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The note on top of the plate says, Eat me.
A thrill runs up my spine at his thoughtfulness, though I’m not surprised. He’s been cooking almost every meal. If he meets me at work, he brings takeout. Lunch has become the highlight of my day.
Hungrier than I thought, I inhale dinner like it’s going to grow legs. His cooking is so good it rivals Mama Morales’s. After I load my empty plate into the dishwasher, I pour myself another glass of wine and head to my bathroom for an indulgence hour. Opening the drawer of the vanity, I look at my “tools”. Can’t say I don’t have a variety of options.
Lifting a finger to my chin, I sing, “Eeny, meeny, miny, moe, which one of you will make me moan?”
After today’s bullshit, I reach for the rose, needing something to snatch my mind and forget my name for just a minute. Undressing as I run a bath, I set up camp and slide in the moment it’s filled. Warm water washes over my sensitive skin, feeling like a cozy blanket. Pulling my hair into a messy bun, I lean back and settle, letting my mind wander.
It isn’t long until it conjures illicit images of one hot manny. I imagine running my fingers through his dark locks smooth as silk. The tremble of his breath tells me he likes it. In my head he’s groaning, and even though it’s a fantasy, it’s goddamn potent. My nipples harden, and my skin pebbles. Gliding my hand up to squeeze my breast, I pretend it’s his hands with those long fuck-me fingers.
“You feel so good, Queeny.”
My back arches, and I whimper.
His sexy smirk is front and center. “You like that, baby?”
“Yes,” I hiss to the man in my head. “Please.”
“Mmm, you look good enough to eat.” He lifts my hips out of the water and teases my clit with the tip of his tongue. “So fuckin’ good.”
I’m well aware I’m going insane and this is six shades of wrong, but it doesn’t stop the twist of my hips.
He dives in, lapping at me like a starving man.
I adjust the rose to the next setting and rev my impending orgasm.
“I’m going to fuck you so good, Mae. So fucking thoroughly, you’re going to forget your own name. Then, I’m going to grind on that little pussy until you only remember mine.”
Pressing the silicone toy against me, I explode, breathless and grunting his name.
Chapter 7
Guilty Pleasure
Remi
I used to have to hold myself back to try to fit in a box of expectations from my parents and older brother. My father’s a plastic surgeon, and his father before that. My brother, Dad’s mini me, became an acclaimed reconstructive surgeon and cemented his position in the hierarchy. They live in a dog-eat-dog world I refuse to be a part of.
I’m wired differently.
Sure, they make a decent living, but are they happy? My mother certainly isn’t, no matter how many pills she pops.
I never want to be that way. On my deathbed, I want to remember all the adventures I’ve experienced, the people I’ve loved, and the mark I’ve left on this world. That’s what’s important.
No one remembers the amount of money in the bank, only how they lived their life. If you find yourself with regrets, well … better luck next time. Maybe?
If this is the only life I’ve got, I’m going to make it count in ways that don’t have a monetary value. Which is why I’m making breakfast for my favorite little girl and her mama.
As I move around the kitchen, my lips purse in a whistle of the earworm I woke up with. I reminisce about the times my gram and I would play this song—Hooked On A Feeling by Blue Suede—and dance around the house without a care in the world. Gram taught me there is no such thing as guilty pleasure. It’s a man-made term, inspired by indoctrinated societal norms to keep us from exploring life free from the burden of conformity. Pleasure is pleasure, and I’m not going to feel bad about something that makes me feel good if it doesn’t hurt anyone else.
Humming along, I savor the rich smell of buttery toast as the griddle sizzles with maple sausage and scrambled eggs. It’s true what they say—breakfast is the most important meal of the day. It also happens to be my favorite.
My phone pings an alert as I’m taking plates out of the cupboard.
Cody: You’re still coming tonight, right? Kiara will have my head if not.
I groan. Fuck, that’s right. Kiara is the owner of Child Care Connection by day and matchmaker at night. I’m her latest project. It’s time I settle down, according to her. It’s not that I have anything against commitment, I just haven’t met the right one. As it is, I’m not sure about tonight. Kiara is a bit uppity, and the woman she wants to set me up with is her friend. Unspoken expectations are already making me feel claustrophobic.
