Chapter 12

Rory was still asleep when I eased out of bed in the morning. She was gone to the world, her hair a mess, and sprawled on her front. Two climaxes yesterday had taken it out of her, I thought with a smile.

Before leaving the bedroom, I paused and admired the sight of her in my bed. I loved it. I was so lucky. It did something to me; an ache in my chest.

An hour later I’d finished reading the news, consumed two coffees and eaten breakfast. Still no sign of her. I went to check.

At the bedroom door, yet again I paused to admire her. She’d drawn one knee up. Still on her front, her head was pushed partially under the pillow, dark hair messy. The sheet covered her to her waist. From the side, I could see where her petite breast in her ribbed cotton top was pressed to the bed giving it a sensual swell.

The flush of love that hit me caught me by surprise. It wasn’t arousal, it was pure, utter adoration. Jesus! She was gorgeous, special, one of a kind. Moving to the bed, I leaned over and gently kissed her cheek.

Rory grumbled, making me smile broadly.

“Morning.”

“What time is it?” she asked without moving.

“Eight-thirty.”

She groaned, “I’ve gotta pee,” not moving or opening her eyes.

With a hand on her back, I smiled and shook her. “Should I plan on changing the sheets or will you go to the bathroom to pee?”

“Go away.”

“I’m making you an omelet. Don’t take too long.”

She groaned again as I left.

I timed the cheddar and ham omelet, serve with toast, perfectly. When Rory entered the kitchen and plunked herself down at the table, I slid a plate in front of her, placed a glass of orange juice down, and sat with another coffee.

She ate with determination. I watched the magical transformation happen. One third into her omelet, her pace slowed, she paused to drink the juice, and finally glanced up at me. Another third eaten and a small smile played at the corners of her mouth. Her eyes came alive. After swallowing the last bite, she dropped her fork, leaned back, and sighed; her world back in balance.

“What’re the plans for today?” she asked.

“Grocery shopping and chores this morning.”

“Wow! Talk about an exciting day!” she exclaimed, smiling at me. “Be still my heart! Let’s take the boat out and water-ski today.”

I was insistent. “Grocery shopping and chores.”

“Oh well. It’s okay. Susie asked me to meet her at Starbucks and shop for clothes.”

I suppressed a smile. “When did she ask you?”

Rory grinned. “She’s about to!” she said, picking up her cell phone.

I let her go with a stern warning; no motorcycle rides. While disappointed at not having her company, it was her summer holiday. I happily set about mowing the lawn, making sure the mowed lines were linear perfection. Cleaning and bringing order to the house was enjoyable. As I straightened, I wondered, was I anally retentive about these things?

Grocery shopping on a weekend, when I could take my time, was a real joy. I loved food. I liked to experiment. And I loved to cook. The local supermarket provided a wonderful selection of fresh fruits and vegetables. A butcher in town - a rare sight - had incredible cuts of meat. I chose thick Angus steaks aged twenty-eight days, some handmade pork, herb, and fennel sausages, and thick, pale veal chops. Larry, the proprietor of the fishmongers, steered me towards fresh lobster, grouper, and tuna steaks.

My stomach was grumbling by the time I returned home at just after six.

Rory was lounging on the sofa when I arrived. She didn’t offer to help unpack, her Smartphone more important.

When I’d finished putting the groceries away, I said, “Thanks for the help.”

“You’re welcome,” she answered, making me smile. Her phone rang.

As she chatted, I set about making dinner. Tonight I wanted steaks, baked potatoes, and roasted broccoli.

From the sofa, fragments of Rory’s conversation reached me: “Can you believe it?” and “What an idiot!” and “I know! Crazy, huh?”

With potatoes in the oven, the outside barbecue cleaned and ready for steaks, the broccoli tossed in garlic oil, salt and pepper, ready for the oven, and feeling proud of my achievements today, I visited with Trudeau, opening a Canadian Steam Whistle lager, and sipped.

Rory ended her phone call, stood up, and asked, “What d’ya think?”

She turned slowly, arms outstretched. What was I looking at? Her long, long bare legs? Her extraordinarily short, distressed jean shorts that showed the bottom of her bare buttocks? The green and white wide-necked top that fell off one shoulder? Or, had she had her dark hair done?

I chose safe, diplomatic territory. “It looks great.” A perfect cover-anything response.

Rory laughed brightly. “You have no clue, do you? I bought these jean shorts today.”

“At the used clothing store?” I asked.

Rory laughed. “No! Brand new. Never worn. Like them?”

“Turn around.”

She turned. I admired the bottom of her bare buttocks, the way denim shaped her exquisite compact ass, and the way the denim pressed tightly into her butt crack. Very, very sexy. “I like them.”

“I knew you would. The only problem is you have to wear cheeky panties with them. Regular panties will show.”

I took a long drink of beer.

Rory, strolled over and casually dropped a bomb. “Susie and I were arrested today.”

Beer spurted from my mouth.

“Don’t worry,” she immediately responded. “The police aren’t pressing charges.” She opened the refrigerator and grabbed a Coke.

When I’d wiped my mouth and chin, I asked, “What the heck happened? What did you two do?”

Rory, after sipping from the can and sitting at the kitchen table, shrugged. “We assaulted a guy. He deserved it.”

Moving very carefully, I settled at the table. “I think you’d better tell me everything, Rory.” This was definitely a first, and not a pleasant one at that.

Rory frowned. “It was his fault. He pinched Susie’s ass in the mall so we attacked him. Boy, is his face scratched up! Blood, too!”

About to castigate her, she continued nonchalantly, “He wanted to press charges until we threatened to do the same for sexual assault. Susie showed the police the welt on her ass. That dickwad changed his mind real quick.”

I took a few deep breaths. “Since when is physically attacking anyone okay?”

Rory shot back, “Since when is sexual assault okay?”

Good point. “Were you hurt in the fracas?”

She shrugged. “Not much. I think I have a bruise on my left boob where he hit me. That’s all.” Her eyes changed, contemplating me like cornered prey. “Wanna see?”

In the blink of an eye, concern evaporated, excitement hit, and thrill pulsed through me.

Rory’s eyes glinted with mischief. “Maybe you could kiss it all better?”

Lord help me!

“I’m not wearing a bra.”

My penis woke up; blood flowed south quickly. I saw how her small breasts shaped her top, suggestive, teasing. No bra. Amazing. Desire hit.

A few deep, calming breaths and I said, “Dinner’s in progress. Aren’t you hungry?”

Rory stood, moved to my side and sat sideways in my lap. The flecks of tarnished gold in her dark eyes seemed to freeze me in place. She took my hand and brought it to her breast.

“This one,” she said softly.

When I cupped her perfect breast over her top, a silent groan echoed loudly in my head. Less than a handful, it was so damned firm, so damned sexy.

Befuddled by desire and the way she was looking at me, I moved my hand down to her waist and tugged her top from her shorts. A hint of a smile emerged on her face. She didn’t stop me, simply staring into my eyes.

My pulse jumped when I touched her skin, warm, alive. My heart thumped loudly as I brought my hand up inside her top, moving it slowly, anticipation building. How could she affect me so much?

The edge of my hand touched the underside of her breast. Very, very slowly, I brought my hand up and cupped the underside, so perfectly formed, warm, sexy, with a little weight to it. I rubbed the pad of my thumb over her nipple and Rory inhaled.

Her eyes were intense, heated. Her lips looked lush. Playfulness and flirting evaporated. Her voice was slightly husky when she said, “You haven’t kissed it better.” She rucked up the bottom of her cotton top, exposing my hand on her breast.

I removed my hand and studied adolescent magnificence; perfectly firm without sag, dark areola, small but hard nipple, flawless un-tanned skin, and the single dark beauty spot below the underside swell.

Under her butt, my cock grew even more.

“I don’t see a bruise,” I told her in a quiet voice.