“Well, both. Chocolate cake and apple pie. One is in the fridge, and the other one is in the oven. We eat first,” I say, sounding all, um... maternal?
He locks my eyes and cocks his head at me.
My hands shoot up.
“Sorry...” I say, smiling.
Minutes later, we sit at the table.
I spent some time decorating, and now everything looks festive. It’s something Isabel and I used to do in my parents home when my mother felt generous enough to let us mingle with the staff members.
An hour ticks by, and the room is filled with laughter, reminding me of the way this place used to be when my grandparents and I spent the winters here.
I had no idea how funny he could be and what a vital force hides inside him.
It’s been a week.
The start was rocky––I’m not gonna lie––but things got better. His eyes no longer harbor sadness, a vibrant man coming to life. He’s smart and playful, his zest for life revving up a part of me I no longer thought I had.
We fuck, then we make love, and then we fuck again.
I’m addicted to him while he gets turned on at the sight of me. The nights we share are silent, buried in snow, and wrapped in soft lights.
We spend most of our evenings in front of the fireplace. He writes and draws.
I read.
Every time I glance at him and study him longer than a few moments, he slams the laptop shut, pulls me to his lap, and lets his body do the talking.
I respond to his voice, smile, and the glint in his eyes. I yearn for his touch and lips. And his cock to fill me up.
I’ve been starved for someone like him for so long there is no end to my hunger. The more he feeds me, the stronger my craving for him grows.
Tonight is no different.
We eat dinner, and an hour later, we find ourselves in the living room.
I lie on the couch with a pillow behind my back and my tablet on my lap while he sits in his armchair, his ankle resting on his knee.
In one hand, he holds a paper pad. With the other, he handles the laptop.
His eyes dash at me.
“What are you looking at?”
I breathe out soft laughter.
“I wouldn’t have pegged you as someone who’s reading, writing, and drawing.”
He twists his lips into a mischievous smile.
“Enjoying a quiet evening at home,” I add, amused.
“I can say the same thing about you.”
“It sounds... uneventful...” I say.
“And yet, it feels good.”