9
Liesel
Not many men have the stamina to go all night.
Waylon does.
Sure, his cock needed a few minutes to rest between each round, which was when he put his lips and tongue to good use. He knows how to pleasure me all night.
Just staying awake all night is a feat. Waylon never let my brain go anywhere except the intense pleasure I was feeling.
Then he was sweet enough to pour me a heaping cup of coffee and set it on the nightstand in one of those self-heating cups so it would be warm and ready for me when I woke up—which was about an hour after I fell asleep.
I don’t need much sleep after a night like that. Nights like last night are what I live for.
I stretch, feeling how sore my muscles are.
I smile at the comforting ache. I don’t have a need to workout. Sex with Waylon like this a couple of times a week gives me more stamina than running or biking or pilates ever could.
I take my time finishing my coffee before heading to the shower.
I walk naked into the en-suite bathroom that is larger than most people’s bedrooms, especially in New York City.
I flip the shower on and immediately step in, the cold water soothing my aching muscles.
Most people prefer warm showers. Not me; cold showers wake me up and keep my skin youthful far more than warm showers. I grew up taking cold showers; we rarely had enough heat for warm ones, and it’s a habit that’s stuck.
It’s one of the reasons Waylon and I hardly ever shower together.
My mind starts to wander as I close my eyes and wash my hair.
I think about the dozens of orgasms I received last night. I think about how high I feel, the happy hormones pulsing through my veins. I think about Waylon, about how he looked, sounded, and felt as he drove inside me.
But I don’t let my mind go free. I don’t let it wander to who I really want to be thinking about.
I get a sudden chill down my spine, but I don’t turn the water warmer. Eventually, the feeling fades.
I know a lot of time has passed when I finally step out of the shower with a towel wrapped around my body onto the heated bathroom floors. It always shocks me every time when I step out. Somehow I always forget about that feature when I look at the marble floor.
And then I look up, and my heart skips.
The mirror has fogged over, and there are three words written in the fog.
Five More Days.
I quickly glance around the bathroom, but there is nowhere for someone to hide.
Did Waylon come back?
Did he leave a message on the mirror before he left?
No, that can’t be. Waylon is only going to be gone for three days.
I dart out of the bathroom and into the bedroom. I still don’t find anyone.
In fact, I run through the entire condo and find no one.
I could call our security team, but I don’t.