I’m fucked, but not in the least shameful about what happened since it got me a magnificent dick inside my ass and filthy things whispered in my ears. It was bloody blinding.
My dick was as hard as a fucking length of steel and aching, dying to come. How could it not be when his strong hands kneaded my ass with such enjoyment and his hard cock pressed against my hole, slipping between my cheeks. It seems that my bussy has taken an imprint of his glorious cock since that night at the club and now welcomes it with open doors.
Being fucked while wearing his jacket made me feel vulnerable, I hadn’t wanted him to know about it. But I’ve taken to the habit of sleeping in it; it helps to soothe me somehow. His scent is gone—I had to wash it—but the way the soft fabric envelops me is like a forbidden, sexy business.
I might have rolled over in bed this morning as I’d woken up alone and coated in Gabe’s cum, and buried my face in the pillow next to mine, breathing in the faint scent of his cologne.
I’m having the best sex of my life with Gabriel Reed. I can’t believe how unpredictable he can be in bed. He went from dirty and aggressive, to silent and rough. The change is fast and unsettling, but so damn hot.
I look at the last door in the corridor, near Gabe’s bedroom. What’s in there? Probably a home office. I’ll check it later, need to take care of my lady now.
I open the bathroom door, but Wednesday isn’t inside. Her cardboard nesting box is missing too. She prefers to perch on high places above the floor at night—the shower rod is her favorite—but she lays her eggs inside the box.
I tiptoe down to the kitchen and halt as I see Gabe wearing a light blue shirt, brown vest and suit pants near the stove. The smell of coffee and food permeates the air. I take a few seconds to admire his perfectly round arse wrapped in expensive fabric.
A high-pitched cluck makes me turn. Wednesday is on top of one of the three brand-new roosting bars against the living room wall, performing a balancing act. Gabe must have moved around some furniture because that whole corner is exclusive to my hen, with her nesting box lying on the floor, a new bowl, a litter box, and some chew toys.
It doesn’t fit very well with the apartment’s white paneling and fancy wood floors, the surfaces polished so well, I can see my own reflection in them. The whole place is devoid of any other clutter though, leaving a very minimalistic feel, chic and modern, sleek and screaming wealth—Wednesday is going to destroy it.
This is how the other half lives. When a door closes, a window opens. Didn’t expect it to be in Chicago’s most exclusive neighborhood, though.
The room smells like new, even though I know that’s not the case. I catch a whiff of Gabe’s scent, and I wish I could bottle it.
“Good morning.” Gabe’s calm voice makes me spin around toward him. He’s sending me a very intense gaze that has the power to make thecollywobblestake flight inside my stomach.
His sleek blond hair is, as usual, perfectly styled, beard flawlessly trimmed, but from the open collar of his shirt I can see at least three of the hickeys I sucked onto his skin last night. I’m surprised he isn’t trying to cover them, even more so by the satisfaction spreading inside my chest.
“Morning,” I reply, moving toward the counter on my bare tiptoes. I’m wearing a loose green t-shirt and a pair of tight white shorts. “Do you always wake up this early?” It’s six thirty, I forgot to change the alarm on my phone. From Gabe’s apartment, it will take half the time to get to work.
“I don’t sleep much,” he says. Is that why he left my bed?
“Do you always walk barefoot?” he asks.
I sit on a stool and glance down at my feet with red nail polish. “Yes,” I reply. After fucking me twice into oblivion, talking conversationally about my bare feet sounds ridiculous. But I’m starting to learn that with Gabe, nothing is obvious.
He places a mug filled with hot water in front of me with a can of earl gray loose tea leaves—my favorite.
“Uhm, thanks,” I tell him nervously, wiggling on the stool. I don’t know how to act around an attentive Gabe. Not that he’s ever been rude, but sharing things with him feels weird.
I start making my tea.
“What do you like to eat for breakfast?” he asks, back at the stove again.
“I’m not fussed.”
He turns his head to look at me, waiting for an explanation.
“I don’t care. Anything is fine,” I huff at his insistence.
Despite my gran’s best efforts, barely any of her culinary lessons stuck. I can burn everything, even water—well, the pot after the water has evaporated. But I can manage a salad or a cup of noodles. I’m still alive, aren’t I?
He sets his mug down with a determined thud. “Make a list. The housekeeper will buy whatever you want.”
Fancy.I nod.
He takes a plate from the kitchen and sets it near me again. There’s toast with eggs, ham, and a rich salad—again my favorite. A coincidence?
I love salads. Any kind. I always bring one to the office for lunch. I don’t do it because it's a healthy choice—even though that’s a plus—or part of a diet. I just enjoy the crispy leaves, different kinds of vegetables you can add, raw, grilled or boiled and the cheeses and meats. And then the dressings. So many combinations. I used to love to create new types of salads, but the kitchen in my apartment is too small to make anything. So I’ve been buying them already made from a grocery store. Gabe’s kitchen is huge, perhaps I can start again?
