“Onno,” he breathed out, a plea and a benediction all at once.
My hands roamed lower, mapping the expanse of his broad chest, toying with a nipple, rolling it between my fingers until it hardened. Howell arched underneath me, seeking more contact. I obliged him by playing with his nipples until he squirmed on the bed.
His cock stood proud and beckoning, and I didn’t waste any time. He’d waited long enough. I wrapped my hand around him, relishing the velvety firmness and the way he bucked into my grasp.
“Ah, Onno.” Howell’s voice was strained, thick with need.
I loved hearing my name on his lips, loved knowing I was the cause of him coming undone. For a moment, I had to let go of him so I could position myself between his legs. When I looked up, he was watching me with brown eyes burning with want.
I lowered my mouth onto him, taking him in, sucking until his cock hit the back of my throat. The taste of him was intoxicating, a heady blend of musk and arousal, and my desire flared anew.
With my lips wrapped around him, I set a rhythm, hollowing my cheeks, applying pressure in all the right places. Howell’s fingers were back in my hair, guiding without forcing. His moans mingled with my wet slurps and the low, romantic strains of music playing in the background.
“Oh… Fuck, sweetheart. Yes, just like that.” Howell’s voice hitched as I took him deeper. He unraveled beneath me, his body taut like a bowstring, his thighs tensed. I knew he was close.
“Come for me, Howell,” I whispered and enveloped him once more. That was all it took—my words, my mouth, my hands. With a guttural cry, Howell spilled into me, his climax pulsing, and I drank him down, savoring every twitch and throb and tremble.
As he sprawled on the bed, panting and spent, I crawled up his body to claim his lips again. We lay on our sides, face-to-face,and kissed lazily, the urgency replaced by a tender languor. He trailed his fingers over my back, igniting tiny sparks that settled deep within my core.
I snuggled into Howell’s embrace, my skin tingling from his touch, the scent of our desire lingering like a heady perfume. His chest rose and fell against mine, each breath a silent testimony to the passion we’d just shared. The taste of him was still on my lips, salty and sweet, and it made me hunger for more. I flicked my tongue out, chasing the lingering flavor.
“Stay with me,” Howell murmured. He traced the line of my jaw, a tender gesture that spoke louder than any declaration. “I want to fall asleep with you tonight and wake up with you tomorrow.”
The earnestness in his tone settled inside me, soothing the scars left by a marriage where every offer had an angle, every compliment a price. Howell’s kindness was a balm, healing wounds I’d had for so long I hadn’t known they could be treated.
“Okay.” The word lifted a burden I hadn’t realized I was still carrying until it was gone. “Yes, I’ll stay.”
A smile spread across Howell’s rugged features, crinkling the corners of his eyes, revealing sexy dimples.
As he kissed me again, slow and sweet, I savored the taste of him, committing it to memory. Because in less than three weeks, I would be gone…and this would have to end.
8
HOWELL
Onno’s laughter bubbled over the sizzle of the wok he was stirring. Our hostess for the evening, the amazing Intan, had turned a simple Indonesian cooking class into an adventure for the senses. The rich aromas of garlic, lemongrass, and ginger made my stomach rumble.
“Look.” Onno expertly flipped the contents of his work, where he made nasi—Indonesian fried rice with egg, thin slices of ham, vegetables, and spices to give it its distinct yellow color and subtle flavor. “I’m a natural.”
His blue eyes sparkled with mischief under the kitchen’s warm lights, and I chuckled at his feigned boastfulness. “Sure, you are.” I stirred the rendang, the tender beef simmering in coconut milk and spices. “Because you’veneverdone this, obviously.”
Onno had organized this date, and while we were chopping vegetables, he’d told me Indonesian food was popular in the Netherlands. Indonesia was a former Dutch colony, and many Indonesians had moved to the Netherlands, bringing their favorite recipes. Onno loved their food and had made some dishes before.
He waved his hand. “Details.”
I shook my head, amazed at how easily our banter flowed.
Intan moved between us, her long ponytail swishing as she inspected our dishes. “Really good, Onno! You have good technique,” she said and turned to me with a nod of approval. “And, Howell, your rendang looks perfect, hmm? Right consistency.”
We beamed under her compliments, and a surge of pride rolled through me, not just for mastering the art of Indonesian cuisine but also for the ease with which Onno and I interacted. Everything was so natural, so effortless, so spontaneous.
“Okay, class, time is up!” Intan announced, clapping her hands together. “You can take your food home with you and let me know how it tasted, yes? Remember, rendang must simmer for two more hours.”
The room buzzed with the rustling of the six participants packing up our creations, the delicious results of our labor. I couldn’t wait to taste it, especially those succulent skewers of satay that promised a burst of peanutty flavor. We wrapped the dishes carefully, ensuring none of the precious sauces would spill during transit.
“Thank you, Intan, for such an incredible experience,” I said as we approached her, balancing our containers.
“Terima kasih,” Onno said, one of the few Indonesian phrases he’d learned. He looked so damn pleased with himself that my heart swelled with affection.
