Maybe she hasn’t.
I come fast. So fast, I think I beat her to the gate, and regret hits me hard when it’s over and I’ve calmed down some. Once I come back from the bathroom after getting rid of the condom, I settle back into the bed. She curls up by my side, her fingers sliding all over my skin, and I ask her an important question.
“Did you have an orgasm?”
She shakes her head. “It felt good, though.”
Oh no. That won’t stand with me.
“Are you still sensitive down here?” I cup her mound like I own it.
Eleanor shivers. “A little.”
Her clit is swollen. I can tell. I rub my thumb over it and she sucks in a breath, her legs parting, allowing me better access. I test her folds and they’re swollen too. She’s so hot. Creamy. I wish I could fuck her bareback. Maybe later, but not now.
“That feels good,” she says after a few minutes of me stroking.
I suck a nipple between my lips and continue to play between her legs. That’s how I finally make her come. A couple of quick strokes, concentrating on her clit, all while I lick and bite her nipple.
Damn, this girl is sexy. I don’t want to let her go.
But she might leave me once she finds out the truth.
Twenty
Eleanor
“We need to have a conversation,” I say as I go through the box labeled kitchen shit.
No joke. That’s what he wrote on the side of the box.
“About what?” His expression is full of apprehension.
“Your favorite foods.” I pull a giant pan out of the box, admiring it. Looks like it’s never been used. “What do you like to eat?”
He’s leaning against the counter, watching me. I finally convinced him that we couldn’t spend all afternoon in bed—he was disappointed, poor guy—and now we’re in his kitchen, and I’m thinking about making a very late lunch.
I’m absolutely starving. I checked his food situation, and there’s nothing in this place. I think we might have to make a grocery run, but that’s okay. It’ll be fun.
I want to make him something. But…what?
“I like everything.” He grins. “Especially you.”
The man can eat me like no other, I will give him that.
“I’m not talking about my vagina,” I say breezily, which makes him burst out laughing. “I’m talking about actual food. You’re a big boy. Surely you eat a lot.”
“Yeah. I try to keep it healthy.”
“I’m craving an omelet. How about you?” I rise to my feet and settle the pan on top of the stove.
“We can find a restaurant around here. I’m sure there are ones that serve it all day,” he suggests.
“No, I want to make you an omelet. It’s my specialty.” I’m limited on my cooking specialties, but an omelet is definitely one of them.
“You can cook?” He rubs his jaw.
“Yes.” Sort of. “Can you?”
“Not really.” He shrugs. “Why cook when you can just buy whatever you want to eat, whenever you want it?”
“You said you like to keep it healthy.”
“I’m not always buying McDonald’s or whatever. You can buy healthy takeout too,” he says.
“Right.” I cross my arms, contemplating him. “But I want to make you a meal. So let’s go to the supermarket.”
“Why?” He is honestly perplexed, which is kind of funny.
“So I can buy some eggs and cheese and milk, silly. Oh, and butter. And bacon. Or maybe you’d rather I put ham in the omelets? Maybe some green onion, a little bit of spinach?” My mind is a whirl with ideas.
“Is that what you really want to do?” he asks calmly.
Nerves eat at my insides. Why is he looking at me like that? So intently. All I want is to make him an omelet. What’s the big deal?
“Yes.” I lift my chin. “I do.”
“You are too good to me.” He pulls me into his arms and buries his face against my neck, his lips tickling my skin when he speaks. “Wanting to make me a meal. No girl has made me food since I lived at home.”
“Really?” I’m shocked. But then…
“How many relationships have you been in?” I ask warily.
Slowly he pulls away from me, his brow furrowed. “Uh.” He says nothing else.
That’s his answer. Uh.
“I’m guessing the answer is none?” Now I’m the one frowning.
“How many relationships have you been in?” he asks.
“I had one serious boyfriend in high school. There was that one guy I dated off and on who I met at beauty school. Turns out he’s gay.” I wince a little. That had been so embarrassing. I made a fool of myself over that man, all for nothing. He didn’t even like women. He just didn’t know how to tell me he was gay. “He had the prettiest face I’d ever seen on a man. He was beautiful. Like a statue.”
Mitch’s jaw goes tight and he averts his head, staring off into space. He looks almost…jealous?
No. That’s crazy.
“And that’s it. I’ve gone on lots of dates. I’ve even gone on multiple dates with one man, but they never worked out. We just never…clicked.” My voice is full of sadness as I mourn the dating ghosts of my past. Some of those guys were nice.
Most of them were not. Meaning, my mourning period is very short lived.
“I guess my last relationship was in high school,” he says. “Danica Allen was her name. Cutest thing ever. Cheerleader to my football player. She had a great rack.” He pauses, sending me an apologetic look.
It’s fine. But I am definitely sensing a theme here.
“Danica was always down for a good time. And I don’t mean that in a nasty way. More like she just always knew how to have fun. We dated through football season my senior year,” he explains.
Now it’s my turn to be jealous. Over a girl who was in his life in high school. I’m being ridiculous. Danica is long gone.
So why do I feel the sudden need to pull pretty, fun Danica’s hair out?
“After Danica, and once I got into college, I just looked for fun wherever I could get it,” he says. “Always temporary fun. One-girl-after-another fun. I didn’t want anything serious. That wasn’t my thing.”
He gets quiet once again, and I know he’s lost in memories. Which is nice and all, but considering I’m still dealing with my jealous feelings, we need to keep this conversation moving.
“It’s been a long time then,” I say. My words seem to snap him out of his thoughts, and he stands at attention.
“Yeah.”
“You’re not one to do relationships.”
“That’s why I got on the app,” he reminds me. “I thought it might be a good place to find a serious relationship.”
“Right.” I nod, putting on a bright smile. I’m faking it a little, but he doesn’t need to know that. It’s weirdly awkward, talking about our past relationships—or lack thereof. Normally I’m feeling awkward every step of the way with a new guy.
This time, with Mitch, it was never awkward. The entire weekend has been awkward-free.