“Can I have a hot toddy tonight and you still trust that I’m hot for you, too?” These are the first words I speak to Dom the next morning. The question I use to wake him up.
I’ve been up for a solid twenty minutes, lying in our messy sheets, memorizing the way Dom holds me to him. This isn’t a classic spooning situation, not with our fronts pressed together. Nor is it a classic tucked-into-the-chest embrace. At some point, as we were sinking into sleep last night, he snaked his arm between my legs and tugged me to him with a solid grip on my thigh. My head settled higher than his on the pillows, and Dom’s face found a new home pressed against my boobs. He still hugs my leg like my limb is his teddy bear, and I’ve utilized my position to finger-comb his silky hair while occasionally sniffing said hair because I like the way his cedar shampoo mixes with the salty tang of his sweat.
As much as I enjoy this half-asleep petting session, I figured it was time he reentered the world of the living.
Dom makes a grumble in the back of his throat that sends shivers over my bare skin. “Prove it.”
“Prove that I’m hot for you?” I trace the curve of his ear with my fingertip and smile at the goose bumps that prickle down his strong neck. “Our sex marathon didn’t do it?”
He grunts and rubs his nose along the underside of my breast. “I need more evidence.”
“You’re insatiable. I knew we should’ve picked you up some gas station porn.” But even as I feign exasperation, I wiggle out of his hold and proceed to kiss my way down Dom’s expansive body. When I get low enough, I palm his half-hard cock—half that is quickly transitioning into fully.
Dom lays sprawled on his back now, jaw slack, hazy gaze fixated on where my mouth licks and nips his hip bone. There’s something about this spot I can’t get enough of. I’m addicted to the way it twitches and heats under my ministrations.
I decide I want to mark it. Leave a signature, not as permanent as the one on his wrist, but something that will last for a short while. Proof that Dom was mine for however long.
Gently, I tug the skin that stretches over his hip bone into my mouth. I suck and tease, use tongue and teeth, knowing he’ll have a little bruise right here, in my favorite spot.
Dom’s jaw clicks shut and his nostrils flare. The man breathes heavy as he watches me, and his hips give a subtle, involuntary rock.
Marking done, I release the delicate part of him, pressing an apology kiss to the abused skin.
Sorry, not sorry.
Dom’s panting picks up pace and his hips rock again.
I grip the base of his shaft, meeting his dark eyes over the heave of his chest. “Is this what you need?” My tongue drags along the thick vein running up his engorged cock and collects the salty precum leaking from the tip. “Is this how I prove I want you?”
“Maddie,” he grunts. “Hell. You don’t have to.”
Dom pushes to sit up, as if he might stop me. As if this is some trial for me and not a fantasy I’ve had since I was fifteen years old and first learned what a blow job was.
Before he can decide stopping now is the responsible thing to do, I suck him past my lips, nestling Dom in the slick heat of my mouth. Not too far back, but just enough.
The big man groans and collapses against the pillows in defeat.
That’s right. I’m in charge now.
As I work him in and out of my mouth, Dom’s hips give gentle thrusts, silent pleas to plunge deep in my throat. Unfortunately, gagging on a dick is an asthma risk, so I stick to shallow, torturous dips. Then I make up for my evil ways with a firm suck on his sensitive crown.
Dom mutters a string of irresponsible language, his heels pressing hard into the bed, his lower belly muscles going taut.
“Damn it. I’m gonna come. Fuck, Maddie. Fuck.”
Letting him pop free, I sit up and work Dom with one hand, stroking him in rough jerks like he showed me, while my other palm gently cradles his balls, giving him careful, teasing tugs. From my vantage point, I get to watch the normally put-together man fall to pieces. His massive hands reach back to grip the headboard, biceps straining. He pants in great bellows, as his back bows off the mattress.
Then his cock jerks in my hand, spilling his pleasure over my fingers and across his bare chest.
I love every moment.
Dom’s arms fall lax beside his head as he sucks in ragged inhales and stares at me with an unfathomable expression. When I release his shaft, Dom lets out a hiss that sounds almost angry. Slowly, I crawl up his body, hovering over him, naked and on all fours. My hair falls in a light brown curtain around his face, enclosing us in an intimate space.
“How was that evidence?” I keep my voice casual.
He hooks his arms around my torso, pulling me flush against his chest as he claims my mouth in a searing kiss.
Meanwhile I laugh and moan. “No!” I wail when he finally moves his kisses to my chin and neck. “You made us a cum sandwich! The evidence is smashed all over me now!”
“I want the evidence on your tits,” he mumbles against my pounding pulse.
And damn the man, he gets his wish.
Eventually we shower—together—and find lunch in the kitchen—together—and settle in the sitting room by the fire. The snow is too heavy to even consider making a run at North Dakota today. Sandra says we can book our room for another night, and we take her up on the offer.
Unfortunately, this isn’t technically a vacation for me. I get comfy on the floor with my laptop and an old bird-themed puzzle Sandra dug out for me. I log into my work email and try not to balk at the number I have waiting for me. For every five I answer, I get to put a piece in the puzzle, I promise myself.
I spread the pieces on the coffee table, then get to clearing out my inbox. Dom sits behind me on the fainting couch, his legs on either side of my body, with yesterday’s newspaper loosely held in hands that I now know much better—but refuse to think about because I might accidentally type dirty thoughts into a response to the marketing department.
Dom isn’t helping matters, doing what has been widely established as one of the sluttiest things a man can do: wearing gray sweatpants. I can’t stop listing to the side to lean against his calf, reveling in the warm, soft fabric. Every time I do, his muscle tenses, then relaxes, and I swear I feel a featherlight tug on my hair.
When my email Everest is temporarily summited and the puzzle is done, I help Dom figure out the last few answers to the crossword in the paper before we sneak back upstairs. Dom asks what other positions are best for my breathing and generously practices every one of them with me.
In between rounds of decadent sex, we talk about small things that don’t matter but make us smile. My fantasy fan fiction. His baseball leagues. The thrift stores where I find the best sweaters. The pigeon that stares at him whenever he grills on his back porch.
I tease him and kiss him and promise myself I won’t fall for him again.
It’s perfect.
But it’s also fragile. Neither of us brings up the past, as if worried this new development might shatter under the weight of memories. We make a silent pact to live in our snowy sex bubble and forget the rest of the world for as long as we can.