Page 59 of Filthy Little Midlife Fling

I feel it when he finishes. It makes a warm, gentle kind of pleasure spread through my whole body, and then I’m collapsing on the blanket, completely spent.

My consciousness is hazy for a minute or two. I feel Remy get up and hear some water run. A moment later, he sits on the bed beside me.

“I have a washcloth,” he says quietly. “It’s warm.”

I shift to grab it, but Remy eases me onto my stomach and slowly peels my red panties down my legs. He cleans the lube and fluids off my skin, then tosses the washcloth into the ensuite bathroom. It lands on the tile floor, but he makes no move to pick it up. Instead, he lies down beside me and curls his arms around me, shifting my body so my head rests on his chest.

Dazed, exhausted, and thoroughly sated, I run my fingers through his chest hair and let out a long breath. “I’ve never done that before,” I admit.

Remy’s arms tighten around me. “Did you like it?”

I know I’m blushing, so I keep my head on his chest and nod. “Yes.”

His touch is gentle as he tilts my chin up. Then Remy kisses me, and it’s nothing like any of our previous embraces. He brushes his lips against mine, barely touching, then only very slightly deepens the kiss until I’m softening against his body and curling my hand around the side of his neck.

This kiss feels like a promise, like the start of something new. Before I drift off to sleep, an errant thought skitters through my mind.

I’m already in too deep.

TWENTY-TWO

AUDREY

We don’t get much sleep. Twice in the night, we wake up and find ourselves needy for each other. Sex doesn’t reach the fever pitch it did last night, though, instead turning languid and tender. A few times, I wonder if I’m making a mistake by letting this man past all my defenses. I worry that by making love with him like this, I’m setting myself up for disaster.

But it’s impossible to feel unsafe with Remy. He is so focused on my needs, so attentive and careful. He treats me like I’m precious, and I can’t bring myself to push him away.

I’ve never felt this kind of closeness with anyone. I realize that when we opened up to each other last night, it laid down the foundations of a deeper intimacy between us. Now, even just a few hours later, we’re already reaping the rewards.

He can sense when I’m close to orgasm. He can tease every ounce of pleasure out of me. He can make me feel loved and safe and cherished.

By the time the sun comes up, my armor has been completely stripped away. My walls have been obliterated.

“Morning,” he whispers, his arms wrapped around me.

I sigh into his warmth, letting my fingers drift over the warmth of his skin. “Morning.”

“How do you feel?”

A small, secret smile tugs at my lips. His first thought this morning isn’t sex or breakfast or himself. His first thought is me.

“I like waking up next to you,” I admit, then clamp my lips shut because I feel like I’ve shared too much. No matter what last night was like for me, it doesn’t mean anything has changed.

But Remy squeezes me close, a sigh ruffling my hair. “Me too, sweetheart.”

We shower together and do all the fun things that happen when two people who are in the first phase of a chemistry-filled relationship shower together. Then we clean off the evidence, make coffee, and drink it outside while Remy gives me a tour of his plants.

I listen to him rattle off Latin names, explaining why he planted a certain variety in a certain location, telling me that this plant repels pests and that plant should be flowering soon. He picks a bright red strawberry off his plant and hands it to me, watching my reaction while I eat it and smiling when I tell him it’s delicious.

Halfway through my cup of coffee, we enter the greenhouse. My eyes drift to the bench where we first became intimate, and my blood begins to heat.

Remy has other ideas. He begins to explain the process of soil blocking with the same focused intensity he used to make love to me. I inspect the metal contraption used to make soil blocks, little squares of soil that are used to start seedlings, and watch Remy’s face light up as he explains exactly how it works.

“The first few times I tried it, the soil blocks just disintegrated. I almost gave up, but I was sick of using the plastic trays, and I lost a bunch of seedlings when I tried to transplant them.” He glances at me, earnest and passionate. “Soil blocking leads to a healthier root system and it makes it easier to transplant, so I really wanted to figure it out. But the next time I tried, I lost ninety percent of my soil blocks because when they were moist enough to stay together, they grew mold.”

He snorts, shaking his head, and inspects one of the millions of little plants he’s got neatly aligned on one of the tables. As I watch him, an old, forgotten hardness in my chest begins to dissolve. I should probably be listening to whatever he’s trying to teach me about seedlings, but all I can do is stare at the way he moves, sure and competent. He grabs a hose and starts misting water over all his plants.

I sip my coffee and stare.

---