Yeah, I’m still thinking about that, hours later in the dark.
A wave of euphoria washes over me as I let myself relish being with him like this.
In my head, I’m ticking off all the boxes…
He’s self-employed and smart and ridiculously handsome.
He adores his kids and treats his momma well.
He likes my cooking and makes me laugh.
Not to mention, he’s a rock star when it comes to sex.
Who comes twice the first time they sleep with a man? No one I know. Most of my friends fake it, go home, and ride the vibe alone.
That silly saying comes to mind:Save a horse. Ride a cowboy.
I am so down with this.
I’m blushing when I think of his obscenely large but magnificent package.
And he wields it well, as the steady ache between my thighs indicates.
Then he cuddled me, whispering sweet words and stroking my back until I passed out.
Holy fucking boyfriend lottery.
He didn’t even make me feel like an idiot for freaking out over that spider. I should’ve been embarrassed. Screaming and flailing around naked and looking like a fool. But he was so considerate and gentle, I want to cry about it now.
Here I was, thinking my sister had found the husband of the century, and I’d be shit out of luck. Yes, cognitively, I realize that luck is not preordained. It isn’t meted out at birth like tickets to a carnival ride.Ten for you and none for you, you little loser.
But if love makes you stronger, helps you feel optimistic and hopeful, pain is dysmorphic, magnifying your weaknesses and pointing out your faults. And last year was so gut-wrenching, so insistent on reminding me that I was a big, fat dumbass who failed out of college and dated other big, fat dumbasses, and I couldn’t help but wonder if my sister had been born with all the lucky genes.
It’s probably the residual hormones from those orgasms making me high—I mean, hello, I had two!—but I haven’t felt this at peace with myself in a while.
Sure, the feminist voice in the back of my head quirks an eyebrow and asks,Girlfriend, did you really need a man to feel better about yourself?But I don’t view Ethan as my savior. He’s more like the really handsome guy who gave me a ride out of my pity party.
In this fantasy, though, we’re riding a horse, and Ethan is shirtless and sweaty.
It’s my fantasy. Don’t judge.
I’m staring up at the dark ceiling, running my fingers through his thick hair, all the while ignoring how turned on I’m getting.
It’s hard not to with his warm breath brushing over my nipple and that massive redwood jutting against my leg.
The hot shower and sex relaxed me into a boneless state, but I jerked awake a few minutes ago, afraid Ethan had let me sleep in and the kids would find me in his bed.
I watch the clock, all of a sudden anxious about what happens when it goes off. You can never tell what sex is going to do a couple’s dynamic. I’m laughing to myself, thinking about some of Viv’s morning-afters.
Once, she woke up in a guy’s bed, realized he never washed his sheets because they smelled like dirty feet, and she raced out of there, never to give him the time of day again.
On an impulse, I turn my head and take a whiff of Ethan’s pillow.
Yum.Clean man and dryer sheets.
When the alarm goes off, I smile at the growly sound that rumbles through him. He leans over and smacks the clock into silence and then pulls me back to him, fitting my back to his chest.
“I haven’t slept that well in years.” His voice, thick with sleep, sends another wave of chills down my arms.
