It’s not normal to want to take care of someone else as much as I want to take care of Muffy.
But grabbing a blanket and draping it over her doesn’t feel like an obligation.
It’s not something I resent.
It’s a privilege.
She smiles softly in her sleep, and I take that image with me into the bathroom after I kill the lights in the bedroom. That, and the memory of her face, lips parted, head thrown back, chest rising and falling as she screamed my name.
The taste of her orgasm on my tongue.
Yeah.
I’m totally rubbing this out in the shower, yanking on my cock and fantasizing about driving into Muffy. Taking her bent over the bed. Fingering her while she soaks in my tub.
Letting her tear my clothes off the minute I get home and banging her against the door.
I want to worship her gorgeous breasts.
I want to feel her come around my dick.
I want her to cradle my balls and suck me so deep into her mouth that I can feel the back of her throat.
And I want to eat her for breakfast every day for the next week.
Month.
Year.
I come with a blinding force, clenching my jaw so I don’t make any noise and wake her up.
My knees almost buckle, and my thighs are shaking.
I haven’t climaxed in almost two months, and it’s every bit as painful as it is euphoric.
My dick still works.
And it’s not on a hair trigger.
I rush through the rest of my shower, towel off, and head back to the bedroom completely naked.
Muffy’s still curled up in the middle of my bed, so I climb in, wrap my body around her, and bury my nose in her hair.
She sighs and wiggles her ass into my crotch. “Rhinestone panda.”
I can love her.
It’s like a friend thing.
Right?
Right.
No biggie. We’ll be friends who love each other, quietly, without saying the words out loud.
And have sex.
And don’t get married or have kids.
Perfect.
29
Muffy
I’m doing my best to very quietly make myself breakfast in Tyler’s kitchen, which is proving difficult.
One, my phone won’t stop blowing up.
My mother wants to know if she should tell William to bring over his old wedding china so she doesn’t have to buy me a new set when I get hitched to Tyler, because of course she’s going there.
Kami wants to know how Rufus is doing and when I’m going to talk to her about whatever the hell happened in Richmond.
And four of my current clients, plus three more women who regularly join us for our support group meetings, want to know why I haven’t mentioned that I’m dating a professional hockey player, because they definitely want details, and is it true that Rooster Applebottom has some sort of magical penis that would be worth trying out at least once, even if he’s not long-term relationship material, because they would absolutely be up for meeting him if I could set that up.
Also keeping me from getting breakfast is the fact that I can’t locate an egg-flipper anywhere, which is getting awkward since I already cracked two eggs and they are definitely at the need-to-be-flipped stage.
“Rufus, find me a flipper,” I whisper to my cat.
He ignores me and pushes his food bowl along the half-wall separating the kitchen from the dining room, making the scraping noise that only porcelain against tile can produce.
My phone buzzes again in rapid succession, and I wonder if this is how Tyler feels every time one of his family group texts starts.
It’s a lot to keep up with.
But most importantly, I need to flip my eggs.
Without a flipper.
“Screw it,” I mutter to myself. I’ve watched Food Network. I’ve seen chefs flip eggs without a flipper by doing that thing with the pan, so I’m gonna shake the pan and flip the eggs that way.
“Think coordinated thoughts, Rufus,” I whisper.
I grab the pan by the handle, jiggle it a little to make sure the eggs are free, flick my wrist, and— “Dammit.”
You guessed it.
Egg all over the stove, dripping over the cast iron grates.
“Seven out of ten,” Tyler says behind me, startling me so bad that I shriek and drop the pan, which lands crooked on the stove, then tumbles to the floor less than an inch from my bare foot, spilling the rest of the egg that wasn’t already on the stovetop.
“Not a serial killer,” he says dryly. “You’re safe.”
While I scurry out of the blast zone of the hot food, Rufus leaps onto the goopy eggs and slides into the oven.
I wince. My heart’s still in my throat, my phone’s buzzing incessantly, and I’ve made an absolute disaster out of Tyler’s kitchen after he put me to sleep with the orgasm to end all orgasms last night.
With all that exertion he put into it, I thought he’d sleep another hour or two. Especially with how very dead to the world he was when I left the bedroom ten minutes ago.
And now that he’s awake, I don’t know how to say thank you for the best feeling of my entire life and I’m sorry I fell asleep instead of trying to reciprocate.
Falling asleep after he went down on me feels very on-brand though.
It’s one hundred percent something I’d do, and look at that, I did it.
I point around the kitchen. “I’ll clean this up. And get you more eggs. I couldn’t find—”
He steps behind me, wraps one arm around my waist, and uses the other to reach into the crock of utensils on the counter and produce an egg-flipper.
“—That,” I finish lamely.
Is it wrong to feel like a disaster and not care at all because you’re suddenly realizing that the guy whose place you’re demolishing has a mighty oak in his pants that’s poking you in the butt?
Asking for a friend.
And yes, I’m my own friend. Most days.
His fingers drift lower on my belly. “I’ll clean it later.”
“Tyler?” I whisper.
“Hmm?”
“Are we dating?”
“Yes.”
I’ve never wanted to date anyone before, but there’s a grown woman inside me twirling and shrieking with joy right now.
Play it cool, Muffy. Play it cool. “Okay.”
“Just okay?”
No, not just okay, my vagina yells. This is fucking fantastic!
I press my ass back against his crotch. “I mean, good. Great.”
He replies with a kiss to my neck.
My breasts get heavy, my nipples tighten, and my clit pulses in anticipation.
“Tyler?”
His lips continue their path down to my shoulder. “Mm?”
“I’m not wearing panties.”
That tree trunk in his pants twitches against me. His hand momentarily stills, then slips into my sweatpants.
Okay, his sweatpants.
I totally raided his closet.
And that’s my last coherent thought before his fingers find my clit.
He circles the nub while sliding his other hand up my shirt to tease my breast.
Sensations rocket through my body, ecstasy skating over my skin while he strokes my pussy and caresses my breast. I gasp and grab the counter for support. “Oh, god, you’re good at this.”
“Spread your legs for me, Muffy.”