It’s all I can do to keep hold of him.
Slowly, he begins to relax. His breath on my skin is everything.
Eventually, Rowdy pulls out, and I feel the loss of heat. He makes up for that, in his gentle but firm way, as he turns me around and kisses me on the mouth.
Before I know what’s happening, I’m in his lap, nestled together on the sofa.
When I get a chill, he reaches for another blanket from the pile in the basket and covers my naked skin.
He’s still breathing hard. And I’m still shivering in pleasure and wonder.
“You’re clingy after sex.”
“I’m cold, and you’re an oven,” I say.
“Not complaining. I like it.”
I say nothing for a few minutes more, noticing how steady his heart beats where I rest my head against his chest.
He doesn’t need to fill the silence with chatter, which is something I appreciate. I pick up one of his hands that rests on my thighs. I turn it over and run my fingers over his palm.
Rowdy’s hands are rough, and I remember the way they felt when they cupped my ass. I turn it over and look at the back of his hand, pressing small kisses over his knuckles. Scarred and strong and long. His nails are short and tidy, not manicured, but I can tell he takes care of himself.
“What do you do exactly?”
Rowdy says, “I’m just Rowdy Fraser.”
“But what do you do for work? I might need to know that.”
“This and that.”
“Like a handyman?”
“Sure. I do odd jobs. I like to work with my hands, so I got a handyman cert, an electrician cert, and some other things.”
“What kind of other things?”
“A little of everything. Appliance repair. I’m not a licensed plumber, but I can do small things. I know how to do a lot of things and help people do DIY for free. I’m really good with tools in general.”
I sit up and look at him in the face, and then snort-laugh at the tool comment.
He laughs, “I didn’t mean it that way!”
“Yes, you did!” I exclaim, shrieking as he tickles me. I tickle him back, and for a moment, I forget that this is not a relationship. This was a hookup. So why does it feel so easy with him afterward?
When we both finally stop laughing and call a truce to the tickle fight, Rowdy sighs, “I suppose I should get out of your hair and let you take your daily stroll.”
“You noticed my walking schedule?”
“I notice everything.”
Slowly, reluctantly, I climb off the sofa and pick up the blanket, wrapping it around me.
Rowdy goes to the kitchenette and checks his phone.
“Are you walking tomorrow at 10? I’ll swing by and join you.”
I swallow hard. This man is really about to fuck up my schedule. And who knows what damage he’s going to do—to his emotions and mine—if we’re seen going on walks together and perpetuating the story that we’re a couple.
