Harper
I’m sore in all the right places and for all the right reasons.
It feels so natural to be lying here next to Marek, who is passed out cold, breathing quietly on his side next to me with an arm stretched across my chest under the curve of my breasts. His naked body is like a furnace, and I snuggle in closer so I don’t lose the heat.
It’s been so long since I’ve fallen asleep with a man. So long, in fact, that I can’t get my fill and want to relish in the delicious warmth and scent of his body. It’s probably the reason I like it so much, being wrapped up in his strength, luxuriating in the spicy smell of him. He’s like that feeling you get after a half-day spa treatment. Wrung out and completely sated.
His fingers twitch in his sleep, sending reminders skittering across my body and into my core of what he did with those fingers last night.
Technically, just a few hours ago.
Once we recovered from the quickie on the stairs, I joined him in his bedroom, where we took our time until finally making slow, exquisite love. And I thought Marek was just generous in his professional life. I was wrong…he gives everything when he makes love.
He gave me the most intense orgasms I’ve ever had and I nearly passed out from the pleasure.
It was the best sexual experience of my entire adult life.
Is it because he’s more experienced and older than I am? Looking back over my paltry sexual history, most of the guys I’ve been with were all young, randy, horny twenty-somethings who just wanted to get in, get off, and go. Which at the time was fine with me.
But Marek is a whole different ballgame. He took his leisurely time with me, making sure I was satisfied before reaching his own climax. And afterwards, when I expected him to come up with an excuse and reason for booting me out of bed, he was instead tender and sweet, holding me in his warm embrace, keeping his lips at my temple to make me feel cherished.
Around 2:30 a.m., we were both in need of some sustenance and went down to the fully stocked kitchen and grabbed a midnight snack. Between bites of a fruit and charcuterie plate, we talked about our impressions of the players at the Combine and details of the upcoming season.
It was weird how easily we switched back into our other roles because, although we’d just shared the deepest sexual intimacy, our conversation didn’t venture into personal territory. It remained on the topic of sports. It felt like Marek turned on some shield, like he did in the car with the privacy screen, and was holding back, being very careful not to divulge anything private.
To some extent, I guess I was too. I could’ve, but didn’t, open up and share anything about my life or my sister’s brain cancer and what we’ve been managing through the past year.
It’s not exactly an easy topic to bring up in conversation after amazing sex.
How would that even go?
“Oh hey, by the way, Marek, my older sister has meningioma and I’m her only adult living relative who has to take care of her. Pass the grapes, please.”
We did, however, talk briefly about our pasts—school, where we grew up, family, that kind of thing. All the relevant info one might share on a first date. Which I guess was technically what we were on.
At one point, I thought Marek may have been on the verge of sharing something about his personal life when I mentioned how beautiful his friend’s house was and I asked him about his place in Seattle.
“If you would’ve known me six months ago, I could have impressed you with my very fancy and fully equipped fifth-wheel,” he jokes, waggling his brows expressively to denote his humor. “It was quite the bachelor pad.”
I laugh at his self-deprecating wit, snagging a grape from the plate and popping it in my mouth. “At least yours had wheels. I lived in a trailer with my mom for a summer after she lost the farm and we didn’t get any payout from the insurance because there was none to get. It was in the back of a neighboring dairy farmer’s property. You can’t possibly imagine the wretched smell of it during the heat of the day in Eastern Washington.”
I make a gagging sound, plugging my nose at the memory, which makes Marek chuckle.
“You’re right about that, but I do know locker rooms. They can rival any putrid odor you stack against it.”
“Very true,” I snicker, raising an eyebrow. “A few years back, I was covering the Tri-City Tigers on a road trip to Oregon. The Otter’s guest team facilities were deplorable. The toilets…they had a problem with the plumbing that week and the shit literally wouldn’t flush. It just stayed there in the bowls, reeking day and night.”
Marek shakes his head with a laugh. “And yet look at us now. No worse for wear, squarely in the lap of luxury with working plumbing, thanks to friends in high places.”
Marek raises his water glass to mine in a toast to this mutual experience we share together.
I stare at his flexing biceps when he bends over and casually leans on his forearms against the counter, my gaze fixated on the dips and curves of his muscular frame.
It’s very obvious Marek stays in great shape and has retained his athletic endurance, somehow managing to keep fit even during his hectic work schedule of travel and meetings. I can attest to his fitness level in bed and the stamina he employs, barely breaking a sweat during our consecutive rounds of sex.
Now, as I lie here curled up next to him, I trace the taut skin of his back with my fingertips, wondering if this weekend will be a one-time event and stay here in Chicago when we leave.
“You’re thinking so loud I can hear your thoughts.”