The F-Word

“Matthew,” she whispers, and seconds later, I am deep inside her again.

* * *

Later, she asks about my tattoos. Traces them with her finger.

I don’t really talk much about the tatts. I had them done when I was straight out of college, still trying to figure out who I was and how I fit into the world—something it took me a while to do.

But this is different

.

Bailey already knows how I went into a profession it turned out I hated. She knows endless stuff about me, so I tell her about Kathmandu. How Coop and I took six months to backpack our way through India, Nepal, Kenya and half a dozen other places and how Nepal was the one where I began to see life more clearly.

“Not clearly enough to turn down that Wall Street job,” I say, as I play with her hair. “But enough to learn things.”

She smiles. “Things?”

“Uh huh.”

I consider telling her about mindfulness. But she’s gone back to tracing my tatts, this time with little kisses. She starts at my wrist and works her way up my arm, across my shoulder, and she keeps going when she gets to my chest, even though I’m not tattooed there, and I don’t want her to stop kissing and touching and…

“Bailey,” I whisper, and we forget about tattoos and trips and lose ourselves in each other again.

* * *

We sleep, she in my arms, the sheet and comforter drawn over us. We sleep for hours and when I wake, pale gray light is poking through the sheer ivory curtains. Rain is pattering against the windows.

Bailey is still in my arms.

She’s lying with her head cradled on my shoulder, one leg high over mine. Her hand lies over my heart. Her breathing is deep and even. I want to kiss her, but I know I should let her sleep.

Liar.

I want to do more than kiss her.

We’ve made love three times and my dick is standing straight up again. Yes, it’s the way it usually begins the day—that famous male-salute-to-the-morning thing—but this is more than that. This is me, wanting to return to Bailey’s silken warmth; it’s me, wanting to hear her sweet voice chanting my name as she comes.

Okay. I won’t disturb her.

I’ll just—I’ll just ease her onto her back. Lower my mouth to hers. Kiss her. Nip gently at that luscious bottom lip. Kiss her throat. Her breasts because, hey, somehow the sheet and comforter have slipped down just enough to bare them…

Her arms rise and loop around my neck. Her eyes open; her lips curve in a smile.

“Good morning,” she says softly.

“Good morning. Did you sleep well?”

“Mmm.” She stretches, which is the right thing to do because she shifts her weight just enough to bring her body fully against mine. She feels my erection—the way it’s responding, she’d have to be on another continent not to—and her smile turns to one of artful innocence. “And what, exactly, is that?”

I move against her. “This?” I say innocently.

“Uh huh. That.”

“It’s a present.”

Bailey bats her lashes. Amazing. The night has turned my virgin into a temptress.

“For me?”