Page 173 of Beyond the Stroke

“Yeah,” she breathes. “I’m really good.”

I toss the towel aside and pull her into my arms again.

For a while, we just breathe together.

The silence between us isn’t awkward, it’s full. Heavy with everything we’re still not saying.

Then, in the middle of that charged quiet, my stomach releases a monstrous growl.

Summer dissolves into a fit of laughter, her body shaking against mine.

I pull back just enough to see her, breathless and flushed. Her smile hits me right in the chest.

“Really?” she says, eyebrows raised. “That’s your afterglow?”

I give her a sheepish grin. “I wanted to get home, so I skipped eating with the guys.”

“That’s why I made dinner.” She sits up slightly, her bra dangling off one arm. “And this is why you didn’t get to eat it.”

“Worth it.”

“Orgasms are always fun,” she says dryly, glancing around, “but now we have to clean up the mess.”

I kiss her, slow and lingering. “Sorry I knocked everything on the floor.”

Her eyes soften, a smile tugging at her lips. “I’m not. But you’re going to be sad to know it was barbecue chicken. Your favorite.”

“Damn it.” I groan, tipping my head back dramatically. “Tragic loss.”

Still, I can’t bring myself to regret anything, especially not the way Summer looked on that table, legs spread and moaning my name like a prayer.

With a soft laugh, Summer climbs out from under me, reaching for a t-shirt and underwear. I grab my boxers and joggers and follow her. Together, we head into the dining room to assess the damage. My damage.

“My parents actually sent these?” I ask, crouching to pick up pieces of ceramic from the floor.

“Yeah, maybe a peace offering?”

I chuckle. “Or a way of inviting themselves over for dinner.”

Summer laughs, her cheeks turning pink. “I’ll never be able to have anyone over without thinking about what we just did on that table.”

She’s not wrong. The sight of her laid out for me is a core memory now.

“And just think,” I murmur, grinning. “I didn’t even bend you over it yet.”

I shoot her a wicked smile. A promise.

She smirks. “Dinner first.”

“Since you don’t know my mom that well,” I say, scooping up the rest of the mess, “she’s not great at apologies. She sends gifts instead.”

“Noted,” Summer says, dropping the last shards into the trash can while I mop up the spilled barbecue chicken. The heavenly aroma taunts me with every swipe.

“You want dinner from Lucy’s?” I ask. “I’ll order.”

“Sure.” Summer answers before handing me the vacuum.

Once cleanup is finished, I reach for the yellow box of Little Sunshine Cakes and pull out a package of choco swirl rolls.

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