The Cadillac Motor Court was a one-story, 1950s-era motel. Though it looked old, it was still in decent repair. Someone took good care of it.
Make that one room. She’d booked us one room. I offered to sleep in the truck, but she was pretty pragmatic about it. It was official. This dame was trying to kill me, one way or another.
“I need to save money. And don’t worry, I won’t ruin your reputation and tell anyone. You’ve seen me naked. I think you can see me in my jammies.” I stiffened at the thought of her “jammies.” What hell was this going to bring? She changed in the bathroom and came out sporting a huge white t-shirt that came practically to her knees. It had a black “Dunder Mifflin” logo on it. I was expecting some gorgeous Marilyn temptation, and instead, it was a giant t-shirt from The Office.
She caught what must have been my perplexed expression, “I loved that show! This is my favorite night shirt from it. What?”
I had decided not to tempt fate and took off my shirt but kept on the jeans. I needed a barrier on the small bed, even if she seemed oblivious to the torture that being this close to her in this situation was going to be for me, for any man. She was supposed to be recovering, not romping around.
I decided to lie on top of the covers, too.
“Do you want to watch t.v.?” she asked.
“Up to you. I don’t really watch t.v.”
“I love it. How about some Nick at Night?” She plopped herself on the end of the bed and found her channel. Some old t.v. show was playing, and she said it was perfect.
I closed my eyes and blocked her out, blocked out the damn show, and tried to get a little shut-eye. I fell asleep to the sounds of a laugh track and to little bed bounces she produced as she giggled along with the old sitcom.
I dreamed of her, how her legs would feel wrapped around me, how I would give her the tenderness I’d seen no one display toward her since we’d met. And then it turned from sweet to hot. I dreamt of her magnificent breast in my mouth, of sinking into her. It was beautiful.
And then it wasn’t a dream. I awoke and looked down. The television was still on quietly, and it provided a soft illumination in the room. Marilyn was no longer watching. She’d dozed off, and draped herself over me. She had curled one leg into mine. Her shirt had ridden up around her waist, revealing that round ass in the most modest of white cotton underwear. Sexier than any of the thongs I’d seen.
She had found a spot and rested her head perfectly in the juncture of my neck and shoulder. Her breasts pressed softly through the t-shirt onto my chest. She was peacefully asleep and fit with me like no one I’d ever been with.
I pulled her closer, one hand resting just inside those cotton panties, just barely. I wouldn’t go further. She moaned in her sleep and snuggled closer in. She nuzzled her lips on my chest and goddamn it then she kissed me. Though she was asleep, she was maybe having the same dream.
“Hmmm. Lincoln.” She murmured my name in her sleep. If the sitcom actor could see through the decades to right now, through the television screen, he would have seen a contented smile on my face as I too returned to dreamland, wrapped up in her.
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