She cuddles up to me, and within moments she’s asleep.
For the first time in my life, I’m happy to be in bed with a woman without sex. Even with my college girlfriend Kaeli, it wasn’t like this. Kaeli was my only serious relationship, and itended so terribly that I never gave another woman a chance. Some sentimental part of my mind wonders if Olive is the reason for that.
Rita would have a field day with those kinds of thoughts. That line of thinking has me considering Rita’s words from the other day. About how Olive and I are a good match… No, I correct myself; Rita doesn’t do good matches; she does perfect matches. She matches up men and women who are supposed to be together—forever matches.
But she didn’t match me with Olive. She matched Olive with another man. A man I stole her away from. I think about that first day Olive and I met… well bumped into each other. Rita knew that we have a standing lunch date, so why would she schedule a client for that time?
I look down at Olive as she sleeps, my mind swirling with possibilities.
How could Rita have known that I would feel an instant connection to her? Would she have let me take Olive’s letter without argument unless she had planned it somehow? There’s no way she could’ve set us up… Is there?
The more I think about it, the more I feel set up. Was Olive somehow involved? If she was, why would she have written her match not just one letter, but two? Why would she ask me about me minding that she’s writing to some other man?
Deception doesn’t seem like something Olive could ever pull off. She’s such a gentle, innocent woman. I can’t imagine her doing something like that. Not that I can know for sure. How much do I really know her? It’s only been a little over a week.
I guess the real question is, do I even care to find out if this was a setup. Does it matter? I press a kiss to the top of Olive’s head as I consider it. I think the answer is no, it doesn’t matter. Not when it feels so right to have her in my arms like this.
Sleep doesn’t come easily, but I do finally drift off, holding Olive’s warm weight to my body.
I wake up to the smell of coffee. I feel for Olive, even though I know she’s no longer in bed. Sure enough, her side of the bed is cold. I rub the sleep from my eyes and head towards the heavenly scent of caffeine.
Olive is in the kitchen, dancing to music that I can’t hear while she stirs something in a big bowl. I wrap my arms around her from behind and press a kiss to her neck. She lets out a little squeak of surprise and tugs her earbuds from her ears.
“You scared me!” she says with a teasing slap to my arm.
I turn her around and press a kiss to her lips. It starts out innocent enough, then deepens until it’s so much more. My cock thickens in my boxers as she lets out a soft little moan into my lips.
Fuck she’s sexy.
Everything she does turns me on. Even wearing an oversized shirt with her hair still a mess on top of her head and flour from whatever she’s making on her cheek, she’s the sexiest woman I’ve ever had the pleasure of seeing.
“Morning,” she says, breaking our kiss.
“Good morning, angel.”
“I’m making waffles,” she says shyly. “I hope you’re hungry… well, and that you like waffles.”
“I like everything you do,” I say suggestively, pulling her lips back to mine for another kiss.
I break the kiss this time, leaving her panting for breath and heavy-lidded with arousal. I think this is the look I like best on her. Maybe even better than her gorgeous smile.
She shoos me away to the barstool on the other side of the counter. “You’re distracting me.”
I sit on the stool like she requests, admiring her as she works. How the t-shirt rides up her thighs as she reaches for something in a higher cabinet. The way her breasts sway beneath the thin cotton. My cock is rock-hard in my boxers as I watch her.
I’m surprised when she sets a plate piled high with perfectly golden-brown waffles that are light and fluffy. She puts a bowl with cut strawberries and whipped cream beside that. She even has warm syrup ready.
“I thought you said you didn’t cook,” I accuse. “These look fantastic.”
“Well, I don’t cook, so don’t get used to this kind of treatment. Waffles are just like baking in a waffle iron that tells me when they are done.”
We both laugh at that. I let out a little groan at the first bite. It’s been a long time since I’ve eaten something so indulgent. “These are great,” I say around another bite.
Olive lowers her eyes to her own plate but can’t hide her pleased smile. “I’m glad you like them.”
“So, tell me, what are you working on?” I ask, curious about what it is that she does.
Her cheeks turn bright red, and I wonder what exactly she’s writing about. She shakes her head as if to clear the embarrassment and shrugs. “Just a romance novel.”
