39. Marnie

I haven’t forgotten about the age difference between Dusty and me.

Nine years is a lot to ignore.

It comes to me at odd times.

He makes it easy to forget because he’s really pretty mature for someone his age. Steady and kind.

But his friends are young. They’re not bad people, but they act like people in their twenties. Energetic. Optimistic. And so fucking confident. They’re not worn out yet.

They still think they have the answers.

Ha.

I used to think I had it all figured out, too. But the older I get, the less I know. I gravitate towards people with the same philosophy.

Historically, I’ve dated up. Usually ten years in the other direction.

This thing with Dusty is a strange reversal and most of the time it really doesn’t matter.

But what I really appreciate about this younger man is his energy. I woke up in the middle of the night with his long shaft pressing against my thigh. All it took on my part was a little rearranging of limbs and he obliging buried it deep inside me. God, to feel that beast of a man plunging in and out. He knows what he’s doing. Powerful and sure.

He pressed me belly down to the mattress, trapped my thighs between his, and pushed inside, somehow managing to make the fit tighter, making him feel even bigger. From that angle, his cock pistoned against me just right, giving me a climax in an embarrassingly short amount of time. And then, after rocking my world, he tossed the condom and fell asleep again. He sheltered my body against his chest, his hand cupped territorially over my breast.

Mine, he says, and my heart quakes.

My chest squeezes and expands, dancing for this farm boy who came out of nowhere.

He follows me into my dreams, claiming my body and spirit.

I wake, drifting from a dream of being held, to my reality, where his arms cradle my body. He kisses my temple, breathing in my hair, and I can’t help but wonder what the catch is.

Nobody is this perfect.

He repositions me so that I’m on my back. Propping himself up on an elbow, he runs his fingers through my hair.

Those eyes of his are gray and kind, with the faintest laugh lines creasing the corners already.

My fingers reach out to touch the silver hoop in his ear.

I draw a finger down his jaw. It’s a little scratchy with morning scruff. The look suits him. “You are so pretty. It’s not fair.”

“I’m going to start calling you Marnie pot-calling-the-kettle Black.”

I roll my eyes, laughing. “Good dad joke.”

“I’m serious.”

He drags his thumb along my lower lip. “Every square inch of you is perfect.”

“Even the patch on my knee I missed shaving?”

“Especially that patch. That’s my favorite patch.”

He slides backwards, bending my knee so that he can search for the spot in question. He nips at the fuzzy patch beneath my kneecap. I squirm, laughing, and then he drags his tongue over my knee. That sends a warm feeling, zinging to my center.

And in an instant, the playful moment turns intense. He grabs another condom. A part of me wonders if the man has an endless supply and if I should be concerned about that, but then he’s easily rearranging my body so that I’m lying on my left side. He straddles my left thigh, hooking my right thigh over his hip. Then he’s pushing in, delving deeper, deeper. This angle gives him better access and, in just a few thrusts, we’re grinding against each other.

I can feel him hitting my cervix and still manages to delve deeper, stretching me, making room for himself. And the look on his face, the hunger and fire, it’s overwhelming. My defenses are not equipped for someone like this.

He slows down, making me feel every millimeter of his shaft, letting me squirm and roll my hips against him. I want it to last forever; I beg him not to stop, but then the familiar ache is building in my core. I reach down to touch myself, to find release, and he gently bats my hand away. His fingertips rest lightly under my bellybutton while his thumb makes quick circles on my clit. I come hard, shaking around him.

He grunts, dropping my thigh and quickly rearranging my legs so that he’s between them, pumping quick and hard. He comes with a muted groan, and I drape my arms over his wide shoulders, fingers trailing through his hair.

Catching his breath, he slips his arms under mine, bracing my body against his. He stares down at me, giving me a quick kiss on the tip of my nose. “Mine.”

I laugh. “Okay, yes, caveman. Yours.”

For now, anyway.

Until this much younger, much sexier man gets bored and loses interest.

That makes me feel sad, of course, but it’s hard to feel bad for long when you’re cuddled up against human perfection.

He’s warm and strong, and he’s right here, right now.

I can worry about the future tomorrow.

This moment is too good to waste.