In the kitchen, the usual morning chaos is served with eggs. My mother is hurling passive-aggressive insults at me like hand grenades with the precision of a military strategist.
“I swear to God,” my mother announces dramatically, setting a plate in front of me hard enough to rattle the silverware, “if you cancel one more date, I’m going to lose my mind.”
“I didn’t cancel,” I say quietly.
“You rescheduled.”
“Three times.”
“To be fair,” I offer, “I had a book sale at the library.”
She stares at me.
“A book sale.”
I nodded.
“Well, this is two men in a month; you told the last one you had a prior commitment.”
“I did.”
“A knitting circle is not a prior commitment, Eleanor!”
She closes her eyes and pinches the bridge of her nose.
“You’re thirty-eight years old. You have a master’s degree. You own seventeen cardigans. You bake bread for fun. And you chose a book sale or to knit over a man.”
“It was a very good sale, and you said you loved the mittens.”
Her eyes open. They sweep over my faded floral dress, my sensible shoes, and the braid hanging over my shoulder.
“Sweetheart.” The anger drains from her voice and is replaced by something worse: pity. “What happened to you? Didn’t you ever want to fall in love? Get married? Have babies?”
I look down at my tea.
“I don’t know.”
She sighs, her face crumpling with regret.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
But she did.
And the terrible thing is, I’m not entirely sure she’s wrong. To hear my mother and friends tell it, I’m not single so much as fundamentally unsuited for romance. They speak about my future love life with the same sad optimism reserved for endangered species and miracle recoveries.
Apparently, at thirty-eight, in my floral dresses and sensible shoes, I’ve become less a woman looking for love,” and more “spinster librarian everyone has quietly given up on.”
“Well, that’s my cue,” she mutters with a sigh. “I guess I just need to accept it. " Those things will never be different,” she sprinkles in that last bit. “Have a good day, sweetheart.” She places a plate in front of me, squeezes my shoulder with surprising gentleness, then pushes her way out the back door.
“Okay, bye, and thank you for the pep talk,” I whisper, just as the door slammed loudly, startling our basset hound, Beasley Blue, enough to lazily lift his head briefly before flopping right back down asleep.
I sigh, place the plate of food in front of the dog, grab a donut, and head for the door. The truth is that something is about to change. I’m on the hunt for my own place. I set up a walkthrough at a one-bedroom apartment downtown. It’s my first choice, but it has a waiting list. I don’t want to wait.
I park on the street next to the deep red brick building that stands proudly along the riverfront, echoing the charm of the historic district. Arched windows and dark bronze accents crowned every unit, each with a balcony overlooking the river.
I walk through the large, dark-stained wood doors, adorned with thick black steel and heavy bronze handles. I am immediately met by an older woman and her small, yippy dog, snapping at my ankles. I slow-blink at her, unimpressed, and she mutters something under her breath before scooping the dog into her arms and sweeping back out the way I came.
I turn to watch them leave and nearly jump out of my skin at a tap on my shoulder. I spin around.
Jesus.
I forgot how to draw air. Standing there, staring down, his tongue pressed against his teeth, his lips curling into a crooked grin, is an unfairly gorgeous young man.
It’s like someone crawled into my imagination and sketched him just for me from my romance novels. His dark, wavy hair falls perfectly messy around his face. The scruff along his jaw makes him look rugged. And his ice-blue eyes hold mine just long enough to make my pulse trip over itself.
“You must be El?” he asks in a broad Southern accent, giving sweet tea and pulled pork BBQ vibes.
He reaches out to shake hands. Intentional black and white tattoos curl up both chiseled arms, and my eyes follow them back up to his eyes. His grin widens.
Say something, Eleanor! I scream at myself. I grab his hand and awkwardly shake it. “Sorry, I…” I shrug my shoulders, unable to form words.
He chuckles and starts walking toward the elevators, indicating he wants me to follow him. “Okay, first, sorry about old lady Pembroke. I swear that lady needs some D.” He turns and winks at me.
I smile, my pulse hammering in my ear.
He calls the elevator, and the doors open. “You are El here to see the apartment, right?” he looks back before stepping in.
I laugh. “Yeah, sorry. I am,” I confirm.
“Okay, cool, I’m Dylan, property manager,” he murmurs as he waits for me to enter first, then steps in and presses the top-floor button.
“Property manager,” I scoff, amused. “You look too young.”
Another grin tugs at his lips, “Just turned twenty, my parents own the building.”
I inhale so hard I nearly choke. Twenty? Sweet merciful God, Eleanor. The image of me accepting my high-school diploma as his umbilical cord is being cut flashes through my brain.
The doors open, and he steps out. The hallway is short and empty, with only two doors facing us directly across from the elevator.
“That one’s mine.” He nods toward the door to the left. Then he unlocks the right.
The door swings open, and sunlight pours in. The balcony. The water. The lights dance across the floor. It’s breathtaking, brighter, softer, and more peaceful than I imagined. The apartment smells bright, if that’s even possible. Like expensive cleanliness that makes me suddenly aware of my sensible shoes. For one ridiculous second, I wonder if I should take them off.
“It’s peaceful, isn’t it?” Dylan murmurs close to my ear, like he’s been inside my thoughts all along.
I turn and catch the scent of him, something woodsy and warm that I can’t quite place. It hits me with surprising force, making me a little dizzy.
He’s leaning in the doorway, hands gripping the frame above him, muscles flexing effortlessly, eyes locked on me like I’m part of the view.
“I like your dress, vintage, pretty.”
I look down at my outfit, then back at him, but say nothing. God, I want the apartment and this man, correction, this boy. Shoot. I turn and start walking through the space, the kitchen open, with black stainless steel, opaque blue backsplash, and white granite.
“The primary suite and bath,” he says, motioning toward the large room with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the river. “Can you imagine yourself curling up in bed to that view every day?”
Staring at him, I smile as I picture myself in bed next to him, my teeth catch my lower lip as heat crawls up my neck. This boy makes my chest tight, and my thoughts scatter.
“Shit, lady, don’t look at me like that unless you’re ready to deal with the consequences.” His drawl was as thick as molasses. And the way he is looking at me, and holds my gaze, my stomach literally flips, and my throat tightens.
I’m not sure what I’m thinking. I’ve known this young man for all of three minutes, and yet the words tumble out of my mouth. “Please. I’ve been paying taxes almost as long as you’ve been alive. I think I can handle the consequences.” I shrug, and his grin only widens.
He takes a step closer, and every nerve in my body ignites. My breath catches, but I don't take a step back.
“Careful, darlin’,” he says, his voice low and eyes darkening. “Don’t tease me and start something you can’t finish,” he warns, wrapping his hand around the back of my neck and pulling me closer to his chest.
My heart pounds so hard I swear he can hear it. But without hesitation, I rise on my tiptoes in my sensible shoes and gave him a short kiss. Without hesitation, one of his hands quickly finds its way under my dress and up over my chest. And in a single motion, he lifts off my dress, stealing the last of my air. He wraps one hand firmly around my long braid, pulling my head back, and kisses me deeply. I cannot breathe.
Fuck. He’s fast and experienced, and my thoughts can't keep up.
“Normally,” his voice low, almost teasing, “I’d have you on your knees begging for my cock.” His eyes flicker with something wild as he unfastens my bra, my heavy breasts spilling out. “But since you're a guest,” he murmurs, his voice trails off as he sinks to the floor.
My mind is reeling, eyes wide. Can I really go through with this?
His movements are deliberate, unhurried. His hands slide lightly along my sides, his fingertips grazing my skin as he relieves me of my remaining defenses, my panties, never once breaking eye contact. I swallow hard, suddenly aware of how dry my throat has become. Dylan smiles up at me one more time before rolling his tongue over his lips and leaning into me.
The heat from his mouth is driving me completely wild. I try to steady myself against the bedroom doorframe, my knuckles white and curled around the trim.
Fingers exploring, making me moan uncontrollably. When one moves inside me, I jolt and freeze, taking a shuddered breath, and trying to hide my nerves.
He notices immediately.
“Jesus, baby, you act like no one’s ever touched you before. Are you okay?” he asks. Something softer appears in his expression.
I inhale sharply, nerves and desire colliding. “I don’t have much experience,” I admit. “But I know what I want.” Doubling down, I slide my fingers into his hair, guiding him back closer.
“Teach me,” I breathe. “Please.”
The corner of his mouth lifts, and the look he gives me from below nearly steals the strength from my legs.
He urges me to relax, his voice low and rugged, his breath warm against my skin as he speaks. “Take a slow, deep breath when I enter your pussy, okay?” I nod. “And then let it out when I slide my cock back out.”
I never hear people use words like this, let alone feel them while hearing them.” It sends goosebumps everywhere. I nod.
“Focus on what feels good, and tell me. Make sure I know what you don’t like so that I can stop. I want you to enjoy this, baby.” He pauses and runs his tongue up and down between my thighs; my breath catches.
“So, do you like this, when I circle my tongue on your clit? And up and down your pussy like this?” He does it again with a smile.
I take a sharp breath and lean my head back against the doorframe, nodding slightly, and close my eyes. God, it feels amazing.
He pushes his tongue inside me, before he speaks, his words vibrating against me, his tongue rolling between each word he says, “When you’re ready for more, let me know, and I’ll follow your lead. And if you want to stop, we stop. Okay, babe?”
I swallow hard. “I’m ready for more.”
My voice is shaky.
He moves closer again, the feeling surreal, warmth spreading through me as his hands coax me open, aching and ready.
He rises slowly, eyes on mine as he slowly presses into me, and for the first time, and for a heartbeat, it almost hurts, a sharp reminder of how new this is. My fingers clutch at him. I tense and gasp, overwhelmed by it all.
“Easy,” he murmurs to himself, voice rough with restraint.
His forehead rests briefly against mine as he lets me breathe through it and adjust, his restraint obvious in the tightness of his jaw.
He wants more. I can feel it in the way his fingers flex against me.
After a moment, I relax into it. So I slide my hands up his shoulders and move first, slow and steady, letting him know I could handle more.
His breath changes instantly. “God, baby, your pussy is so fucking tight.”His words crawl up my spine, but his movements make me melt in ecstasy. His hands steady my hips, and when he finally moves with intention, the pace deepens and becomes urgent; my thoughts scatter. Sensation overwhelms me. My body reacts before I can, tightening and trembling hard against his, and I surrender to a wave that crashes through me without warning.
He holds me as my body trembles, and I catch my breath.
“Fuck, baby… you've got me so
hard, that was amazing. I’ve never felt anything like that. Jesus, that’s unbelievably hot.”
After I gather myself, he whispers in my ear, “I want you to take it all.” With his eyes on me, he guides me down to my knees, pushing his fingers in my mouth, easing my lips open. “That’s it,” he murmurs, closing his eyes as his head falls back. I'm not entirely sure what to do.
He senses my hesitation and cups my face, his hands settling on either side of my head.
“Take my cock into your mouth, baby. Watch your teeth. Use your tongue. Run it up and down.”
I do as I’m told, but it feels awkward at first. My tongue seems to get in the way of itself, and my gag reflex isn’t exactly cooperating. I flush with embarrassment, certain I’m doing everything wrong, but he doesn’t seem to mind.
“Fuck, yes, baby.”
He pulls back and guides me lower.
“Take my balls into your mouth.”
Using the fingers of one hand, he presses them toward my lips, instructing me to suck and lick while he strokes himself. I obey, trying to follow his lead, trying to ignore the nervous flutter in my chest.
He guides me back up, his grip firm on his manhood. He pushes all the way in, and my eyes immediately begin to water.
“Look at me, baby,” he growls.
I force myself to meet his eyes. Without warning, he releases into my mouth. I nearly choke, instinctively trying to pull back, but he won’t let me retreat. He holds my head firmly against him, my nose pressed against his skin as I struggle to catch my breath, breathing him in and trying desperately to get air into my lungs.
Eyes locked on mine as his hand slides up my neck, pushing against my jaw and forcing my mouth closed as he slides out, he asks, “You like that, don't you, you submissive little slut.” His voice is low, vibrating through me. I nod as I try hard to swallow my pride along with his large, hot load, with his hand tight on my throat.
He guides me up and hands me my top, and helps me back into my dress. “So, babe, you want the place?”
I furrow my brows but can’t hide my smile. “Wait, I thought there was a waiting list?”
He pulls me close and runs his hands through my hair, tucking a few strands behind my ear.
“I don’t make the rules. I just decide who they apply to.” He smirks. “I told you to be careful, darlin’. Consequences.” He winks at me as he presses the key into my hand. “Welcome home.”
And that’s the thing about consequences. Some of them don’t happen right away. Some of them happen slowly, over time, until one day you realize you’ve built an entire life around an impulsive decision you made in roughly three minutes time.
The funny thing is, I never do tell my mother. I never tell my friends, either. Every now and then, they stop by and catch Dylan there. He smiles politely, says hello, maybe throws me a quick wink when they aren’t looking. The moment they leave, they all start in.
“Oh my God, you should ask him out.”
“Seriously, are you going to stay single forever?”
They carry on like that until they finally leave. Then Dylan lets himself in with his key, looks at me with that same wicked grin, and reminds me exactly why some things are better kept private.
