“Oh yeah,” I moan at the fantasy, my body an absolute wreck at the thought of him having me in literally any way possible. I dip my head down, my nose meeting the fleece fabric of his sweatshirt. The one he gave me to wear. The one I slept in.
The feeling of wearing my high school boyfriend’s letterman jacket washes over me and I take a big deep breath in, loving how I can still smell Atticus on this even after a night. Motor oil, men’s deodorant… Atticus. The same smell that once assaulted my mattress and burned my nose hairs is now bringing me to a mind-blowing orgasm.
With my fingers working so fast that my wrist is growing sore, I take another hit of Atti from the fabric as my knees rise up, my orgasm whipping down my spine with frantic urgency.
“Oh, oh, oh,yes,” I moan softly as my orgasm crests, my breath catching, my heart stopping, my mouth open in a silent, wordless cry. And then… it crashes down over me, powerful and heady.
My legs slam together as my pussy throbs and aches all around my drenched fingers. My eyes squeeze shut and my mouth closes, dry and parched. My hips grind out my orgasm, finding friction against my unmoving fingers as I come down from the image of Atticus having me.
“Fu-uck,” I breathe out, my fingertips still twitching gently against my sticky clit. The orgasm was so fast but so damn good that I don’t want to take my hand off my pussy just yet. It’s one of those that pulses through you in rhythmic waves, leaving you feeling like instead of moving on with your day, if you lay there just a few minutes you could go again.
“Good morning.”
My eyes shoot open. No, shoot isn’t fast enough or dramatic enough to describe how fucking fast my eyes open and how freaky and wide they go. My jaw splits, but no words come out of my mouth because… oh my god.Oh. My. God.
Atticusis inhere.
Hedidcome back to the room like he promised.
I don’t have time to go “ahh” over the fact that this man kept his promise to me and was a supreme gentleman by sleeping on the floor. Nope, no time for that because I’m too busy being absolutely fucking mortified.
If I was worried about feeling awkward around Atti this morning because he caught me checking out his semi last night, well, fear not Goldie. I’ve got bigger, more humiliating fish to fry.
Then my brain does that thing that all brains do upon realizing you’ve been caught doing something absolutely mortifying by the singular person you did not want to get caught by. It starts reasoning that Atticus, in fact, likely did not hear me or if he did, he didn’t know what I was doing.
Quickly, I replay the last five minutes in my head as fast as I can. I didn’t moan his name, did I? I slap a hand to my forehead in a cringe, but the slap sends a painful, post-wine rattle through my temples, making me feel worse. I think I just said “oh” in a slightly moany but not solely orgasmic voice. I could’ve been moaning from the hangover. I could’ve been having a morning stretch and been struck down by the dehydration Charlie horse.
Yeah.
He doesn’tknowI was masturbating. And he really doesn’t know I was masturbating to the fantasy of him. I mean, he couldn’t know that. No way. So why am I freaking out?
I drop my hand down from my forehead and slowly take the other out of my panties because touching myself while we’re in the same room together—knowingly–while we’re both conscious? Feels a bit creepy. Slowly, I push myself to sitting, crawl to the foot of the bed and peer over.
“Good morning,” I say, forcing myself to act as natural as possible. I even shoot him my million-dollar grin as I take him in on the floor. He’s massive down there and as mortified as I was a moment ago, my thoughts immediately shift to guilt. “You should’ve slept in the bed. I feel bad. You’re way too big for the floor.”
He turns on his side, propping his head up on an elbow as he yawns. The blanket is bunched around his waist, covering most of his thick thighs, but his sockless feet stick out.
“That bed ain’t big enough for two people,” he says, yawning again as he pinches sleep from his eyes. His man bun is still intact, though looking a little frayed, and his stubble is thicker than I remember.
I blink down at him. “If we slept on our sides,” I think aloud, “it would’ve worked.” He stares up at me, his face devoid of thought or emotion. Maybe he didn’t hear me? Maybe he really did wake up as I finished? My rapid pulse steadies a little.
“Thanks for sleeping in here. Tonight, you can have the bed.”
He just grunts before he uses those ropy, hulking arms to push himself to sitting. I’ve always known Atticus is inked up everywhere but seeing him in the crisp morning light, his arms on display thanks to the fact his henley is in a ball on the floor, I’m a little transfixed.
I’ve never been with an inked guy. Okay, maybe the last fuckface I “dated” had some work on his upper arm but seeing a man like Atticus that has a snake inked down the column of his throat? Makes my ex's family crest on his upper shoulder look like a temporary tattoo you apply with warm water and a washcloth in your grandma’s bathroom.
“I like the snake on your neck,” I tell him as I watch him get his morning bearings. He stretches above his head, linking his hands as he arches his back. His spine pops, but all I can stare at is his core, bubbled with muscle and ink, and a faint smattering of hair beneath his belly button, carving a delicious trail down to his cock. Well, it disappears beneath his waistband but that’s where it’s headed.
He twists his neck and looks at me with one eye held shut as he continues to stretch. “Is that so?”
I nod. “Yeah,” I say, feeling a little stupid because why did I just tell him that? So I like his tattoos. Big fucking deal. I’m sure all women like his ink. Telling him is like the equivalent of a man telling a woman he likes her boobs. Duh. Feeling like I’m two seconds away from wanting to tear off my skin and disappear, I move to the edge of the bed and swing my legs out.
Atticus, at some point, brought my bag in here as well as set my cell phone on the side table, along with a glass of water and a Tylenol. Quickly, I pop the pain reliever and slam the water, knowing the second I’m up and moving, the wine will have me in a chokehold. I rarely drink.
But it felt good last night. To drink, eat, and laugh.
I haven’t felt that good and that carefree in so long. Or… ever?