thirteen
That night went down (pun intended and acknowledged) in history, forever known as “Hamilton: 5/Sheridan: Lost Track After 17.” It was probably the best night I ever spent in a bed with a man.
And on the floor with a man.
And up against the door with a man.
And, God watch over and protect us, on the floor of the closet with a man.
As the sun crept into the sky we were lying next to each other, totally spent. It had been like the Oral Olympics. At one point poor Holly had actually come to the door, begging us to let her get some sleep. I couldn’t respond, being otherwise engaged in the throes of another intense orgasm, so Jack removed his mouth long enough to tell her to go away, returning to me quickly. Such chivalry.
We were facing each other on our sides and he had his arm under my head, propping me up. My leg was thrown over his hip, my arm wrapped around his waist, and I trailed my fingers up and down his back. We hadn’t spoken for a while, too tired to say a word. He was pressing his lips against my face, my temples, my eyelids, my lips, while softly humming a tune I didn’t recognize.
I let out a groan and stretched my arms over my head, arching my back, listening as my muscles let me know they were overworked. My breasts were dangerously close to his face, and he couldn’t resist placing a soft kiss on my left nipple—which responded in turn. Then his hand found my right nipple. I moaned softly, then pushed his hand away and rolled to the other side of the bed, my back to him.
“We have to stop, this is insane. I literally cannot handle any more. I think I’ve lost brain function. I can actually feel myself becoming stupid,” I said, digging under the covers and burying my face into the pillows. He steamrolled across the bed into me, sliding his hands beneath the covers and finding my hips. He molded his body into mine, pressing his chest into my back.
“Not possible. Let’s test it. What’s two times two?”
“Orange?” I giggled tiredly.
“Hmm, this is worse than I thought . . . let’s try another. What’s my name?”
“George?” I said, puzzled.
“George? Bloody George? Grace, I’m shocked.” He pressed harder into me as I laughed, and I could feel where this was going.
“Behave, George. There will be no more of that. My oonie can’t handle any more.” I protested on her behalf, though she was on a mission of her own. My silly body responded to him even when my brain was begging for rest.
“Settle, Sheridan. I am merely doing what all women seem to want. Spooning, is it?” He chuckled in my ear, raising the hairs on the back of my neck with his closeness.
“Well, then that’s fine. Quite nice, really,” I answered, giving a great yawn. “It’s sleepy time now, George, and then when we wake up, we will eat.” I started to drift off.
“And then . . . ?”
“Then we’ll see.”
He was quiet for a moment; then he laughed. “George and Gracie. It’s perfect.” He kissed me sweetly on the cheek, and with a final snuggle of that fine-ass body against mine, we fell asleep.
Eleven twenty-seven A.M.
When I woke up I was still exactly where I’d fallen asleep, with Jack snuggled persistently against me. I felt his strong arms around me, hands surrounding my breasts, and I never wanted to leave this exact spot. Nevertheless, nature called.
I rolled over gently, trying not to wake him. He stirred in his sleep and I watched him drift away again, marveling at the way the light from the window danced across his face, showing the different shades of blond and strawberry in his stubbly beard. I dusted my fingertips across his lips, and in his sleep, he kissed them. Not wanting to wake him further, I wrapped myself in the sheet that was on the floor and slipped from the bed, making my way to the bathroom. I nearly groaned as my legs protested. I could barely carry my own weight. I was sore, and frankly, I had every right to be.
I avoided my reflection, taking care of business first, and then brushed my teeth. After I splashed water on my face, I finally looked.
It was terrifying.
My hair was a nightmare and there was mascara raccooned under my eyes. My lips were incredibly swollen and puffy and the area around my mouth bore the battle scars of his scruff.
“Ridden hard and put away wet” sprang to mind.
Lowering the sheet, I examined myself further, each landmark bringing back a different memory. I saw nibbles on my breast where he had bitten down a little too hard and the redness below my nipples from his scruffy stubble.
Looking lower, there was my Hamilton Brand, the tiny, but quite deliberate, bite on the inside of my thigh. Seeing this brought back a wave that settled into the pit of my stomach. It had truly been unreal.
There had been none of the awkwardness that usually accompanied the first romp with someone new. Guys usually needed a little guidance on what felt good, at least the first few times.
Not our Mr. Hamilton.
He had known exactly what I needed and when I needed it. It was as if he was put on this earth for the sole purpose of giving me pleasure. Who am I to argue with intelligent design? Or the Big Bang. And speaking of bang . . .
We never actually had intercourse. And that was, kind of . . . well . . . nice. I loved that I still had so much to look forward to with him, so much we had yet to learn about each other. And if last night was any indication—
My tummy growled. I needed sustenance.
I attempted to brush out the sex hair on the back of my head, finally giving up and sweeping the whole mess into two pigtails. I washed my face again, removing the traces of mascara, and was debating on whether to shower now or after breakfast when I finally noticed the hickey.
A mother-loving hickey! I was thirty-three, for Christ’s sake!
Thirty-three and in pigtails . . .
Shut it.
The hickey on the side of my neck was the size of a quarter. I looked like I’d argued with a Hoover and the Hoover had won. Jesus. This is what you got for messing around with a twenty-four-year-old.
I opened the bathroom door, preparing to confront Jack and explain that a grown woman simply cannot go around with hickeys on her neck.
But I softened when I noticed that he was sound asleep in my bed, the sheets low on his torso, arms up behind his head, mouth slightly open.
Are they shooting an Abercrombie ad in your bedroom today?
He was so pretty.
I quickly scooped up his shirt from last night, which smelled divine, and buttoned it on. Then I grabbed a pair of panties from the dresser and quietly stepped out into the hall. I wanted to let him sleep a little longer, and I needed coffee.
Once in the hall, I was bending down to put on my panties when I heard Holly say from behind me, “That’s a view I never need to see again.”
I quickly pulled them on home and turned to face her with a sheepish grin. “Sorry.”
She pointed at the stairs. “Kitchen. Coffee’s made. I want the details that I didn’t already hear myself.”
You are in trouble.
I sat in the kitchen with my best friend, with the new “it boy” asleep in the room above me, and tried to explain the grand events that had taken place last night.
Holly listened as I recounted some of the sweeter moments, holding up her hand to stop me when I delved too deeply into details. She reminded me that she had heard the bulk of what had taken place, and I apologized repeatedly. She said not to worry, she and Nick had made popcorn and perched at the top of the stairs most of the night, listening.
I sat in one of her comfortable armchairs in the breakfast nook with my legs underneath me, drowning in Jack’s shirt and in his scent. I was nibbling a piece of toast and nursing a cup of coffee, when I heard stirring from above.
Holly heard him as well, and as his feet slapped on the stairs, she said, “Grace, I do believe you are blushing.” She smiled at me, grabbing her keys and leaving through the back door.
I sat up, then leaned back again, and then arranged myself in what felt like a natural pose. As I refined my cute sitting position, I heard, “Sheridan, do you have to pee?”
“Huh, wh-what?” I stammered, surprised to find he was already in the kitchen and looking at me strangely. He was dressed in his jeans, barefoot and bare-chested. His jeans were hanging low, and he looked like disheveled sex.
“Why are you wiggling about so?” he inquired, opening cupboards, looking for something. He picked up the coffeepot and gestured to my mug.
“Forget it,” I answered, flustered. I got up to get him a mug and I found that I was nervous all of a sudden.
Maybe this was it: one-night-stand time. This was when the awkward conversation would start, the promises to get together that would never take place. This was when the tension would begin. Damn it, I cared too much already. As I reached up to grab the mug, I felt his hand on my behind.
“Hurry up with that coffee, you little screamer, and then you can fix your man a proper breakfast,” he said, giving my ass a smack and then pressing his lips to my neck.
I smiled into the cupboard. We were good.