I laid on this bed spread eagle last night and masturbated for him.
Atticus.
A friend of a friend. A sort of stranger.
Someone who I’m pretty sure doesn’t really even like me that much and probably finds me pretentious. Ugh, he wouldn’t really be wrong there.
Sitting up, I take the elastic from my wrist, put my hair into a messy wad on top of my head, and rub my eyes. The room comes into focus, and I notice things I didn’t get the chance to notice last night. It was late, and the room was not the focus.
I was the focus.
For him and me.
I gasp a little at that realization. At thirty-seven-years-old, I just had my first sexual experience that was meant solely for me. And it was at the alpha commands of a greasy mechanic whom I hardly know.
Well.
Now that I think of it, I guess I have been getting to know Atticus. I don’t know why I’m only now realizing it, but… we’re kind of friends now. Our friends-of-friends relationship has evolved into something real. Our time in the cabin together has made us, in my opinion, real friends. And then there’s the whole rubbing myself to a toe-curling orgasm for him.
Yeah, if that doesn’t make us friends, that makes me a complete slut so I’m going with friends.
We are friends.
I wipe under my eyes as I do a mental mambo to bring myself comfort. We’re friends, and sometimes friends fool around after they’ve been drinking. No harm there. And today, we’ll go back to being just friends and never talk about this again, and everything is a-okay.
Only when I think about not doing it again… not getting to watch him cum… not sharing a bed with him again… my stomach rolls. And I didn’t drink enough Brandy to blame the booze.
Do I… do I like Atticus? Like,like himlike him?Jesus, Goldie, listen to yourself.
It’s just… Reynold Porter did a goddamn number on me. And I haven’t considered men or dating or even sex since him. Truth be told, I wasn’t sure that being sexual with a man again would even happen this soon. I felt broken. I really thought I was broken. A big part of me still believes I am.
But with Atticus, all of that seemed to fall away. I wanted to cum for him. I wanted him to tell me what to do. I wanted to please him but his drive to please me made me that much wilder. It was… unlike anything I’d ever experienced.
And I want more of it.
Fuck.
There goes the whole “friends sometimes mess around and never talk about it” plan from thirty seconds ago.
There’s a knock at the door that startles me from my thoughts.
“Sweetheart, would you like to stay a couple of hours and make some soup with me? I’ll send you home with plenty,” Edie calls from the other side of the bedroom door.
“Yeah!” I call back, actually meaning it. I’ve never made soup from scratch, and as the wind claws at the house outside, I know having something warm and homemade to eat all week will be good.
And truth be told, I’m not ready to say goodbye to Edie and Harry, either.
“Let me get dressed, and I’ll be right out,” I call, a bit panicked because while I’m dressed from the waist up, I’m completely naked under these sheets.
“Great. Coffee’s done, and breakfast is ready so come out here with your appetite, too,” Edie calls through the door before her soft footsteps trail off.
* * *
Everything about Edith Wintersmakes me feel so freaking good. Happy, warm, loved. A conversation with her feels like a hug. But spending hours with her in a cozy kitchen while she passively teaches me how to slice onions and pare potatoes as she also tells me all about Atticus’s favorite meals… I feel like the Grinch with how my heart swells in my chest.
When I came into the kitchen about two hours ago, Edie told me Harry and Atticus were outside shoveling the driveway. Bridge club is tomorrow, and they need the drive shoveled for that. Peeking out the blinds, I couldn’t help but smile as I watched Atticus shoveling snow, his dad standing behind him with a blue snow cap on.
They haven’t been inside yet, and the longer they stay outside, the more nervous I am to finally see Atticus. Excitement wiggles down my spine when I hear the back door swing open.