25. Good Morning to Me
GOOD MORNING TO ME
THURSDAY
Asher
As the light streaks through the window in the morning, I’m still basking in the after-effects. My helpful brain conveniently replays the reel of the night before—Mark’s throaty groans, the heat of his body, the smell of his skin. A potent mix of chlorine, of all things, and his endless desire.
Mine too.
In fact, I’d like to go again right now.
I flip over in bed, all ready to tug that warm body against mine, when I’m met by . . . nothing.
Cool sheets.
A silent room.
And an empty bed.
I rub my eyes and push up, hunting for him. His glasses aren’t on the nightstand. His phone is gone.
I listen for noise. The shower maybe? The hiss of the coffee pot?
But the guest house is eerily still.
Did he return to his room after we conked out post-shower? My chest tightens. Swinging my legs out of bed, I pad to the bathroom, take care of business, and brush my teeth.
Then I wander past his room to sneak a peek, but the door’s cracked open only an inch. I can’t see in.
But why do I care if he crashed in his room?
Because . . . I do. I just do.
My thumping heart needs to settle down, though. It’s only sex .
So what if he took off after he got off? I’ve been there, done that. Hell, it’s pretty much been my MO for the last decade. And it ought to be de rigueur for this tryst that’s ending this weekend.
I head to my bedroom when the main door creaks open.
A shirtless Mark strolls in, hair a mess, glasses on. His eyes sail down my body, stopping point-blank on my dick.
“Good morning to me,” he says, with an appreciative hum.
And my dick shows off how much I like Mark Banks by getting harder. Fucking exhibitionist.
Good thing he’s checking out my junk, since the smile I’m wearing is too much. Don’t entirely want him to know I was stupidly worried he took off for his own room late last night. “But mornings are better in bed,” I say casually as I turn into my room.
He’d better follow me.
I flop down on the bed. Waiting.
When he turns into my room, he stops in the doorway, dips his head. Mark looks a little shy, and a lot happy.
My chest warms. Hmm. Must be from the sunlight.
Leaning against the doorjamb, he scratches his jaw. “Since my parents arrive later this morning, I was busy hiding the casserole dishes,” he says, pointing at the sprawling house. “Like I told Hannah I would.”
“Are they stashed anywhere I should know about? Under the couch cushions? Just so I don’t sit on one.”
A smile curves his lips. “No. I hid them in the pool shed.”
“Explain.”
“Mom loves to clean too. And vacuum. So if I hid them in a linen closet or the pantry in the house, she’d find them. She’ll open all the cupboards and doors, so I had to put them in the one spot she wouldn’t look. With the pool chemicals.”
“Your brain is a very busy place,” I say.
“And then I spotted a pelican. I took a picture of it and sent it to Bridget to show Rosie. She likes animals. My daughter, that is,” he says, and for the first time ever, Mark sounds like he’s rambling. Mark is not a rambler.
“That’s adorable,” I say, because sending bird pics to his kid is cute. But I don’t think he’s telling me about his kid so I’ll think he’s a good dad.
He’s waiting for me to make the next move.
Ah, hell.
That’s why he’s shy right now. He’s got that morning-after was-it-good-for-you look in his eyes.
And I’ve got the answer to soothe his worries.
That’s a heady feeling, too—knowing you can give someone what he needs.
“Are you just going to stand there looking incomparably sexy in those basketball shorts and nothing else? Or are you going to get your fine ass back in bed? No one expects to see us for a while. After all, I have an excellent track record for not showing my fabulous face till brunch. And everyone probably assumes you’re off solving algebraic equations in that pretty head of yours while jogging ten miles on Key Biscayne. ”
“Please. I do differential calculus when I run.” He slides back into bed.
My brow knits as I pluck at the waistband of his shorts. “What the fuck is this? Get naked. Now.”
“Are we fucking again?” He sounds eager. It’s a good sound.
“Not yet. Emphasis on yet . I just want . . .” But I’m unsure if I should fully articulate what I truly crave right now. A little more time with him. “Just want you naked in bed with me.”
“Twist my arm.” He shucks off his shorts and underwear, and that’s what I like to see. All this skin. All these muscles. All of his body that I want again and again.
But I should be a good sex tutor, make sure my straight-A student is holding up. “Are you sore?”
He shrugs. “A little. But I’m good with it.”
That’s pretty much his mantra in bed, I’m learning. He’s good with everything. He wants everything. He’s open to all of the above. Funny, how I thought I was the only one among us with no hang-ups. Seems we’re both that way. I run a hand down his hip. “Good. Glad you’re . . . good.”
“And you?” he asks cautiously.
I get it now. Why he’s all tentative and this side of shy. Grabbing his ass, I haul him against me. “I’m excellent. Last night was incredible.”
He fights off a smile. “Good. That’s good.”
Mark’s not into swoony words, though, so the better way to let him know how I feel might be like this. “So, the pool shed. Is that on your list? Do I need to bend you over the pool pump and fuck you there tonight?”
His eyes glint. “No. That’s what I’ll do to you.”
“Bet I’ll love it. You banging me among the pool chemicals and casserole dish stash has got to be top of my wish list,” I say, and we both burst into laughter.
That feels good too.
I stretch out on the sheets, parking my hands behind my head. “By the way, it’s nice that you did that for Hannah. It’s cute the way you look out for her. How you want everything to be good for her.”
“She’s been my best friend pretty much my whole life, so I try to look out for her, take care of her however I can.”
“I like Hannah too, but . . .” I say, drawing out the last word.
Mark shoots me a don’t-you-dare-say-shit-about-my-sister look, which is all kinds of endearing. “But what, Asher?” The question comes out as a challenge. One that says don’t cross me about my family.
I raise a finger to make a point. “But I have one bone to pick with her.”
“Yes?” he asks, still cool.
“Why didn’t Hannah tell me you were bi six months ago when I met you?”
Mark laughs, letting go of his steely veneer. “Because it’s personal. We keep secrets.”
“But it’s not really a secret. You did let me pretty much feel you up all over Miami yesterday.”
“You weren’t complaining,” he tosses back.
“As if I would. I fucking loved it. But my point is, why keep it from me?”
He meets my gaze. “Because it’s personal, and you know what I mean by that. It wasn’t for her to share.”
“But it would have been useful to me,” I say, a little tease in my voice.
Mark props his head in his hand, stares at me like he doesn’t quite believe me. This guy is a physical manifestation of the word skeptical. “How would it have been useful?”
I shrug lazily as I yawn. “I could have chased you in New York. So I could get you under me sooner. Or me under you.”
“Somehow I doubt you’d have done that.”
I might have then. I won’t now. He laid down the law yesterday about New York benefits, and there’ll be no extension of them. Which is fine with me for so many reasons.
Still, he’s wrong about my interest in him. It’s been brewing for some time.
“You think it took a dance club and one mere day of sexual tension for me to develop an interest in you?” I counter.
He says nothing.
Oh, ye of little faith.
Scoffing, I reach for my phone on the nightstand. Clicking open my text app, I show him where I saved the stupid lips text thread he mistakenly sent me.
He groans in misery. “And that proves what? That you just wanted to lord it over me?”
I look at the drunken confessional. Read the series of texts again. Let the buzz whip through me one more time. “They delight me now like they did then,” I confess.
“You sentimental fucker,” he says, elbowing me.
“Yeah, yeah. Hang on. Look.” I make good on my promise to show him the pics of my mullet days.
“Wow.” He cracks up, and I like that sound.
But now I have another question. “I bet you’ve got something saved on your phone about me. Like one of my underwear modeling shots. Come on. Admit it,” I say, riling him up.
He rolls his eyes. “My God. How much stroking does your ego need?”
I wrap a hand around my dick. “Baby, it’s not the ego that needs stroking. Although the ego is directly connected to my cock.”
“And you want me to stroke that?”
“You know you want to,” I say, but I’m undeterred from my true mission. I’m determined to know how long he’s been into me. I’m greedy like that. “Anyway, you looked me up. You knew my pro stats.”
“I told you I did my homework,” he says, but we both know he’s lying.
Good thing I’ve learned how to extract the truth from him.
“Tell me,” I whisper as I cover him with my body, press my lips to his, and give him a soft, tender kiss.
He murmurs under me. A sexy sound that turns into a long, low, groan of pleasure.
And then, it begins—the melting of Mark Banks.
I can feel the shift in him. The way his body responds, how he lets go of his constant need for control, how my kisses unlock him.
It’s crazy to think that a kiss can do that, but mine seem to have that effect on this man. That’s a gift—one I don’t want to deny.
I skate my mouth along his jaw, under it, kissing my way down his neck, across his Adam’s apple. Then I slide my thumb over his morning stubble, and give him one more slow, sleepy kiss that tastes like sunshine and shared secrets.
When I pull back, his eyes are hazy. “You know I looked you up,” he whispers.
“Tell me why.”
His jaw tightens. “Why do you think?”
“You had a thing for me,” I say, taking a guess.