“Come live in my heart and pay no rent.” ~Samuel Lover
My hair flutters around my face. It makes me wish I could close my eyes to savor the breeze generated by the downhill run on my bicycle. Each lovely arched bridge that spans one of the canals crisscrossing the heart of Amsterdam in a network of black ribbons is an exercise in work and reward. I strain uphill and savor the moments of coasting the exertion affords. For so long now I’ve concentrated on industry that I’d almost forgotten how magical it can be to squander a Sunday afternoon on pure, unadulterated pleasure. I’m ready to glide for a few hours.
I hum to myself as I recall my decadent indulgence of late. If a woman could overdose on bliss, I’d have dropped dead weeks ago with an enormous grin etched onto my face. I sigh as I watch the flex and play of Rick’s muscles, evident despite the tailored clothing covering them. In front of me, he pumps the pedals of his flame-painted bike as though they hardly resist. His ass looks amazing in his slim-cut jeans, and I thank the universe again for the innate style of European men. Even a man’s man like Rick never appears sloppy, only casually sexy.
As if he can read my thoughts, and lately I think he must, he glances over his broad shoulder and grins. “Keeping up, Sarah?”
I shiver violently. The thrill of my real name on his lips threatens to have me crashing into the public urinal on the corner of the street. The gray plastic modules usually make me giggle—especially when tourists gawk, imagining a man holding his cock right there on the street as if it’s scandalous to succumb to the call of nature. However, I don’t find the idea of getting up close and personal with the fixture amusing in the least.
Rick’s lyrical chuckle carries to me on the wind. It might as well be a caress lavished from his hand. He’s perfected the use of those two syllables to drive me mad, often shoving me into orgasm as he groans them in a reverent chant in sync with the crash of his hips into the cradle of my thighs.
I crank up the speed, loving the tightening of sinew. After all the amazing home-cooked meals I’ve shared with Rick, toning is probably a good thing. Not that he doesn’t help me burn off calories in much more sinful ways. I wobble, pressing my legs together as best I can to soothe an entirely different caliber of ache. I won’t lie. The pressure from the seat on my swollen pussy isn’t bad.
I pull alongside Rick.
He scans my flush and the ghost of my hard nipples, which poke against my cashmere sweater through the lacy bra beneath. His cheeks are stained red and I’m sure it’s from more than the rush of air against his handsome face.
“Better watch where you’re going, mister.”
“I know exactly where this road leads, Sar-ah.” So in tune with me, he can decipher every nuance in my expression—the reactions of my body—even when I attempt to blank them out to throw him off. It frightened me at first, his ability to know me. Now I’ve come to adore such intimacy, more intense than anything we shared in our early days through my window.
It has comforted me to wrap his understanding around me like a fuzzy blanket through the cold winter months of our bizarre courtship. With spring on our doorstep, I wonder what new buds will sprout while I pray the universe won’t shout, “April Fool’s!” then inform me the happiest period of my life has been some cosmic prank.
Despite the constant reassurance of this increasing bond, I’m afraid to believe it’s true. Genuine. Eternal. Because I don’t think I could survive losing Rick once I’ve claimed him as mine. Like severing a limb or tearing out my heart, it would cripple me. Destroy me. Utterly. I can’t do that. Not after my painstaking attempt to remain solo. What other choice did I have after choking on a gluttony of loss as a teenager?
I refuse to dwell on the past today. Instead I look forward, zooming toward happiness
My hair flutters around my face. It makes me wish I could close my eyes to savor the breeze generated by the downhill run on my bicycle. Each lovely arched bridge that spans one of the canals crisscrossing the heart of Amsterdam in a network of black ribbons is an exercise in work and reward. I strain uphill and savor the moments of coasting the exertion affords. For so long now I’ve concentrated on industry that I’d almost forgotten how magical it can be to squander a Sunday afternoon on pure, unadulterated pleasure. I’m ready to glide for a few hours.
I hum to myself as I recall my decadent indulgence of late. If a woman could overdose on bliss, I’d have dropped dead weeks ago with an enormous grin etched onto my face. I sigh as I watch the flex and play of Rick’s muscles, evident despite the tailored clothing covering them. In front of me, he pumps the pedals of his flame-painted bike as though they hardly resist. His ass looks amazing in his slim-cut jeans, and I thank the universe again for the innate style of European men. Even a man’s man like Rick never appears sloppy, only casually sexy.
As if he can read my thoughts, and lately I think he must, he glances over his broad shoulder and grins. “Keeping up, Sarah?”
I shiver violently. The thrill of my real name on his lips threatens to have me crashing into the public urinal on the corner of the street. The gray plastic modules usually make me giggle—especially when tourists gawk, imagining a man holding his cock right there on the street as if it’s scandalous to succumb to the call of nature. However, I don’t find the idea of getting up close and personal with the fixture amusing in the least.
Rick’s lyrical chuckle carries to me on the wind. It might as well be a caress lavished from his hand. He’s perfected the use of those two syllables to drive me mad, often shoving me into orgasm as he groans them in a reverent chant in sync with the crash of his hips into the cradle of my thighs.
I crank up the speed, loving the tightening of sinew. After all the amazing home-cooked meals I’ve shared with Rick, toning is probably a good thing. Not that he doesn’t help me burn off calories in much more sinful ways. I wobble, pressing my legs together as best I can to soothe an entirely different caliber of ache. I won’t lie. The pressure from the seat on my swollen pussy isn’t bad.
I pull alongside Rick.
He scans my flush and the ghost of my hard nipples, which poke against my cashmere sweater through the lacy bra beneath. His cheeks are stained red and I’m sure it’s from more than the rush of air against his handsome face.
“Better watch where you’re going, mister.”
“I know exactly where this road leads, Sar-ah.” So in tune with me, he can decipher every nuance in my expression—the reactions of my body—even when I attempt to blank them out to throw him off. It frightened me at first, his ability to know me. Now I’ve come to adore such intimacy, more intense than anything we shared in our early days through my window.
It has comforted me to wrap his understanding around me like a fuzzy blanket through the cold winter months of our bizarre courtship. With spring on our doorstep, I wonder what new buds will sprout while I pray the universe won’t shout, “April Fool’s!” then inform me the happiest period of my life has been some cosmic prank.
Despite the constant reassurance of this increasing bond, I’m afraid to believe it’s true. Genuine. Eternal. Because I don’t think I could survive losing Rick once I’ve claimed him as mine. Like severing a limb or tearing out my heart, it would cripple me. Destroy me. Utterly. I can’t do that. Not after my painstaking attempt to remain solo. What other choice did I have after choking on a gluttony of loss as a teenager?
I refuse to dwell on the past today. Instead I look forward, zooming toward happiness
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