His dick stiffened and swelled within me. I’d closed my eyes when I came, and I snapped them open just in time to watch his face as he climaxed. The sight sent an aftershock of pleasure rolling through my core, and I moaned aloud with him and ground my hips into his.
Afterward, we lay sated in his sweat-slicked sheets. He was still inside me. We breathed so hard it sounded like we’d just finished a set of wind sprints.
“Well,” he said, matter-of-factly.
“Do not make me laugh right now, Ben. It will getso messy.”
He grinned in response, and I had to look away.
“Shower?” he asked.
I nodded. “Necessary at this point.”
He had to help me from the bed. My legs were jello.
“If I have another orgasm right now, I’ll probably have a heart attack,” I told him.
We got into the shower together. He made me come again. I somehow managed to live through it.
***
I was glowing. Positively radiating contentment. So deliriously happy that not even the sound of the dryer buzzer blaring out from my bathroom could make a dent in my mood. If not for the fact that it would drive the dogs berserk, I’d be singing.
Two days ago, Ben and I had sex. Mind-blowing sex. Sex that was in turns gentle, rough, sweet, funny, and so intimate that I didn’t think I’d ever felt that connected to another human being. Every time I remembered the look on his face as he came, a little shiver of pleasure ran through me.
I switched the laundry, hauled the clean clothes up my stairs, folded them, and then retreated back downstairs into my little art studio tucked in the very back corner of the house. It was a closet of a room, but I kept most of my supplies stowed elsewhere, so only a desk and a chair and whatever medium I was working with on a given day cluttered it up when I used it.
Today I’d laid a throw cloth over the middle of the room, on top of which sat my easel. I’d come in here this morning thinking to start a new line of artwork for next year’s calendar series. Yeah, that wasn’t happening. On the canvas, Ben came to life in watercolors, his portrait painted in greens and blues and golds. I used warmer hues of each, because I couldn’t think of him without picturing the technicolor lights of summer.
I stood in the doorway staring at it for a full minute, a stupid, self-satisfied grin on my face.
My phone chimed from the desk. I nearly tripped in my rush to reach it. The name “Stan” lit up my screen.
What are you doing?he wanted to know.
Painting,I told him.
Painting what?
Did I answer honestly? Was it weird that I was painting him? Screw it. I was too happy to be neurotic right now.
You,I answered.
Really? Can I see?
Sure, but it’s not done yet. I can send you a picture.
Don’t bother.
Huh?
Out in the living room, the dogs started barking. I peeked out the window and saw his Jeep coming up the driveway. My stomach erupted in butterflies as I raced down the hallway.
“Go get him,” I told the dogs, yanking the front door open.
They raced out into the snow.
I shoved my feet into my boots, tugged on a jacket, and followed them.
