Page 27 of For The Weekend
He aimed his crooked sort-of smile at me then bent to lick up my throat, growling, “You taste delicious.”
He wrapped his huge arm around me, hoisting me up to the counter like I weighed nothing more than a feather, and pressed me down, his hand on my collarbone. He dunked his oven mitt of a hand into the bowl of icing and spread it over mybreasts, playing with my nipples. I whined, and he licked his lips like a wolf about to tear apart his dinner.
I wiggled, reaching for him, desperate for him to take his first bite. Then, as he bent over me, mouth moving above my nipple, something blared.
I shoot up in bed and blink into reality.
I’m not in my kitchen, naked with Roman, about to be eaten up whole.
Goddamn it.
Instead of getting up to brush my teeth and take my pills, I lie on my back, staring at the ceiling, thinking about the dream. About Roman and the feel of his hands on me.
Even though it wasn’t real, itfeltreal, and I rub my thighs together beneath the covers. Between my legs, I’m tingly and wet, and even though my brain is still foggy, my body is already awake and needy. I keep my petal-pink vibrator in my nightstand and waste no time slipping it and my hand under my pajama shorts. I don’t bother with underwear at night, and before I even power the toy on, I slide my fingers through my slit, dragging the moisture up to my clit, and close my eyes, imagining Roman’s hands on me.
In my mind, Roman’s hot mouth sucks on my nipple, so I pull up my T-shirt to tweak it and spread my legs wider. Enough room for him if he were really here with me. I think of the dirty, growly things he might say to me and arch my back, toes curling as I moan out loud. Pleasure surges through my veins in waves, and the closer I crest, the more my skin pebbles with heat. But right as I’m about to orgasm, the vibrator shuts off.
I kick off the sheet, one hand still on my breast, the other repeatedly pressing the toy like it’ll suddenly start up again. It doesn’t, and I whimper, tossing it to the side before using my fingers, but it’s not thesame.
And the fire that had been roiling in my belly dies down to barely a simmer. I come, but it’s not close to the satisfaction I need. Rolling to my side, I groan into my pillow, frustrated and tired, before pushing myself up to standing. Then I plug the vibrator in to charge, telling it, “I’ll be back for you later.”
With a deep breath, I shake off the lingering frustration from my unsatisfying solo session and start my morning routine. I review my schedule for the day while brushing my teeth. I have an app that helps me stay on track with reminders for taking my meds, making to-do lists, and blocking off time for important tasks, because having ADHD means I’ve had to learn ways to keep myself focused and organized.
After dressing in gray joggers and a light pink T-shirt, I slip into my sneakers and toss a snack and water in my bag before hopping on my new bike. It’s perfect. With the basket, big enough to fit my bag, and the color, I love it.
I know some people—my mother—might think it’s stupid and immature to love pink as an adult, and some big dudes—like Roman—might be totally turned off by the super-girly things I love, but he went andbought me a bike.
Bought me a bike with a woven basket that’s the cutest bubblegum pink I’ve ever seen. Like something out of my Pinterest dreams. If I were any good at taking photos of myself, I could be an influencer on this thing. That’s how goddamn cute it is.
And he gave it to me.
Because…
Well, I guess because he is a man who pays attention and he wanted to do something nice for me.
Or maybe, possibly, hopefully this itty-bitty crush I’m harboring on him isn’t totally one-sided.
I take the long way to work, drinking in the cool morning air, watching a couple of kids make their way to school. Eventhough I do most of the baking myself, I hired an assistant to help in the mornings. Leonard is an older, widowed gentleman who’s been with me for a while, a man who closed down the bakery he owned with his wife when she died a few years ago. After hearing of the story, and knowing him in passing from stopping at his shop for the best challah I’ve ever had in my life, I asked if he wanted to come work with me.
He’s in before the sun is up, prepping the kitchen, and starting our most popular bakes. When I arrive at Sweet Cheeks, I lock up my bike on the rack and call out a hello to him while tying an apron on.
He greets me with his usual smile as he kneads dough with the heel of his palm. “Morning, Elle.”
“How’s your back this morning?” I ask with a rub between his shoulder blades.
“All right.”
“You haven’t bought that pillow yet?” I tsk. “Leonard!”
“Don’t you go yelling at me like that. I forgot the name of it,” he mumbles, placing the dough into a bowl as I finish putting my hair up.
I wash my hands, speaking over my shoulder. “Your birthday’s coming up, right?”
“No, Eloise. You’re not going to buy it for my birthday.”
“Yes, I am,” I say, rinsing away the suds.
“No, you’re not.”
