around his waist and let it fall beneath the sheet to see how excited he is to be waking up. I want him to roll into my touch, onto his back with his sleepy smile in place. I want to climb on top of him again and relive last night and make sure it wasn’t a dream.
The stiffness in my body tells me it wasn’t a dream, but it was so perfect that it must have been. Everything about last night is what dreams are made of. The way he touched me, the way he seemed to sense what I needed before I had to ask, the way he kissed me full of passion and need and want. I want to hear all of the words he said: “perfect, amazing, beautiful.”
My skin flushes when I think about last night. It burns with need again. I scoot myself to his back and wrap my arm around his waist, my hand finding his silky-soft cock. I wrap my hand around it, slowly moving it up and down. He lets out a sleepy moan and his breathing picks up, no longer deep and rhythmic. He rolls to his back and his dark eyes open. They find mine and the corners of his mouth turn up slightly. Instead of saying anything, he just pulls my mouth to his and allows me to take my place on top of him. His hands tour my body—touching my breasts and hips, then running a finger between my folds to spread my wetness. He knows exactly when I need a firm grab and a soft caress, and before I know it, he’s filling me again. This time, it’s much slower, more teasing.
He sits up and wraps one arm around my waist, lifting me up and dropping me down again while his mouth never leaves mine. I wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him like he’s the air I need to breathe. His dark hair is a mess from my hands running through it, and he has a dark shadow on his angular jaw. His hooded eyes are filled with lust, and just looking at him has me ready to fall apart again. It doesn’t take long before we’re both falling over the edge together.
We both collapse back onto the bed and he has an arm under my head, keeping me close to his side. Our breathing is hard as we try to regain control of our bodies. Suddenly, he lifts his head and looks at the clock on the table.
“Shit,” he breathes out.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, not ready to part just yet.
“Brunch.”
“So your dad’s going to be there?” I ask as we’re in the car, driving over to his grandmother’s house.
He nods. “Yep, good ol’ dad himself.”
“Sound I be worried? Is he going to hate me?”
He shrugs. “He hates everyone . . . even me. So don’t let it bother you.” He turns into the gated driveway and puts in the code. The gates open and he hits the gas.
We’re greeted in much the same fashion as we were the last time I was here, then led into the lounge area. His grandmother is already sitting with a champagne flute in hand.
“Good morning. Please sit and have a drink with me.”
Matthew bends down and takes two flutes, handing one off to me as we take our seats.
I look down at my glass, suddenly wondering what’s inside. It looks to be orange juice. I guess rich people have to make every ordinary thing look fancy. I lift it to my lips and take a sip. I don’t know what else is in there, but it’s delicious. Maybe just some sparkling water? Maybe another kind of juice?
“How was your weekend?” his grandmother asks him.
He nods. “Very good. We went out on Lake Michigan on a yacht. We had dinner and danced.”
“And then we went paintballing,” I add on, but suddenly have no idea why.
Her face blanches. “Paintballing? What on earth?”
I shouldn’t have said anything, but now I feel as if I need to explain. “It’s where you go through an obstacle course, shooting each other with little balls of paint.”
She lets out a laugh. “Oh, be serious. You’re a funny one, aren’t you?”
She thinks I’m joking? I don’t have a chance to ask, because someone else is walking into the room. Based on how everything suddenly feels strained, I bet it’s Matthew’s father.
Matthew stands and shakes his head. “Dad, this is my fiancée, Poppy.” He looks at me