Page 168 of Ewan

“Please, take a seat. I baked a cake. You should at least have a slice,” she offers. “And I can make you a cup of tea.”

“No, thank you. I’m fine.”

“I insist.”

She gives me a smile, her eyes on me as her hands work her gift open.

I watch her expression change in delight before she thanks me again and puts the kettle on the stove.

The next few minutes are painful, not because she’s not lovely––she is the perfect host today––or that the smell of cake and orange doesn’t make this day festive, but because I still have a hard time connecting to my old life.

It’s been more than sixteen hours since I accepted Ewan’s invitation to some secret place where we had sex.

Was it more than I’d imagined?

Let’s say my imagination failed me.

He left me broken in the best possible way.

I couldn’t snap out of that sex-induced daze for hours.

He fucked me all right, and then he cared for me. Kissed me. Teased me. Talked dirty to me.

He made me come with his mouth and with his words.

He held me in his arms and didn’t let me go.

And I was sleepy, but I couldn’t sleep, and then he said we shouldn’t spend the night there.

Every part of my body thrummed with need. Every sensation was amplified by his arms around me.

It’s possibly one of the most honest ways of testing our humanity by entrusting yourself to someone else and still getting out alive.

Letting him lead me into a world of pleasure has immensely paid off.

Tired and smiling, we snuck out of the house, walked a few blocks away, and entered a private garage where he collected his car before he took me home.

It’s a miracle that Mrs. Eisenhower didn’t hear his car passing down the street this morning.

He let me walk out before he steered his ride away, and I strolled to my place, convinced that I’d meet her scrutinizing glare.

After that last incident with Joachim, I’m on thin ice with her, yet the gift seems to have improved her mood.

We chit-chat over tea and cake, and I find her pleasant and helpful, although I'm listening to her a bit distracted when she drops a question out of the blue.

“I hope you’re taking it easy with that man,” she says, and my focus sharpens.

“What man?” I ask her around a mouth full of cake.

I lift my gaze.

She rolls her eyes, amused.

“The one your ex has lost his mind over.”

“Wait… What?”

I smile, holding my hand under my chin to catch a few crumbs.

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