I woke on Sunday, feeling rode hard and put away wet. I hurt—pleasantly—in mysterious places, and ached pretty much all over, but especially between my legs. The room smelled satisfyingly of our mutual lust and I drank it in, flopping my hand to the side in search of Drew. The linens were cool to the touch and I frowned, then smiled. Probably making breakfast again. He made a hearty breakfast, a good thing, considering we’d spent most of yesterday fucking.
Padding into the bathroom, I took care of business, then turned the shower on. Drew had bathed me twice during our sexathon, but I needed another. As the water heated I brushed my teeth, studying myself in the mirror. I looked much the same, tall and slender, blonde hair tousled from bed and adventurous sex, pale skin now marked with scruff burns and purple stars from teeth and suction, tiny bruises from strong fingers. I traced over one on my hip and smiled with satisfaction, then hustled into the shower. Drew was insatiable and likely had carnal plans for after breakfast.
The apartment was dead quiet. No television, no sounds of activity in the kitchen, nothing. The heavenly smell of coffee embraced me as I neared, the carafe full and a mug beside it. No sign of Drew and I spun in a circle, seeking him out even as I accepted the truth. He was gone. Wow. He’d left without a word, left me used up and yet wanting more in the bed we’d romped in for hours. As well as on the couch, the floor, the innocuous wing chair in the corner and the shower. Rather than focus on the bereft feeling blossoming in my belly, I thought about the fact we hadn’t christened the countertop… Maybe he’d gone out to get a paper or something. An ingredient for breakfast.
I crossed to the front door, expectant as a pup awaiting its master, before catching myself. What in hell was I doing? If he came back, we’d pick up where we left off. There was no need for worshipful anticipation. And if he didn’t… I was seized with a terrible anxiety that I might wait forever, not knowing…
I poured the coffee—one mug—and gingerly lowered myself to a stool. The cushioned chairs at the table were more comfortable, but a part of me needed the penance. My lady parts were really sore, something I’d denied in the shower, and would serve as a reminder of sex I’d never forget, and a warning of never indulging my libido again. Because I had a really bad feeling. There were consequences to every not-well-thought-out action.