That’s all I need to hear to inspire me to eat the fastest meal of my life. Herb-encrusted tilapia that was cooked to perfection. Something on the side—rice, perhaps—that I barely even notice much less remember because all I want to do is get out of here and feel this man’s hands on my bare skin.
In the middle of the week this time.
I like the idea of that.
I like it even more when he pays for our dinner, takes my hand, and doesn’t let go until we’re at his building, a beautiful old structure that I actually wouldn’t have pictured him in. It’s got a wide staircase when we enter, with a distinctly grand and southern flair. His door is stained wood, and the knob is old and brass—so different from any apartment I’ve had in my life. It almost looks like the building was once a mansion meant for one family and was converted into a dwelling for many people.
So he likes buildings with character? I ponder the things I’m learning about him tonight. And I learn even more when I see the inside, where squeaky, aged mahogany floors greet me, seeming to contradict the spare, more modern furniture he’s selected for himself. There are only a few things on the wall. I think I spot his diploma, presumably from West Point, and a picture of him with a bunch of other guys in uniform. His battalion perhaps?
I’m almost curious enough to take a moment to look around.
But I don’t. Because all I want ishim.
I turn to him and thread my fingers into his hair. It’s even shorter than usual, and there’s a scent to him that tells me he got a haircut today. It makes me smile, thinking that maybe he wanted to look his best for me.
I like that idea.
And as much as I like the uniform he wears, I’m pretty anxious to get it off him right now.
“I don’t have a ton of time,” I warn him as I unbutton him.
“And I take it you don’t want to look at my West Point yearbook or see my collection of challenge coins or antique cameras.”
“No,” I say quickly, even though the antique cameras do sound vaguely interesting. I pull off his shirt and kiss his chest.
His chest… that I never seem to get enough of.
Yes, much better than antique cameras.
“The only thing I’d like to see is more of this—” I step slightly backward, sliding both my hands across his chest and then downward to his belt. “—amazing skin of yours, and whatever form of a bed you sleep on,” I say cautiously with humor in my tone, remembering the sad air mattress he has in my upstairs room.
He whisks me up into his arms. “You might be surprised,” he tells me as he carries me into his bedroom and then lowers me onto his mattress. “It’s memory foam, adjustable, and even—” He reaches for a remote. “—has a built-in massager.”
I laugh as he presses the button, making the bed vibrate beneath me. “Impressive.”
He kicks off his shoes and, standing alongside the bed, says playfully, “Oh, lady, if you’re impressed by that, I’ve got something even better to show off.”
I giggle as he starts to strip his pants and boxers off, and then let my eyes flash widely when I see him, naked and erect. “Well, with something as impressive asthat, I don’t know why you bothered with the expensive bed.”
He sheathes himself with a condom and then blankets me with his body. “I like to indulge sometimes. Want to know how else I like to indulge?”
My breath catches at the feel of him at my entry. “Show me.”
He thrusts into me… hard… and my eyelids slam shut.
Ilikeweekday sex, I ponder briefly, and he takes me—with him on top first, and then moves me into so many positions as the evening sun lowers in the sky, eventually peeking past his blinds and casting an amber glow in the room.
It’s my only reminder of the passing time—and I don’t welcome it. Because these moments together feel like they’re slipping away as the weeks transpire and autumn threatens.
I nearly shudder at the thought, closing my eyes to that sun and letting myself pretend that this moment will never end. He moves me slowly, tenderly, and I savor how it feels different with each new angle when he’s completely joined with me.
I’ve already come once before he moves me back to the way I like best, traditional and vanilla as others my age might say I am. But when he takes me with him on top, I feel powerless—not in a way that is frightening, though. Instead, it feels almost selfish, like with him doing all the work, I can just experience the sensation of him. And he doesn’t complain. If anything, he seems to enjoy it, his eyes locked on me as I whimper with need.
After the second time he’s made me cry out his name tonight, I can’t help murmuring, “You said you like to indulge, yet you’re lettingmedo all the indulging.”
His eyes turn dark and devilish. “You think I don’t get anything out of it? Don’t you feel how hard I get? How every time you scream or gasp or pant, I get even harder for you?” He moves my hands to the pillow above me and his grip is tight.
I love it.