He mumbles something that sounds likenuhhh. His body feels heavy, anchored to the bed.
Waking him seems selfish. He’s asleep, deeply so. I close my eyes but now I am too aware of the flickering of the candle on my dresser, the weight of my body pressed against his. I trail my palm up and down his arm.
I am still hyperaware of the heat of his skin, how the hair on his arm tickles my wrist. I kiss him through the fabric of his undershirt and he stirs, turning his head toward me, his hand landing on my thigh. My nipples are hard points where they brush against my silk pajama top. I’ve never felt like this before. Charged. Electrified by another person. And I don’t know how to trust my feelings. Do I feel this way because it’s a secret, forbidden? Or because it’s Wesley? When I’m with him I believe that everything will be okay, with my mom, with Richard, with us.
I rest my hand on the fly of his pants. His cock is already semi-hard and that sends a thrill down my spine and goose bumps along my arm. That no matter what I feel—wild, confused—I think he feels it all, too.
“Wesley.” I whisper his name into the skin of his neck. “Can I touch you? Will you touch me?”
He frowns with his eyes closed. “This isn’t a dream?”
I smile against his collarbone. “No.”
He rolls toward me, his hand finding the space between my legs like he was guided by a heat-seeking missile. His lips are warm against my throat. I pull his fly apart and his cock is in my hand, hard and hot.
“Thank you,” I say into his mouth.
He smiles against my lips. “I haven’t done anything yet.” He moves down my neck, sucking on skin until he pulls sounds that are halfway to embarrassing out of me.
“Thank you for coming here,” I clarify. “For staying.”
He buries his face in my chest but he doesn’t say anything else. He kisses me hard, rubs me harder, the only sounds in the room our harsh breathing, the wet sound of our hands moving over skin slick with sweat and want. I love the feeling of his cock in my hand. The fit, the heat, the power to make him moan.
We match each other stroke for stroke and I gasp as I come, hard and sudden, a quiet sound escaping my throat. His come coats my hand and thighs. I run my fingers through it.
He only moves far enough away to pull a few tissues from the box on the nightstand to wipe away the mess and when he rolls back he wraps his arm around me. We fall asleep drenched in each other.
“Wake up,” I hiss. I attempt to shake him awake but mostly I just move his shoulder around in the socket.
“Awake,” he mumbles into the pillow. I don’t believe him. His eyes are still closed and there’s a small puddle of drool on the pillow.
I shake him again.
“Awake,” he says, sharper, opening his eyes wide, blinking into the morning brightness to prove it.
“We overslept.” My tone is cool efficiency, while my insides squirm.
I’ll be late. He’ll be late. Plus, I don’t know what to do about last night. People don’t take care of me, I take care of myself.
Last night he cared for, nurtured, cherished me. He did too much. I feel like I can’t look him in the eye right now. He’s been doing it from the start. First my presentation, now this, and checking in about my mother. And what’s worse, my stomach sinks. I’ve come to rely on him. I feel dizzy. How did he wiggle his way into my life so quickly?
Taking a giant swig of coffee to avoid it, I wince as I swallow, the liquid burning on the way down. “I don’t think I’ll have time to drive you home,” I say. “I still have to shower.”
“That’s okay.”
He rolls up, scratches his head, and yawns, like he doesn’t have to be at work at the exact same time as I do. He searches the bedside table for his glasses, patting the surface gingerly. “I’ll just wear whatever I wore yesterday.”
Before he breaks something and I have to add a trip to the optometrist to my list of things I don’t have time for this morning, I hand him his glasses. “But then everyone will think you didn’t go home last night.”
“I didn’t.” He shrugs and his stomach growls. “But no one would assume I spent my nighthere.”
I pause for a moment because he makes a good point. “Right. That makes sense.”
I turn on my heel, hurrying into the bathroom, setting my coffee on the counter. “There’s coffee in the kitchen and food. And you can jump in the shower after me but you need to befast. I’m leaving in thirty minutes,” I call as I turn on the hot water.
He doesn’t respond so I pull my hair up into a bun and step into the warm water. I want to spend long minutes under the spray, letting the heat soak into me, thinking about last night, and earlier this morning. The memories of his hands on me, between my legs, wiping off my makeup, brushing back my hair. The way his touch feels like being held, carried, allowed to rest; they need time to marinate. But I don’t have the time.
Ten minutes later, he strolls into my walk-in closet in his underwear with a bowl of yogurt, granola, and berries.
