“Holy fuck!” I say, gasping for breath, my legs all but giving out.
“Holy fuck is right,” Olly pants in my ear. “Your ass is perfection.”
We stay just like this for a while, basking in the afterglow, before the water turns cold.
“Come on, let’s get out of here before we develop the other kind of blue balls,” Olly says, nuzzling my neck.
I laugh. “Yes, please.”
We exit the shower, and Olly hands me a towel. We are quiet as we dry off, but sneak glances and small smiles in the mirror.
He takes my hand and leads me into his room.
“I have a pair of boxers you can wear… unless that’s too weird?” he asks.
“You just ate my ass like a Chinese buffet. I think I can wear your boxers.”
He tosses me a pair along with a shirt and I slip them both on.
“Are you hungry? I feel like I ate very little today,” Olly asks, pulling on his own pair of boxers and a shirt.
“I could eat something.”
We head into the kitchen. “Breakfast for dinner?” he asks.
“My favorite. You know I’m not much for eating at breakfast time, but breakfast for dinner is my jam.”
“Same. I rarely eat big, heavy breakfasts in the morning. I like something small, like a pastry, or fruit and yogurt.”
“Ew,” I say, scrunching up my face until he kisses it away. “Can I make you something?”
“You cook?”
“Hey, I’m not horrible. Well, I’m not great. But you’re always cooking for me. Let me do this. Breakfast I can do.”
“You mean I can sit and watch you serve me? How could I resist?”
“You don’t have to lift a finger,andI’ll even do it with my shirt off,” I say, pulling it over my head and tossing it at him as he takes a seat at the counter with a chuckle. This development will take bacon off the menu, but being ogled by Olly is worth the tradeoff.
I scour his fridge like I own the place, spotting a carton of eggs. That will work along with the loaf of bread sitting on the counter. Next, I open every cabinet looking for his spices. Of course, I get no help from Olly, who just sits back with a happy grin on his face, so I make sure to give my hips a little extra sway as I move about the kitchen.
“Ah ha!” I say when I finally find the right one. “Holy shit, you have every spice known to man in here.”
Ha laughs. “Hello, I’m a baker.”
I turn and face him, hands on my hips, eyebrow raised.
“Fine… and cook.”
“Damn straight. Best crab tacos in a 200-mile radius?”
He guffaws. “What? Not in all the world?”
We both laugh. “French toast okay?”
“My favorite.”
“Mine too,” I say.
