Forever might be long enough.
22
Elizabeth
So many of the things other people love are, in my humble opinion, overrated.
Movies?
Meh.
Why leave the house to buy an overpriced ticket and even more overpriced concessions when you could stay home, read a book, and imagine the characters exactly the way you like them?
Jogging?
Ugh.
I’ll walk to my destination, thank you very much, and avoid sweat stains, muscle aches, and gargling my heart.
Same with skiing, bicycling, and other recreational activities, plus pie, barbeque, the beach, fancy cocktails, bars, bartenders, and leaving the house in the winter or after eight p.m.
But sex?
Sex is nothing like those other things.
Sex is even better than all the books and movies and love songs made it out to be.
“What’s the opposite of false advertising?” I ask Jeffrey over breakfast the next morning after he’s taught me about shower sex and how good it feels to be pinned against the cool tile while he’s hot between my legs.
God, I want him between my legs—All. The. Time.
Every second of every day.
I’m sore this morning, for sure, but his cock is seriously the best toy on the planet. I have no clue how I’m going to keep my hands off of him long enough to put the finishing touches on my designs.
Since the moment we got out of the shower, all I’ve wanted to do is drag him back into it.
He arches a brow but keeps his gaze on his newspaper. “True advertising?”
“No,” I scoff. “Something better than that. Something bigger. Like a truth bomb. Or a divine revelation.”
He glances over the top of the paper, the heat in his gaze making me squirm in my chair and wish we’d taken breakfast in the room instead of the hotel’s back garden. “Are you thinking about sex again, you fiend?” he whispers.
I scan the space, making sure none of the hotel staff are close enough to hear before I lean in and say, “Of course I am. Is it always like this with someone new? Like a toy you can’t wait to play with again and again?”
He gives a small shake of his head, his eyes never leaving mine. “No. It isn’t. You’re especially divine. And…addictive. I want to stretch you out on this table and have you for breakfast.”
I bite my lip, but I can’t hold back a giddy grin. “Me, too. Sex is the stuff, my friend. I confess I wasn’t sure it would live up to all the hype, but…”
“But what?” he prompts in a voice that makes my nipples tingle.
“But it really, really does,” I murmur as I lean closer, needing to see if his lips taste as delicious as they did twenty minutes ago. He angles his head, but before we can dive mouth first into the PDA ocean, our waiter arrives.
“Two full Rindish, extra sourdough toast, and a half order of the lemon crepes,” she says, setting the plates down with a firm clatter that makes it clear she noticed the almost-kiss and doesn’t approve. “Anything else for you?”
I glance up, meeting the older woman’s narrow blue gaze with a sheepish grin. “No, thank you. This is lovely.”
“Then I’ll leave you to it,” she says briskly. “Let me know if you need more coffee or milk.” With a final warning glance down her thin nose, she turns and hustles back into the kitchen entrance on the other side of the garden.
Jeffrey chuckles. “Why do Rindish people hate kissing so much?”
“It’s not just kissing. They also hate holding hands and dancing too close.”
“Dancing at all, seems like. My brothers and I went to a concert near here a few years back. Andrew and Nick were the only ones dancing. You should have seen the looks they got from the older set. You’d have thought they were clubbing baby seals on the lawn.”
I shrug. “As a people, we’re just not into public displays of feeling or passion or anything else that might make someone else uncomfortable. Manners are important.” I cut open my croissant and tuck my herbed eggs inside. “But things are changing. I’ve seen Sabrina kiss boys at bars before, and no one lost their mind about it. But that’s after dark, with booze involved, not first thing in the morning over coffee. We really ought to be ashamed of ourselves.”
“I’m not ashamed of a damned thing,” he says, and then his lips are on mine and he’s kissing me like I’m the only fuel he needs to survive.
His fingers thread into my hair, and his tongue strokes into my mouth, and my blood bubbles like champagne—bright and fizzy and free. By the time he pulls away, I’m breathless and beyond caring what anyone thinks about public displays of affection.
“Upstairs,” I say, my hunger for anything but him forgotten. “Let’s go to bed and never get out.”
“A brilliant idea, but we should eat first.” He spears a raspberry on his fork and lifts it to my lips. “If you’re going to keep up with me, you’ll need your strength.”