(Braden)
“Getting up too early is a vice habitual in horned owls, stars, geese, and freight trains. Some hunters acquire it from geese, and some coffee pots from hunters.”
—ALDO LEOPOLD, A SAND COUNTY ALMANAC
The warm body I wake up next to is not the one I’m expecting—it is, however, the one I typically share my bed with.
Charley’s snout is resting on my chest, her perpetual doggy morning breath wafting toward my face. She opens her eyes lazily a moment after I do and looks pleased as always to see me. Greatest dog ever. Even so, her furry muzzle is not the face I wanted to wake up to this morning.
I lift my head and peer about the room. Amber is nowhere to be seen, but all of her bags are where I left them last night, which is a good sign that she’s here somewhere and didn’t decide to bail on me in the middle of the night.
Although why she isn’t lying here next to me remains to be seen. If she were, that would make it a hell of a lot easier to commence with what I had mind when I woke up. Now I have to get out of bed, drag her back in here while listening to her gripe about it being her turn to set the pace, then see how many licks it takes to quiet her complaints. My head flops back to the pillow on a groan. I don’t care how many licks it takes, I have a taste for every last one.
Before tossing back the covers, I apologize to my morning wood. A quick glance at the clock reveals that I not only forgot to set my alarm, I also overslept long enough that once I’m done giving Amber a sweet tongue-lashing, there won’t be time to enjoy more before I’m due in town for work.
Despite the multiple rounds we went at last night, it would still be pretty rude to saunter out there dick-first, so I tug on the pants and shirt I tossed on the floor last night, then run a hand through my hair. Charley bounds off the bed and pads out ahead of me, breaking into a scamper when she registers that someone is in the kitchen. I nearly do the same when I spot Amber standing with her back to me, hands on her hips as she stares at the kitchen table. She’s wearing a pink silk robe with a short hem that barely meets her thighs, and when Charley bounds over, Amber immediately starts to fuss over her.
“Good morning, pretty girl.” Charley burrows in for some affection, and Amber’s intent on indulging her, so she starts to break at the waist, and when she does—whether my pants are on or not—I may not be able avoid going into this conversation the wrong way if she bends over too far.
Whatever you do, mountain sprite, don’t bend over. Please. Don’t bend over, don’t bend over, don’t bend—
She bends over.
Evidently, she’s capable of refusing anything I ask of her—even if it’s all in my head, because Charley gets a thorough nuzzling on the head and I get a perfect peek of what kept me up too late last night.
I remind myself to keep my greeting simple, ensuring that I don’t say something she may not find charming at this hour. She seemed to like every blunt, dirty thing I said last night, but it might not go over the same way if those are my first words at sunrise. I just need her to stand up straight as quickly as possible. There are too many soft, pretty, and pink areas in my view right now, all of which my gutter-dwelling mind is far too focused on.
Gravel-voiced, I offer up my only PG-rated thought.
“Morning.”
Amber cranes her head my way but takes her sweet time rising upright. When she does, she quickly starts to tuck a few locks of hair behind her ears, escapees from the loose knot atop her head.
“Morning.” She casts a hand behind her, gesturing toward the table with a fitful flick of her wrist. “I woke up a few hours ago and couldn’t get back to sleep, so I made breakfast. Well, not made breakfast. Technically, all I did was dish up breakfast. I wanted to make eggs, but you don’t have any.”
I glance at the table. Two bowls filled with granola, another bowl with sliced fruit, and a gallon of almond milk. I return my gaze to Amber, who’s now awkwardly smoothing the front of her robe.
“I don’t like eggs.”
She turns away and drags one of the kitchen chairs out. “That’s too bad. I make a mean veggie frittata.” She points to the seat. “Here, sit.”
Woodenly, I take a seat where she’s indicated, casting a wary look at both the table and Amber—because between her fidgeting and this vaguely domestic scene she’s tried to set, I’m not sure what’s happening here. I may have found Amber’s bold, brash confidence a little hard to take when we first met, but now that is one of the traits I like best about her. She doesn’t hedge her personality for anyone—certainly not me—which makes her self-consciousness this morning even harder to understand.
Amber doesn’t take a seat herself. She starts to fiddle with the bowl of fruit, giving it a half turn and then moving the serving spoon she set in it, from one side over to the other. When she reaches for the almond milk, I intercept the move, grabbing her hand before she does God knows what else. I twist our fingers together and stroke my thumb against the back of her hand.
Amber lets out a sigh. “I’m not good at this part.”
My forehead creases. “What part?”
“This,” she announces, rather loudly, flailing her hand over the table. “The domestic-goddess, wow-him-with-your-ability-to-serve-up-a-morning-after-breakfast-in-bed crap.”
She sighs again, still assessing the tabletop as if that’s actually the problem here. Which it isn’t. The problem is that she’s trying to be someone other than who she already is, and for no good reason. I’ve already wasted too much time attempting to confine Amber to a variety of neat little boxes in my mind, thinking that if I reduced her to a stereotype—gorgeous but lazy, beautiful but difficult, amazing but intent on driving me insane, etcetera—it would be easier to ignore the way I felt about her. But no matter the box or the label, she’s shattered each one, every time.
And this box? The one she’s confined herself to as a less-than domestic goddess? I’m not interested. A domestic goddess probably cares more about keeping me from dragging dirt into the house, rather than coming along for the ride to where all that dirt originated. But Amber not only wants to ride along, she wants to beat me up the trail, and see who comes home with the most dirt packed in their boot treads.
To hell with domestic goddesses. I just want Amber, dirt and all.
“Of all the things I thought about this morning”—I run my eyes up and down her form—“I promise you that ‘Gee, I hope she makes breakfast’ wasn’t one of them.”
Amber covers her face and laughs, her entire body relaxing when she does, and I take the opportunity to reach out and tease the bare skin on her legs, tickling the inside of her thighs just below the hem of her robe. She turns and rests lazily against the edge of the tabletop.
When she drops her hands from her face, the woman I’ve come to know is back. One side of her mouth tilts up.
“If breakfast wasn’t one of your thoughts, what did you come up with?”
I start to move my hand that’s teasing the inside of her thigh upward.
“Waking up with your head on my chest. Waking up with your mouth on me. My mouth on you.” My fingers meet the crease between her legs, and Amber’s eyes drop closed.
A soft whimper leaves her mouth. “Pretty sure it’s supposed to be my turn to set the pace. You got two turns last night.”
“Then you should have put your time to better advantage when you woke up. I was lying right next to you. You chose to come out here and fuck around with breakfast.”
I give the flimsy tie on her robe a tug. The silk falls open only slightly, so I reach up and part the fabric, exposing and framing her. And just like last night, my mouth goes dry at the sight of her smooth, golden skin, her flat torso, and the feminine taper near her hip bones that highlights how insanely fit she is.
“Christ,” I whisper. “Look at you.”
Last night, I shied away from words that might make her feel like she was just a body to me, because she isn’t. I love the physicality of her, yes, but I don’t want that to be our story. I want there to be more between us. But this morning, it’s harder to keep those words at bay.
I slide one hand down the center of her body, my fingers spread to skim the inside curve of her breasts along the way. Once I meet her belly button, I circle a finger there lazily before reaching around her so I can rearrange the breakfast buffet she’s set out, clearing some room on the table.
I rap the tabletop with my knuckles. “Up.”
Amber does what I ask, but not without commentary. She babbles about my being bossy and claims the only reason I’m getting away with it is because I give great orgasms. I stand up, crowding her space so that she’s forced to make room for me between her legs. When I slip the robe completely off her shoulders, I urge her body back to the table at the same time—and she’s still talking. I drop my hands to either side of her, listening while I look my fill.
“You are the worst smexy-times business partner,” she huffs. “Fifty–fifty, we agreed. But last night you wouldn’t let me have a turn, and I get the feeling it’s going to be the same story this morning.”
I latch my hands to her ass and give her body a quick yank so she’s at the very edge of the table, which quiets her for a beat. Long enough that her eyes meet mine just before I drop to my knees. I could draw this out to toy with her, but I don’t want to. I press my hands to her inner thighs to part her legs wider, then trace my thumbs up and down her smooth pussy. Amber draws in a stuttered breath that momentarily interrupts her continued jabbering.
“Do you not remember that part of our discussion last night, Braden? The taking-turns agreement? I told you I want to drive you crazy but in a good way, and now—” She sucks in another hard breath. “Oh my God . . .”
The rest of her words dissolve into gibberish when I sink my mouth onto her, all but devouring the sweet taste, drawing a long moan out of Amber. I take another pass, slower this time, lingering over her clit with the tip of my tongue. She goes silent, nothing but the rush of her breath to be heard.
Mystery solved.
Two, that’s my answer.
When I woke up this morning, I wanted to see how many licks it would take to quiet her complaints, and now I know. It’s two—two wet, worshipful, sweet licks.
I make another pass, relishing the way her taste and scent grow headier with each one. But when her hips buck up to meet the press of my tongue, I give her clit some more attention, suckling gently until she lets out a whimper and grinds her pussy to my face. I soak up her impatience and consider how much better this could be if I weren’t due at work so soon. I’d let her do that all day if I could. Since I can’t, I bring one hand up and tickle two fingers to her opening, parting her with the just tip of my middle finger.
“Fuck yes,” Amber hisses.
I debate using my free hand to jerk myself off, but decide against it because I want her orgasm more than I want my own. I curl my hand around her thigh to encourage her leg to my shoulder. Amber takes the cue and does the same with her other leg, giving her leverage to press closer to my face and me the room to slip two fingers inside her. I give her both at once because she’s wet enough to have already coated my mouth and my scruff, but she still groans at the fullness. I work my fingers in and out, long slow strokes to start, until the cadence of her breath turns ragged.
My tongue flattens to her clit, working in persistent circles, and I give her my fingers in shorter strokes, faster and harder, until she gasps wildly. When she comes, I nearly laugh, pleased as fuck with this moment, this morning, this amazing woman. I plant a few kisses to her clit as I slow my fingers entirely, drawing them out gently.
Amber lets out a satisfied sigh and pats my forehead with her hand, like I’m her adorable lapdog—something I could try to deny, but given that I’m currently on my knees in front of her and panting a little, there’s not much point.
“Fifty–fifty is overrated. No need for me to set the pace; I like this arrangement just fine.”
I rise up and look Amber over—her robe open, her lush body on display, and her cheeks flushed. A soft smile on her lips, her glassy and glittering eyes on mine.
That beats any social media pic she’s ever posted, in my opinion. Even better, I get to claim some part in what made her look this way. Pardon me while I pat myself on the back and enjoy the beautiful, sated evidence of what I just helped make happen.
Unfortunately, duty calls so I can’t enjoy the view for long. I glance at the kitchen clock. Amber checks the clock for herself, casts a look at my fly, and notes the grimace now on my face.
“I have no idea if you have to work today. Do you?”
I nod, jaw tensing. “Public hours at my office. I have to get going, otherwise I’m going to be late.”
She draws her hand down and grips me through my pants.
“OK. So I need to be quick then.” She starts to work open my zipper. “Condom? Or I could give you what you just gave me. I like the sound of both, so you pick. Tell me what you need.”
Closing my eyes, I make a futile attempt to block out the image of either. It doesn’t work. With a groan, I lay my hands over hers. “I can’t.”
“What?”
I open my eyes and sigh. “Right now I could probably come in a hot minute. But even that won’t be fast enough.”
“Seriously? You’re going to leave?” She points accusingly at my fly. “Like that?”
I nod and Amber sticks her lower lip out in a cute pout, and I’d do the same thing if it wouldn’t look totally stupid on me. All I can do is hang my head in surrender.
“Trying to be a responsible adult right now.”
Amber laughs softly. “Ah, adulting. I know it well.” She swats my ass. “Good luck trying to walk with that boner.”
I give myself a painful adjustment, changing the subject in hopes that might offer a little relief. “What are you going to do today? Scout some more? You can take my truck if you want to. I’m driving my work truck into town.”
I point to the hooks near the back door, where the keys to my personal truck are. Amber smiles, rests a hand to the center of her chest.
“You know the way to my heart, Braden. A real truck to drive. Thank you, because that rental car is a joke.” She hops off the table and closes her robe up. “Breakfast was a bust, but what about dinner? I saw an elk backstrap in your freezer when I was snooping around this morning. Will you be back in time? I could throw that tenderloin on the grill and cook up something to go with it.”
Amber then goes still, seemingly caught off guard by what just came out of her own mouth, and begins to backpedal.
“I mean, whatever. Just—if you want, but if you don’t . . .”
I smirk. “Is this domestic goddess part two? Are you fumbling over asking me when I’ll be home so you can have dinner ready?”
Amber averts her eyes. “No.” She grins. “Yes.”
I remember how often my ex used to ask this same thing of me—trying to pin me down on a time for dinner, then resenting it when I wouldn’t play along. But with Amber, I don’t feel the way I once did: pressured to make plans I couldn’t care less about and frustrated by the fact that it seemed to be the one thing my ex did care about. Today, all I want is to make this small commitment to Amber, and see it through.
“I’ll be home by six. If you can handle dinner, I’ll bring wine and dessert back with me.”
Amber sticks her hand out. “Deal.”