Page 14 of Tear Me to Pieces
What would they feel like in other places? Would they be gentle?
Or demanding.
Maybe both.
Before I can fully process what I’m doing, my hand is down the front of my sleep pants, fingers sliding to rub the spot I can imagine Simon touching. Stroking.
Possibly licking.
My breath catches as an orgasm slams into me, hard and fast, riding the mental image of Simon’s tongue swiping against my most sensitive part.
It’s one of many interactions I’ve never experienced. I’ve had sex more times than I care to consider, but every one of them was a whole lot like being jabbed with the blunt end of a stick—uncomfortable, but more annoying than anything.
I can’t help but think it wouldn’t be like that with Simon, but that’s probably just my romance novel fueled brain feeding me what it knows I’m hungry for.
“Ugh.” I fling back the covers, hating myself for the lack of restraint I showed. “You’re never going to be able to look him in the eye if you keep thinking of him when you masturbate.”
Trudging into the bathroom, I go through the morning motions. After peeing and washing my hands, I scrub my face and poke in my contacts.
I’m just finishing brushing my teeth when someone knocks on my door.
The only person who comes to my house this early is Lydia, and she lets herself in the back door, so my stomach flips at the sound. Not because of its unexpectedness, but because the possibility of who might be on my doorstep is pretty narrow.
After spitting the foam in my mouth down the drain and checking to make sure I don’t look as guilty as I feel, I head out of my bedroom and down the unfinished steps, swallowing hard at the tall frame visible through the frosted glass. Pressing my lips together to smother out the smile trying to work across them, I open the door, eyes bouncing around the sight before me.
As I expected, it’s Simon. As I also sort of expected, he has food. What Iwasn’texpecting was for him to also be carrying two collapsible chairs.
He lifts the plates higher. “Hungry?”
I angle a brow at him. “Maybe.”
Resisting the urge to feel my cheeks to gauge the blush creeping across them, I step back and open the door wider. I’m sure he won’t be able to tell what I was just doing.
Well, pretty sure.
Struggling to meet his gaze, I motion at the food. “Is this your way of telling me you really do want a tour of my house?”
“Possibly.” Simon steps inside, his eyes moving around the space a lot like they did last night. “It could also be my way of forcing you to keep me company so I don’t have to eat alone.”
“I was the best option you could come up with?” I close the door behind him then make my way down the hall toward the nicest part of my house. “You could have gone to Christian and Lydia’s. They have furniture.”
Simon grimaces. “I learned the hard way not to go over there in the morning.”
I cringe. “Me too.” I reach my kitchen and go straight to the coffee maker. “Now I make sure I stay right by the back door and yell really loud so they know I’m there.”
“Smart.” Simon sets both plates on the counter then swings the chairs off his shoulder. While he takes off their carrying covers, I go to work making us each a cup of coffee.
It’s an odd sort of situation. One I’ve seen occur, but never really experienced firsthand.
My marriage wasn’t a team effort. Like so much else, it was divided along uneven lines. I was raised to believe there are things men do and things women do, and the two don’t generally crossover. So having a man cook for me, not only once, but twice now, is surreal. Especially when the man also wants to converse with me. Asks me questions and genuinely listens to my answers.
The first cup of coffee finishes brewing right as Simon gets both chairs situated. I turn to him, angling a brow. “How do you take yours?”
Ignoring the chairs and the food, he comes toward me. Tipping his head at the mug in my hand, he shakes his head. “That’s not mine. That’s yours.”
I huff out a little laugh, because I’m not sure how to react to that. Honestly, I’m not sure how to react to most of what Simon says and does. “You made breakfast. The least I can do is give you the first cup of coffee.”
Simon picks up the second mug I pulled out and loads it onto the machine. “No. The least you can do is sit down and start eating.” After dropping in a coffee pod and setting it to run, he turns to me, leaning back against the counter, crossing both arms over his chest. “You have to work today. I don’t.”
