Page 93 of Ridin’ Dirty

He was still inside of me.

I really liked that he was still inside of me, bare and coated in our shared climax.

It seemed inevitable that if I answered him truthfully, I wouldn’t simply lose his cock, he wouldn’t be on top of me, either. I wasn’t ready to lose the weight of him, so I shrugged and replied, “Nothing too major.”

He studied me for a long time, his skepticism hard to miss, then he grunted his acceptance of my response. It was obvious he didn’t believe me, but there was some post coital haze keeping him mellow, too, and he didn’t press. Instead, he asked, “It’s my house. I get any say in what it looks like?”

I don’t know why I was surprised by the question. He made it clear he cared about the place he called home, even if all that looked like was a tidy, bland space.

“Do you want a say?”

“Nothin’ bright. Not big on knickknacks. You want anything on the walls, mounting it is my domain. I see somethin’ I don’t like, it’s goin’ back where it came from.”

Home décor.

We were naked and in bed discussing home décor.

If this was a dream, I never wanted to wake up.

“Deal,” I murmured, my smile on the verge of a full-on goofy grin.

He slid out of me then, and I was a little sad to lose him.

That was, until he took a step back, pulled his jeans up over his hips and said, “Takin’ Reaper out. Stowin’ the hog. When I get back, I better find you just how I left you. We’re not done fuckin’.”

My belly clenched in excitement even as my pussy throbbed, already sore in the best possible way.

“Is that a promise?”

“No,” he stated as he turned for the door. “It’s a fact.”

Eight Days Later

I peeled my eyes open to find the sun pouring into the bedroom. The blinds were doing their best to keep the light out, but it was late enough into the morning they were almost useless. With a sigh, I reached for my phone and immediately smiled. For the first time, I didn’t have to fold myself over the side of the bed to find the device which laid charging on my newly acquired nightstand.

Now, I didn’t care what time it was.

I sat up and scanned the room, pleased with how it was coming along. I convinced Riley we needed a couple of things on the walls to bring my entire vision to completion; I simply needed to figure out what, exactly, I wanted to hang.

Thinking I could do some online inspiration research on my phone over my morning coffee, I got out of bed, grabbed my device, and started for the kitchen. I barely made it out of the hallway, stopping short when I found Riley stretched out along the sectional, his gaze aimed on the television in front of him. He was in a faded black muscle shirt and gray sweatpants, his feet bare, looking as relaxed as I’d ever seen him. The volume on the TV was low, almost like he didn’t want to wake me, and Reaper dozed on the floor nearby.

I was still processing the sight of him when he looked right at me and said, “Got donuts. They’re in the kitchen.”

Donuts.

He was in sweatpants, watching TV, and there were donuts.

I wasn’t quite sure what was going on—the tempo of the morning suddenly one I didn’t recognize—but I was curious to see what might happen if I went with the flow, so I ventured to the kitchen. As promised, there was a box of donuts on the counter. I went about making my coffee first, lifting the lid of the box only after my caffeine fix started to brew. What I found made me laugh.

What once was a box of twelve donuts now held six. What remained was one glazed, one chocolate frosted, one strawberry frosted sprinkle, and one jelly filled, along with a plain cake donut and one covered in powdered sugar. It didn’t take me long to figure out he already ate one of every kind.

My Stallion had a sweet tooth.

It was another one of his soft spots, and I loved knowing this about him.

My coffee finished brewing. I doctored it the way I liked then grabbed a paper towel on which to place my glazed donut and returned to the living room. I situated myself cross-legged in the spot next to Riley, taking a bite of my breakfast as I tried to figure out what he was watching. It looked like a cooking show—of the competitive variety—this one apparently focusing on barbecue dishes specifically.

“What kind of workout earned us Sunday morning donuts?” I wondered aloud.