“Andreas!” she cries out.
Nora falls forward, her hands can’t hold on anymore, and she now rests on her forearms and elbows. Perfect. After the first few powerful thrusts, I slide in and out slowly a few times, hoping to drive her wild and not finish too soon myself.
“Andreas, I can’t take it anymore!”
In response, I thrust hard, deep, and rhythmically into her. She lets out short moans, and I know she’ll come immediately if I touch her. One hand still rests on her hip, while my other moves down to her magical little spot. Her body shudders the moment I find it. I increase the pressure from both sides and feel Nora tighten around me.
“Let go, Nora,” I whisper breathlessly in her ear.
And as if she needed my permission, she comes three seconds later, screaming and trembling. Unable to hold back myself, I follow her, feeling a tornado race through my veins. I pump through her aftershocks until every last bit is spilled inside her. We collapse on the mattress, tangled together.
“Andreas?” she squeaks.
“Hmmm?” I’m not quite back to earth yet.
“You’re kind of crushing me,” she says, gasping for air.
“Oh, sorry!”
I pull out of her and remove the condom. I shift my weight, roll onto my side, and look at her. She turns too, and our eyes meet. She has that lovely blush on her cheeks again. I could look at her for hours.
“Can I hold you?” she asks shyly, her light brown eyes peeking out from under her long lashes.
“Babe, I just…” My voice trails off. “Of course you can hold me,” I say hoarsely.
I know why she’s asking this. Cuddling after sex isn’t usually in my playbook, and she knows that. But with Nora, so many things are different. This can be added to the list. She nestles close to me, resting her head under mine, and holds me. I don’t know what shampoo she uses, but she reminds me of a beautifully scented flower field in spring. Next thing I know, I’ll be writing a poetry collection. I surprise myself by not immediately running away screaming, because this is quite… intimate. I don’t want her to get the wrong ideas. Ideas about little houses, gardens, and picket fences. I clear my throat.
“How about a shower?” I ask.
This doesn’t count as running away, right?
She lets go of me gently.
“You go first, I’ll stay here for five more minutes, if that’s okay?”
She purrs like a kitten, but I suspect she might still be feeling a bit of a hangover.
“Stay here.” I kiss her forehead. “The bathroom’s over there?” I point to the only door in this attic room.
“Yes, towels in the closet, shampoo in the shower, you’ll find it.”
After my shower, I see that she’s fallen back asleep and decide to let her lie there a little longer. I go downstairs to make coffee and look for something to eat. As I take the eggs out of the fridge, I realize I’m making breakfast. This is really happening. If you’re hungry, you eat, right? And I’m starving after the short night and intense morning.
Nora’s house is beautiful. Small, but beautifully renovated and cozy. She clearly knows her stuff. The living room and kitchen are on the first floor, above her business. There’s a large sliding door leading to a nice, spacious terrace with stairs down to a long, narrow garden. The garden could use some love, but the interior of the house is fit for a magazine. Her kitchen cabinets are dark gray, paired with light gray tiles as a backsplash, golden faucets, and a speckled white composite countertop. The beautiful round antique table surprisingly complements the modern white chairs. I search for a pan, plates, cutlery…
“Andreas!” Nora calls out as she storms downstairs.
She freezes halfway down the stairs when she sees me standing there. She looks like a goddess, with her hair cascading down her face and the bedsheet draped around her body. Her expression, however, is more like that of a startled scarecrow.
“Everything okay?” I rush toward her.
“Yes, yes, everything’s fine,” she stammers, her cheeks flushing red.
And then it clicks.
“You thought I’d left, didn’t you?” I say softly. She nods shyly. “I get why you’d think that, but I’m not going anywhere this time.” She nods again. “Fried or scrambled eggs?”
I’m actually asking this.
