When Felicia woke, it took her a moment to remember where she was. She was in a double bed, the sheets dark navy with pale blue pinstripes. The walls were a soft grey, the floors hardwood, with heavy, dark furniture accentuating the basic male nature of the room. Her eyes fell on the white shirt draped over a chair. The first three buttons were missing.
She sat up abruptly, clutching the sheets to her naked chest. She was alone in the bed, and when she ran her hand over the other side, the sheets were cool. Where was Kyle?
She swung her legs to the floor and then paused, wincing. However she had felt about it at the time, she was paying the price for two – no, three – bouts of hot, vigorous, sex now. Her cunt ached. Her labia felt stepped on. She dropped the sheet and looked down at nipples still red and swollen looking.
She looked up again and saw herself in the mirror above his armoire. Her hair was a tangled mess, smashed flat on one side and poofed out on the other. Her makeup was entirely gone – the shower they’d taken together when they’d gotten here had finished that job – and her face looked bare and young. Her eyes were wide. Her lips were puffy with last night’s kisses.
She stood up, wincing again. She was in track and field, and did yoga every Saturday with her mom, but her butt and the inside of her thighs were sore and stiff.
“I guess sex uses different muscles,” she muttered to herself, and then had a fit of the giggles.
Where the hell was Kyle?
She retrieved the button-impaired shirt, spent two minutes grooming her terrible hair into a French braid, and went to the door. The hall smelled of coffee and bacon. She followed her nose.
Kyle was in the kitchen, back to the door, scrambling eggs. He was shirtless. He was humming.
She looked at him and had to smile. He was so cute and domestic. Nonetheless, this was the proverbial light of morning and she was seized with shyness. She suddenly recalled that she hadn’t brushed her teeth.
Just then he turned around, pan in hand. He saw her and stopped. They looked at one another for a moment and then he said, “Good morning.”
“Hi,” she said and smiled hesitantly.
“Hi,” he said and smiled back at her.
“How weird is this?” she asked with a nervous laugh, bahis firmaları twisting the loose sleeves of the shirt in her fingers.
He put the pan down and came towards her. She watched him come, watched how his muscles moved in his chest and stomach, and felt a wave of wanting come over her again. It was surreal, this was Mr. Adams, focus of many crushes at Verdale High, funny but tough, he’d given her a B+ three weeks ago on her final assignment, he’d written one of her college letters of recommendation, for God’s sake. And he was walking toward her with his shirt off, a look in his eyes that could only be described as “hungry.”
He stopped in front of her. “It’s a little weird,” he agreed. “But I woke up next to you, and I had no regrets.” He brushed a tendril of hair away from her forehead. “I guess I’m crazy.” He grinned at her.
She reached out and put her fingertips on his left pectoral. “I guess I am too,” she said.
He touched her cheek lightly.
She looked up at him. It was stupid, how shy she was feeling, how unsure. He’d seen her naked and now she didn’t know how to get him to kiss her.
“Want some breakfast?” he asked, and turned away to the table.
“Sure,” she said, cursing inwardly. She took a seat at the small table in the corner. A jug of orange juice and plates of bacon and toast shared the small space with a water glass stuffed full of marigolds.
He came over, pan in hand. “Do you like eggs?”
“Sure,” she said.
I don’t know how to do this, she thought, as she ate her breakfast and watched him eat his. I don’t know how to be the girlfriend of a – a man, with his own house and who can make scrambled eggs with cheese and spices and who owns a coffeemaker. What the hell am I doing here?
“How is everything?” he asked.
“It’s good,” she said, and smiled brightly at him.
“What’s wrong?” he said.
“Nothing,” she told him. “Why would something be wrong?”
“You’re giving me a “nothing’s wrong” smile,” he said.
She stared at her plate. He was more perceptive than a teenaged boy, too. “I just – this is kind of…I don’t know how to be…this is like, I don’t know, some episode of Sex in the City, and I’m not very experienced with, you know…”
“The morning after,” he said.
“Yeah.” She put kaçak iddaa down her fork.
“The breakfast was too much,” he said, and shoved a hand through his hair. “I deliberated over the scrambled eggs.”
“No, no, I liked the eggs. The eggs were good,” she said.
“I don’t have a lot of experience either,” he said. “I was married to my wife for six years, and I never really dated anyone else.”
Felicia knew about his wife – the whole school knew, it was one of the romantic things about him. His wife had died, and he quit his plushy teaching job in New York and moved back to the town where he’d grown up.
“It’s been a long time since I brought anyone home for – breakfast,” he said. He put his fork down too. “I guess I’m not doing very well at it.”
“I liked the breakfast,” said Felicia. She put her hand across the table and touched his fingers.
He turned his hand and took hers. “I should have ditched the idea, and just made love to you again,” he said, a smile tugging at his lips.
She blushed but couldn’t stop her own smile. “I don’t know about that. I’m sort of – sore.” Her blush grew fiercer.
“Oh really?” he said. He looked unbearably smug all of a sudden. “I guess the third time I should have been a bit more careful.”
She remembered it, her hands clinging to his headboard, his grunting, pounding, heat draped across her back. It was a full-body flashback, and she let out a small, heated breath.
He was watching her, his eyes filled with knowledge, and she couldn’t look away from him, even as she flushed redder. He got up, and she watched him come around the table, helpless and docile as a rabbit gone tharn. He knelt down on the kitchen floor in front of her.
“Sore, huh?” he said quietly, eyes intent. “Well, I only have one option, then.” He slid his hands up under the shirt as he spoke, pushing it toward her waist.
She caught at his wrists. “Wait, what are you doing?” She giggled nervously. “It’s – broad daylight. In your kitchen. Don’t…” She broke off with a gasp as he pushed his thumb between her thighs and parted her labial folds gently.
“No one will see you but me,” he told her, leaning in.
Her thighs parted instinctively to admit his body.
He kissed her slowly and thoroughly, his thumb working slowly kaçak bahis and thoroughly down below, and by the time he pulled away again she was limp and quivering, her hips lifting slightly at every stroke.
Her eyes were shut, and when he moved away she assumed it was to take off his pants. His hands tugged at her hips and she slid forward on the chair, eyes still shut, mind still swimming in the warm pink sea of arousal. When his tongue touched her, she nearly leapt off the seat.
His hands clamped down, though, pinning her, and now his lips closed – oh, so gently, so deliberately – around her sensitive, much-abused clitoris, teasing and teasing.
She was going to go insane. His delicacy, his soft, careful movements, his strong hands holding her still. Her spine bowed, she clutched at the table. She was making some kind of noise, she knew, a breathy almost-whine. “Ohh,” she said, “ohhhhh.”
He plunged his tongue into her, curled it upward, drew it out and then up against her clit in a flat, muscular motion. She shuddered. He did it again, and then again, and then she came, long and slow like a wave breaking and breaking against a shore, the rush of the water, the hiss and coil of the foam, and then the gradual sinking drain back out to sea.
“Oh, god,” she said to the ceiling. She was sprawled in the chair, the slats digging uncomfortably into her back. One leg was draped over his shoulder. When had that happened? She looked down.
He was resting his head against her thigh and smiling at her. His mouth and chin were wet. Unabashedly, he took a napkin off the table and wiped his face.
She was sure that no one could blush this hard and live through it. Her head was going to explode.
“Ok?” he asked her.
“Um,” she said, and shoved herself up into the chair again, tugging desperately at the shirt hem.
“Are you embarrassed?” he asked her, sounding astonished.
“Um,” she said again.
“Listen,” he said, and leaned into her.
She could smell herself, faintly, on his breath, and was undone by it. Shame and desire swept through her in equal portions, fighting for supremacy.
“I don’t ever want you to feel like you have to do anything,” he told her seriously. “You can tell me to stop, it doesn’t matter when. I will.”
He’d shaved that morning, she could see. He’d missed a spot near his ear. His eyes, in the morning light, were clear and grey and sincere. Desire won out.
“Don’t stop,” she told him, and began to unbutton the shirt. “Don’t stop.”