Page 45 of Not Your Valentine
But that’s okay. We still have two more days.
Chapter 15
Nobody has ever looked so happy to see me.
That’s what I think when Taylor wakes up on Saturday morning with a silly grin on his face. It causes something strange to happen in my chest, rather like in the middle of the night when I woke up and he was snoring softly. Some people’s snores set me on edge, but his were…cute?
Anyway, I’m sure this thing going on in my body is just because it’s nice to get out of the city for a weekend and have lots of sex. We did it twice last night, the second time in the bed, and finally fell asleep close to midnight.
And this morning, we do it again.
Afterward, we lie naked in bed, and he snuggles me. I don’t think too much of it. We’re not dating for real, but it’s natural to touch the person you’re sleeping with like this, right? And it’s only practical to snuggle together under the blankets and share body heat when it’s so cold outside.
It’s after ten o’clock by the time we finally get up. We have cereal and some very classy instant coffee for breakfast. Taylor is just wearing boxers and a white T-shirt, a look I’ve always rather liked on a guy.
Me, on the other hand? I’m wearing my comfiest jeans, plus a big sweater. I don’t know how he’s warm enough in so little clothing. And I’m the one with a bit more fat on my bones!
High school Taylor might have been considered scrawny. He has filled out a little since then, but he’s still thin and his shoulders are on the narrow side. He’s compact, his strength—and joy—concentrated.
As he takes our empty bowls to the sink, I can’t help admiring him. How does he just look like sunshine?
He returns to the table and sips his coffee. “What do you want to do today?”
“Other than fuck?”
He almost spits out his drink. “Yeah, other than fuck.”
It amuses me to hear him say that.
“Well, I think we should do a lot of fucking,” I say mildly. I figure the more sex we have, the better the chance I’ll get him out of my system. It’s only sensible. “And drink hot chocolate.”
“I have a whole bag of mini marshmallows.”
I nearly kiss him again.
“We should go outside and enjoy the outdoors.” He gestures to the window. It’s sunny, and there’s a fresh dusting of snow on the car. “There are snowshoes. Have you ever gone snowshoeing before?”
We give it a try after breakfast, after Taylor puts on more clothes (boo). It’s almost painfully bright outside—I should have brought my sunglasses. The trees block a little of the sunlight, but not much, and it reflects off the snow. Above, the sky is clear blue and brilliant, and aside from the wind whispering through the trees and the occasional bird, it’s quiet.
I get sweaty under my winter jacket, though my extremities are still a bit cold. When we go inside about forty minutes later, I have a shower and he starts the fire.
The rest of the day passes in a blur of cheap food—instant ramen, sandwiches—and sex.
I don’t think I’ve ever been so insatiable before, and the way Taylor keeps looking at me, as though he’s just so happy to be in my presence, does something to me. The way he eagerly dedicates himself to giving me orgasms…well, that does something to me, too.
After dinner, we have sex in front of the fire again, and my body finally tells me, That’s enough for now.
In the bedroom, Taylor and I change into our pajamas. He has some flannel ones that are unbearably adorable. (Since when did I feel that way about flannel pajamas?) I’m all sexed out, but I find myself reaching for him under the covers, wanting him to hold me. You know, for warmth. It’s only practical.
Okay, I can’t keep lying to myself. It’s more than that; I have turned into a cuddler, which is highly disturbing.
Fear creeps under my skin. Maybe I can’t get this out of my system.
“Have you dated anyone—for real—in a while?” I ask. “I haven’t heard you mention it.”
This question is a calculated move on my part. Perhaps if I hear him talk about other women, it will douse some of the inconvenient feelings I’m having.
He’s lying on his side, facing me, and he props his head up on one hand. With the other hand, he absently strokes my hip. “Not in over a year.”
