“I think so.”
“You should.” He inclined his head toward the bed. “This was exhausting, and I just want to hold you because I said tremendously douchey shit and you don’t deserve that. And I haven’t seen your fine ass in two weeks, and that’s far too long. Snugglenap?”
“Mmm,” I sighed. “Yes please.”
We crawled into the bed and curled around each other, our fingers laced together. My body melted into him, and the tension skittering between us seemed to dissipate. It was a struggle to keep my eyes open, but the pressure of Matthew’s stiffening shaft against my bottom kept me from falling asleep. “You probably want me naked and telling you all my deep, dark desires.”
“I just want you.” Matthew pulled a blanket up to my chin and circled his arms around me again. “This is all I need.”
“Me too.” My head bobbed against Matthew’s chin, and I dropped over the edge of sleep.
*
The room feltcool, and when my eyes peeked open, I noticed darkness pouring through the windows. There was tapping over my shoulder and I yelped, scrambling to my knees and ready to strike. My heart pounded as I stared at Matthew, his laptop open on his thighs and his hands folded in his lap, an inquisitive expression on his face.
“This is new,” he said, gesturing to my defensive stance.
My fingers landed on a wet patch on my cheek, and I tried to brush away evidence of drool. I glanced at the clock and combed my fingers through my hair. “You let me sleep for six hours?”
Matthew shrugged and powered down his laptop. “Isn’t that the point of the snugglenap?”
I grabbed my toiletry kit and headed to the bathroom to deal with the drool remnants and brush my teeth. “Just figured I’d wake up naked with your cock in my mouth and your head between my legs.”
Matthew vaulted off the bed and I saw him braced against the doorframe. “Can I interest you in that now?”
I smiled to myself as I applied a fresh coat of mascara. “Maybe if you woke me up an hour ago, but I’m starving.”
I breezed past him to rifle through my bags for clean clothes, which were in short supply after two weeks away from my washing machine. Tossing his t-shirt to a chair, I slipped a gauzy kimono-style shirt over my head and stepped into a pair of jeans. Matthew’s chest pressed against my back, his hands skimming under the shirt and cupping my breasts.
“Give me ten minutes,” he said, his lips hovering over my ear.
“I could give you ten minutes,” I said, my body softening into his. “But it’s never ten minutes. And I’m hungry.”
Matthew rained kisses along my neck and shoulders, his fingers brushing the soft undersides of my breasts while his hips bumped in a lazy rhythm against my ass. He groaned, squeezing my breasts before walking away. “Hard to believe someone so heavenly could be so fucking evil.”
“You love it,” I said. I dropped a scarf into my bag and headed toward the door.
“Something like that,” he murmured.
As we walked down Chartres Street toward the Jackson Square restaurant, Matthew pointed out the blend of French, Spanish, and Creole influences in each building, and contrasted the architectural styles we saw: Greek revival, Art Nouveau, Art Deco, Renaissance Colonial, Gothic, Victorian, Italianate, Queen Anne, Postmodern, Mid-century Modern. He knew with a glance which predated the Civil War, which survived the Great New Orleans Fire in 1788, which had been restored.
When we settled into the bistro’s cozy patio, he described the Pontalba Buildings, the matching block-long red brick apartments flanking two sides of the Square, and explained the four-story structures launched the wrought iron balcony trend in New Orleans. He paused to order drinks, then continued, so charming and animated, about the complex geometry of mansard roofs.
We never talked like this. It was either sex or work or squabbling about who was bossy and who was a caveman, but it was never ordinary conversation about our interests, our passions, our places in the universe. And it was my fault. I spent so much time trying to shut him out, shutthisout.
The waiter delivered our cocktails and I stirred my glass to study the contents of the New Orleans specialty, the sazerac. “To dinner outside in October.”
Matthew murmured in agreement and our glasses clinked together.
I stifled a cough after sipping and my eyes flashed to him. “That isstrong. Are you trying to get me drunk?”
“Of course not.” He smiled, his eyes sparkling and mischievous. “I’d be happy with tipsy.”
We opted to share three authentic Creole dishes, and spent the meal talking and laughing. Like everything else with Matthew, it was natural. Was this what he wanted when he asked me to stop calling it drinks? Did he want us sharing meals and stories, and hanging out together without crumbling under the need to rub up against each other? Did I want that?
Then his fingers tightened around my hand, and I realized my foot was sliding over the back of his calf.
So meals, stories, and some light rubbing?
