17. Viggo
VIGGO
Soft snoring woke me before the alarm rang. I glanced at the man glued to my chest, his lips parted and hair disheveled. There was nothing sexy about bedhead and drool…unless it was Dexter.
Shit. This was not smart.
Two weeks of clandestine meetings, trading houses, slipping into bed and fucking like bunnies till we passed out wasn’t sustainable behavior. I’d hoped we’d have gotten this physical yearning out of our systems by now, but it wasn’t looking good. I wanted him a little bit more every day.
Maybe the secrecy was a turn-on. But so was lighthearted conversation and the thrill of carnal exploration with zero expectation. This was a sex-only arrangement with an incredibly handsome man. Only a fool would walk away.
The evening usually began with a simple text stating a time and place to meet.
Yesterday from Dexter: My place, 9?
I’d replied with a thumbs-up and at nine p.m., I’d parked on the opposite end of his street to avoid spreading rumors. Seconds after I’d knocked on his door, he’d pulled me inside and attacked me. Not an exaggeration. He might as well have been a monkey climbing a tree.
We’d made it as far as the great room, humping and grinding on Dexter’s enormous sectional.
But soon, clothes had been shed, and there’d been no chance of slowing down or moving upstairs.
So I’d bent him over the sofa and fucked him.
The room had echoed with soft moans, grunts, and the steady slap of skin on skin.
I’d pulled his hair and gestured at our reflection in the sliding glass door.
Dexter’s ass in the air, my hands on his hips, my cock driving into his hole—it had been a good show.
Afterward, we’d cleaned up and sprawled out in front of the television, passing a pint of chocolate ice cream between us and chatting about inconsequential things like the accuracy of medical dramas and the time he’d fallen off a horse at summer camp, hit his head, and needed stitches.
“Blood everywhere. Kids were screaming, running amok, and the poor counselors were teenagers with minimal experience with bloody wounds.”
I’d motioned for him to pass the container. “What did they do?”
“One of them drove me to the hospital and waited with me to see the doctor. I had to stay for concussion protocol. My first of many. It made for a long-ass day for that poor counselor. He tried to call my mom, and of course she was in a meeting.” Dexter had pointed to a small scar at his temple.
“But ten stitches later, I was back on a horse the next day.”
I’d nodded, but before I could ask any probing questions about his mother or his history with concussions, Dexter had moved on to the healing properties of chocolate.
I had a funny realization that behind the good-natured chatter and easy mannerisms, Dexter was a complex man who talked around topics that bothered him.
And the fact that he wasn’t in a hurry to get rid of me or to leave my house post-orgasm was telling, too.
I didn’t think it was my winning personality.
No…my guess was that Dexter was lonely. I wondered if he hoped a child would cure the condition.
But then he was straddling my lap, feeding me ice cream from his spoon, and sharing chocolate kisses. And that was more important than the psychoanalysis he most likely wouldn’t appreciate.
We’d made our way upstairs for round two, showered, and fell asleep.
I glanced at my watch and tugged at my numb arm, gently rolling Dexter off me.
He blinked and rubbed his eyes. “What time is it?”
“Four o’clock. Do you have to go to the shop?”
Dexter hummed and burrowed under the covers. “Five more minutes.”
I dressed, used the bathroom, and returned to find him snoring away. “Wake up. Alberto will be waiting for you.”
“Ughhhh…”
“Come on. I’ll make coffee.” I pulled the duvet away, admiring his toned back and beautiful ass before delivering a quick smack on his rear. “Get dressed.”
I made coffee and poured some into a thermos I found in a kitchen cupboard.
I helped myself and waited for him. That wasn’t the norm.
We usually didn’t linger in the mornings.
Whoever happened to be staying over left without fanfare of any sort.
Dexter was a big boy. He’d been running his business and looking after himself for years.
He didn’t need my help getting out the door.
No, this was on me. I had a bad habit of taking on the role of caregiver—whether or not I was needed. Maybe so, but in this case, I just wanted to help.
Dexter raced into the kitchen. His hair was slick with product, he had toothpaste at the corner of his mouth, and his tee was inside out. He shoved his feet into a pair of sneakers and lifted one onto the barstool to tie his laces.
“You made coffee.”
“I told you I was going to.” I pushed the thermos in front of him and licked toothpaste from his lips. “For you.”
He grinned from ear to ear. “Thank you.”
“Hmph. I’m leaving.” I started for the foyer. “Fix your shirt.”
“What’s wrong with my—oh.”
At that hour of the morning, I should have had a decent rein on my self-control, but the sight of a bare-chested Dexter fumbling with a shirt and messing his hair was too irresistible.
I moved to his side, captured his face, and sealed our lips as I snatched the fabric from his fingers.
I broke the kiss, turned the pink donut T-shirt right-side out and yanked it over Dexter’s head.
I flattened a stray piece of hair and made myself step away.
“Better.”
Dexter didn’t say anything. He just smiled, grabbed his keys, thermos, and a jacket. I followed him to the garage rather than the front door so he wouldn’t have to reset his alarm. We nodded and went our separate ways.
Even at four-thirty a.m., there was always a chance that someone might notice two cars coming from the same direction, traversing the empty streets to town.
I checked my rearview mirror as Dexter turned left and veered toward the donut shop on Main Street while I headed straight for home.
I caught my reflection and chuckled. This wasn’t smart, but it was fun.
“Want a latte?”
Not really, but I pulled a ten from my wallet and handed it to Beau. “Thanks.”
“Put your money away. I got you.”
Beau patted my shoulder and got in line at Rise and Grind behind a middle-aged woman with frizzy blond hair. I cast a suspicious glance around Rise and Grind, my gaze snagging on the coffee-tude of the day—“Today’s good mood is sponsored by coffee. You’re welcome!”
I didn’t come here often, and I definitely wouldn’t have come midmorning on a Friday when the place was buzzing with regulars and weekend tourists, but I was in between projects at the mill and Beau wouldn’t take no for an answer.
I eyed my friend at the counter, blushing through his order. The poor guy had a big crush on Davey, the sassy redheaded barista, and he didn’t think anyone noticed. I huffed a laugh and pulled my cell from my pocket just as a message from Freya lit the screen.
12 weeks down, twenty-eight to go!
I smiled automatically. How do you feel?
Great! I’m going to my studio today. I have a lot to catch up on.
Did you tell Dexter?
Freya put an exclamation point on my text. Of course! He’s very excited. Have you seen him lately?
As a matter of fact, he’d ridden my cock a few hours ago, his hands clutching the bedpost behind me, his knees planted on either side of my thighs. I’d been his personal pogo stick, and I hadn’t minded at all.
Not something I was going to share with Freya, though…or anyone.
No, I lied.
Buy a donut if you get a chance and let me know if he’s extra happy.
I sent a thumbs-up and—
“What language is that, dude?” Beau held up a latte for me.
“Swedish.” I stuffed my phone in my pocket. “Thank you.”
“I forget you really are Thor sometimes. Too bad you don’t have an accent. Were you texting your mom or something?”
“A friend.”
Beau’s eyes twinkled mischievously. “Who is she, man? Or…he?”
“Not that kind of friend. Ready to go?”
He blew a raspberry and scanned the store. “Uh…Micah and Lyle were supposed to be here, but—”
“Why? What are you up to?” I growled as I held the door for an older couple. The woman blanched at my expression, and I felt bad…and extra irritated with Beau.
“Chill. It’s nothing terrible.” He took a leisurely sip of his drink and nonchalantly surveyed Main Street.
It was a beautiful spring day—not a cloud in the sky.
The store awnings were crisp and clean, potted flowers and topiaries flanked freshly painted benches, and the sidewalk was crowded with window-shoppers.
Summer was a mere few weeks away, and soon enough there’d be limited parking and people everywhere.
No one complained, though. Tourism had become a gold mine for Wood Hollow.
Dexter told me that his donut sales more than quadrupled in summertime.
Businesses like Swensen’s Ice Cream Parlor thrived even though they were only open a few months out of the year.
Even Fox’s Drug Store did well, and the old man didn’t sell anything you couldn’t buy at the market or at Mill Depot.
Buzz buzz
I peeked at the caller ID. Dexter.
I couldn’t take his call with Beau lurking nearby and plotting something he knew I wouldn’t like. A poker game, a picnic or bowling with coworkers, or—
“We need you on our flag football team this summer,” Beau blurted. “And before you say no—”
“No.”
Beau followed me as I headed east toward the mill.
“Ted’s out. He’s been sick with that viral thing he caught in Bermuda.
And Dirk’s back is fucked up. That’s why he’s always volunteering to drive the forklift.
We need new blood. Silas has a couple of buddies renting vacation homes this summer, and he thinks we might get a volunteer here and there, and that’s great.
A real-life NFL player would help us kick some serious ass. ”
“Already sounds like you don’t need me.”