being this version of me.
He comes quicker than I expect, and I like being the reason, whether it’s the real me underneath him or the me from his dream.
When I try to slip out of bed, he pulls me back. “Where are you going?”
“To the bathroom.”
“If I let you go, you promise to come right back?”
“I promise. I’m not ready to get up yet.”
“Good.”
I crawl back into bed, and he slides next to me. “Why are your legs closed?”
“Because I’m going back to sleep.”
“Not yet, you’re not.”
His hand wedges between my thighs.
“I’m too sleepy.” It’s still a little dark out, but I can tell the sun will be rising soon.
“You’ll sleep so much better after I make you feel good.” He flicks his tongue over my nipple, and my shoulders relent, followed by my legs. “Close your eyes. Quit worrying about the time.”
How does he do that? Mind reader. Body reader.
My eyes drift closed, and I replay the dream he narrated for me. I come quietly, barely awake. He kisses the freckles on my shoulders. “Sweet dreams.”
He rolls over, and we both ignore the burgeoning daylight. It’s too early.
When I wake up again, he’s in my shower. Why didn’t he go downstairs to his own? He probably hopes I’ll wake up and join him. I drag the pillow he slept on closer and snuggle it. The sound of the running water lulls me back to sleep.
The next time I wake up, it’s quiet. Bright, but quiet. I’m afraid to look at the time.
Holy shit. It’s nine-forty-three. Why’d he let me sleep so late?
Because you’re a grown-ass woman, and he’s not responsible for getting you out of bed.
He didn’t mind waking me up when it suited his needs. Thank goodness I didn’t have a virtual meeting scheduled this morning. Or an online doctor’s appointment or . . .
Now you’re just making up reasons to be mad. You’re cranky because you slept in. He doesn’t know that happens. Even if he did, it still wouldn’t be his job to get you out of bed.
I drag my weak body and the consequences of my own lazy actions to the bathroom. Arguing with myself isn’t helping anything.
A shower helps tremendously.
He has his headphones on, and he’s fully immersed in the game when I walk through the kitchen, carrying my sheets to the washing machine. I strip his bed and toss his in with mine.
I watch him for a few minutes while I sip my coffee at the kitchen counter, marveling at how in-the-zone he is, so completely unaware I’m down here. And then I force myself back up the stairs to get some work done instead of watching him work all day.
The whole reason for being here is to work as much as possible. Uninterrupted was the original hope, but Nash and I have interrupted each other’s schedules in a big way.
Not that I’m complaining.
It’s another gorgeous day. I film a video on the balcony, extolling the virtues of salt air and an ocean breeze for motivation. It’s as much a personal hype video for me as it is marketing. And it works.
I’m in my own zone when Nash comes barreling into the room, yelling. “What the hell happened to my bed?”
“What do you mean?”
“The sheets are gone.”
“They’re in the wash with mine.”
“Why?”
“Because they needed to be washed. You’re welcome.”
“They did not need to be washed. I’ve only been here two nights. And I slept in here last night.”
“Well, you’re the reason mine needed to be washed, and since I was doing a load anyway, I figured I’d throw yours in as a favor. Again, you’re welcome.”
“I wanted to take a nap.” He runs his hands through his hair as though he’s facing a major dilemma.
“Nap on the couch. People do it all the time. I did it just yesterday.”
“I prefer a bed. I’ll just nap in the extra bedroom.”
“Don’t do that. There’s no need to mess up that bedroom, too. Sleep on the couch.”
“I rented the whole house. I can sleep in all the beds.”
“Geez. You need a nap.”
“Yes, I do. Thanks for noticing!” He storms out.
A few seconds later, he’s back in my doorway. “Hey, beautiful.”
I look up from my computer without answering him.
“Thanks for washing my sheets.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Do you wanna—”
“No.”
“Can’t blame me for trying.” He shrugs, winks, and walks away much calmer this time.
I need a break from work, too, but a nap is the last thing I need. I change into my bathing suit and take my book back to the beach.
When I come back into the house, Nash is eating pizza at the table.
“Hungry?” he asks.
“Yeah. Thanks. I thought you didn’t eat cheese.”
“I only eat it on pizza.”
I go to the kitchen and pour myself a glass of water.
He coughs, and it sounds like he’s choked. “Um, you need to wear a cover-up or shorts over that bathing suit.”
“Excuse me? I am a grown woman, and we are at the beach. I do not need to cover any part of my body. Just because I like to be dominated in bed doesn’t mean you can—”
“Your ass is bruised.”
“No, it’s not.” I press around on my butt cheek and immediately find a tender spot. “If anyone noticed, they probably just thought I ran into the corner of a desk or something.”
“Sure. A desk with five fingers.”
“Haha. I do not have a bruise in the shape of your hand.” I take a drink of my water. “You were joking, right?”
“Was I though?”
I run into his bathroom to check the state of my ass in the mirror. Dammit. There is some bruising, but it’s small and the shape is nondescript. Why’d I fall for that?
He’s laughing when I come back into the room, sit across the table from him, and take a slice of pizza.
“You should’ve told me you bruise easily. I would’ve been more careful.”
“Maybe that’s why I didn’t tell you.”
“Do you not eat breakfast?” he asks, clearly trying to hide how much he liked my answer. His nonchalance can only mask so much.
“Occasionally, but I usually just make a smoothie or skip it altogether.” The pizza is still warm enough for the cheese to be stretchy. I wind it around my finger to break it. “But it was way too late for breakfast when I woke up today.”
“As a grown woman who can show her bruised ass on the beach, I think you can eat breakfast whenever you want.”
I try not to laugh, but I’m weak from the sun. That’s what I’m telling myself, anyway. “I don’t think I necessarily bruise easily, by the way. Are you done working for the day?”
“Yeah. You?”
“Yeah.”
“You wanna get out of here, go be tourists?”
“And do what?”
“Dolphin spotting cruise?”
“That’s touristy, all right. I wonder if they even do them on Sunday.”
“We have tickets for the one that departs at five.”
“You bought tickets before you even asked me?”
“I couldn’t ask you. I don’t have your number.”
“Oh, right. I guess we should exchange numbers since we’re sharing the house.”
“Is that why, Cat? Because if you don’t want me to have your number—”
“Give me your phone so I can add myself to your contacts.”
I put my information in his phone and pass it back to him. “Text me so I’ll have yours.”
“How are you going to list me in your contacts?” he asks with that sexy smirk on his face.
“As Nash Nocona?”
“Oh, come on. I don’t get a dirty nickname?”
“I’m Cat Fairchild in your contacts.”
“Only until I change it.”
“To what?”
“I don’t know yet.”
I finish my pizza and move our sheets to the dryer.
We sit on the deck and talk until it’s time to go watch the dolphins. I put the leftover pizza in the fridge and put on a sundress to cover my incriminating bruises.
The dolphins show up and show out. Our tour guide recommends a burger shack on the dock after the cruise, and we joke about how they probably pay the tour guides to recommend them as we walk toward the place.
It is quite literally a shack. But it turns out to be a good rec.
We sit on the deck again and drink more of the wine meant for Nash’s ex when we get back to the house. Her loss feels very much like my gain.
I’m glad things didn’t work out with her. Or with the last one, the one who stole his company name.
“What was the company name that your ex stole?”
“Doesn’t matter. It’s not even a great name.”
“The whole world uses a search engine called Google. Company names don’t have to be great; They just have to be catchy and memorable.”
“There is actually a reason behind Google’s name. It’s a misspelling of . . . you know what? You’re right. Company names don’t have to be meaningful.”
“So, what was it?”
“Stryker GC.”
“Stryker, as in your middle name?”
“Yeah, but because of the wordplay. In code, you strike something that’s inaccurate or needs attention. Strikethrough. I thought it might work like you said, be catchy enough to be memorable.”
“Hold up! She’s using your actual name? Damn. Bitch rode that petty elevator all the way to the basement.”
“There are other companies with Stryker in the name. And I didn’t have Stryker GC trademarked, so it was fair game.”
“No wonder it felt like a personal attack, Nash. It was.”
“I know. I like thinking she screwed herself more than she did me, though, because she’ll be reminded of me every time she sees her company logo, but the day will come when I won’t think about her at all, anymore.”
I lift my glass. “May she fail spectacularly.”
He lifts his. “And may everyone who leaves your ex tell him he’s hard to live with on their way out the door.”
“Amen!”
“I think the word you were looking for is cheers.”
“That’s because you don’t understand the pettiness of my prayers.”
“For someone so uptight, you’re pretty witty.”
“I am not uptight.”
“So Type A.”
“Don’t try to put a label on me.”
“You love labels. They’re your favorite things.”
“How would you know?”
“I watched a few of your videos.”
“You did?” I stare into his eyes, trying to figure out if he’s being serious or not.
“Yeah. I wanted to understand how you turned being organized into a career.”
“And now you get it?”
“Not really, but I know you did it.”
“Shouldn’t it be Stryker QC instead of GC?”
“Glitch Control.”
“For what it’s worth, I don’t think most people will get that.”
“It’s spelled out under the logo. People in the gaming industry will definitely get it.”
“Did you design the logo, too?”
“Yep.”
“She’s a horrible person, Nash.”
“She’s not the best, that’s for sure. What does your ex do?”
“He’s an investment banker with a god complex and the inability to put his sweaty gym clothes in a hamper.”
“Sounds like an asshole.”
“Accurate.” I stretch my legs out in front of me and wince. “I really should have stretched before running. I’ve spent too much time sitting the past few weeks.”
“I give a great massage.”
“Where can I find reviews?”
He stands and finishes off the wine left in his glass. “In the appreciative moans coming out of your mouth.”
I let him help me up from my deck chair. When we walk inside, he sets his wine glass and the empty bottle on an end table in the living room instead of walking them into the kitchen. He takes my glass and adds it to the out-of-place grouping.
“Those don’t—”
He puts his hand over my mouth. “No.”
My agitation climbs as he pulls me toward the stairs, but I don’t look back. I so badly want to put those glasses in the dishwasher and that bottle in the trash, but I want the massage more.
I give him an excellent review. Not to mention a five-star blowjob.
We are in the third bedroom because our sheets are still in the dryer. I offer to go get them, but he says I have to choose between that and a fourth orgasm. “If you go downstairs, I won’t touch you again tonight.”
I think he’s bluffing, but I don’t think I’ve ever had four orgasms in one night before. I’ve slept in a freshly-made bed plenty of times. It’s nice, but not quadruple-climax nice.
I wake with no Monday morning dream narration playing in my ear, no full weight of a man stirring my consciousness, no thrusting hard-on reigniting a sting, reminding me how very well-fucked I was last night.
Today, Nash is the one who isn’t ready to get up. I slip out of bed and go to my room to change.
A layer of fog hangs over the water, and I’m strangely hungry for breakfast. But there are no pancake ingredients among Nash’s groceries. I place an order for delivery and take a cup of coffee out to the deck.
When I stretch my legs out from my chair, there is no stiffness, not a single sore muscle. He gives a good massage, but he also stretched me until my tendons loosened like pasta softening in boiling water while he fucked me.
Yoga is just never going to quite hit the mark after that.
The fog has dissipated by the time the groceries arrive, and the sun beats down on the deck. I go inside to start the pancakes.
Nash stumbles down the stairs and laughs. “You just couldn’t wait to run down here and wash those glasses and throw away that wine bottle, could you?”
“I’d actually forgotten all about them until I saw them.”
“Did you make our beds, too?”
“I wasn’t going to make yours, but it takes the same amount of time to make the bed as it does to fold the sheets and set them in your room, so it just made sense.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re agreeable this morning.”
“I’m hoping I can get in on those pancakes.”
I lift the first one from the pan and set it on a plate. “Here you go.”
“Wow. You don’t even burn the first pancake?”
“No. And I’ve never understood why that’s so difficult. There’s berries and whipped goat cheese with honey on the table. That’s cinnamon sugar in the bowl.”
“Is there any plain old syrup?”
“I knew you’d ask for that. Yes, there’s maple syrup, too.”
“Sounds fancy.”
“You’ll survive it.”
“I’ll be playtesting today, so it won’t be as quiet down here as it has been.”
“You don’t use a headset for that?”
“I do, but there will be several of us playing, so what I’m saying is I won’t be as quiet as I have been.”
“No worries. I’ve got two podcast interviews to record, so if you take your headset off and hear me, that’s what I’m doing. I’ll close my door.”
“You don’t have to.” He points his fork at his pancake. “This is good.”
“Here, have the second one, too. If you want more, you have wait for me to eat mine.”
“Two will be enough. I’ll clean up the kitchen.”
“When?”
“As soon as you’re done in there.”
“You swear if I come down here for a drink or a snack in a few hours, the kitchen will be clean?”
“I promise.”
I plate a pancake for myself and carry it to the table. He watches me spoon on fruit and whipped goat cheese and sprinkle it all with cinnamon sugar. “That’s a high-maintenance pancake.”
“It’s a beautiful pancake.”
“Just so you know, I would’ve let you be a total pillow princess the whole time we were here together, but you went and showed off your oral skills, so now . . .”
“Oh, that was one-time offer.”
He laughs. “Glad I didn’t miss it.”
I try to rinse my plate, but he comes up behind me and shuts off the water. “Put it in the sink. I’ve got it.”
It shouldn’t be this hard to put a half-rinsed plate in a sink, but for me, it’s difficult. I desperately want to finish rinsing it.
He kisses my neck and says, “I promise, Cat. But if you touch that plate again, I’m going to freshen up the bruises on your ass.”
“And then you’ll be late for your playdate.”
“And you’ll miss your podcast interviews because our next goal is five.”
Five? Does he mean five orgasms?
“Are you threatening to try to set a new personal best every time you get me off now?”
“It’s not a threat, beautiful. It’s a promise.”
Okaaaay, that’s all the promises I can take for one morning if I have any hope at all of being productive today.