Right before dawn I woke up to realize I was curled around Simone under the covers, pressed against her spine. Truth is I've always been a cuddler. Used to drive Linda a little crazy since she liked to shift around in her sleep, but not me. I'd gotten in the habit of holding a pillow these last few years but at the moment I had something far warmer and nicer than a sack of feathers under my arm and my body knew it too since parts of me were waking up faster than the rest.

I wanted to let her sleep; we'd earned it, but even so, I found myself pressing up against her, breathing in Simone's scent and savoring it. That round rump of hers was too much of an enticement, and once again I found myself growing harder against it even as I tried to tell myself to behave. No such luck; now that my body had realized the sexual drought was over it was determined to indulge again.

Simone gave a little sigh and pressed back against me, which was all the encouragement my damned prick needed; it surged up along the cleft of her ass, throbbing happily.

She giggled. "Good morning to you too."

"Biology," I tried to shift the blame. "Happens with men . . ."

"I thought that was just a story," Simone replied, grinding a little more firmly and making me take a deep breath. Definitely awake now.

"I think you'll find there's hard evidence to support the truth of the matter," I managed, tightening my arm around her warm waist.

"That's apparent," she snorted. "Feels as if there's a log in the bed between us."

"Flatterer," I accused, snuggling my face in the crook of her neck, making her squeak. "Just for that . . . "

This round was slower, and sweeter. I found myself flat on my back with Simone determined to explore my body in the growing light. She seemed fascinated by the most mundane parts of me: hairy armpits, my nose; the scars along my ribcage. The whole time those soft warm hands slid and stroked along my torso, and when she touched my face I gave a little sigh.

"Absolutely average," I murmured looking up at her. "Just a man."

"No," Simone corrected me, straddling my waist in a dangerously sensual way. "You are unique and classical, Dwayne. Wonderfully proportioned and muscled." She kissed chin. "With these genetics, you should be donating semen."

"I can start right now," I replied, trying to keep a straight face. "Probably will if you keep wiggling like that."

She gave me a look I was coming to know; a hot-eyed glance that meant trouble of the best kind. "Maybe I should take care of it then."

I met her little challenge. "Maybe you should." Of course I'd been assuming she meant another round of lovemaking but instead Simone slithered down and lay across my legs, making it clear that she was literal about her intention, her hands caressing the length of my prick in ways that had me groaning a little.

"You don't have to do that," I tried to tell her. I wasn't going to coerce her into anything but Simone lifted her head and smirked at me, those green eyes bright.

"Oh I want to," came her reply, and she began to press kisses down the trail of fur from my navel into the heavy thicket around my groin, hands still caressing me. I would have protested a bit more but once Simone started licking the length of my prick I could only gasp and flex, feeling a rush of lust at the sight.

I'm no innocent; I've enjoyed my fair share of orality, both giving and receiving. From early on I knew women tasted wonderful. But being the recipient is one of those situations that drives me out of my mind. Can't help it; it's definitely one of my hot buttons. I took a deep breath, trying to stay calm. Trying. Not succeeding as Simone went from licking to kissing to slipping her pretty mouth over the head of my prick.

I knew when to give up and I did, growling and flexing my hips as she slurped and sucked. Just watching her had me right on the edge and I after a few minutes I wanted to warn her because I didn't think she'd be . . . accommodating, to put it nicely. I tried to speak, but Simone kept going and I passed the point of no return, caught up in the sweet slickness of her mouth, lost in the sheer pleasure of the moment.

"Sorry, sorry," I tried to apologize, but Simone looked up at me in sweet amusement, giggling as she swallowed, licked her lips and wiped her chin.

"No need. Alllll gone," she chuckled, "I wanted to finish what I'd started."

I pulled her up across my body, draping her over me as I nuzzled her, feeling like the king of the world.

-oo00oo—

"The best French toast should be done with half and half. Milk's okay, and cream's too heavy but half and half is the perfect compromise. That along with brown sugar, cinnamon and butter makes it one of the best hot breakfasts bar none," I told Simone.

She was paying rapt attention, watching me whisk the half and half with the melted butter, and I was a little distracted by the fact she was in one of my shirts and not much else. There's something about having a woman wearing your clothing that's a special kind of intimacy. Simone was sort of lost in it, but damned cute, with her unbrushed hair and smug expression.

"How much do you use?" she wanted to know.

"Quarter cup per slice of bread. If I was cooking for the team, that would be about three altogether, maybe a splash more. Since it's just the two of us about three quarters will do," I replied, handing her the brown sugar. "Need you to measure that out while I get the griddle hot."

"All right," she agreed, working with methodical precision. I dropped butter into the skillet and swirled it around letting it melt before I spoke again.

"Simone, how long were you married?" I asked as lightly as I could. Out of the corner of my eye I saw her stiffen a bit but she finished with the brown sugar and took a breath.

"Eleven years," she replied. "My mother knew Hugo through one of the supper clubs in Las Vegas, and when I was in my pre-med classes she began to talk to me about . . . dating him. At the time I didn't realize . . ." she trailed off and handed me the brown sugar.

"Didn't realize?" I prompted, feeling a suspicion arise.

"That they'd already reached an agreement," Simone finished. She looked up at me and I saw a flare of pain and anger in her eyes. "My mother had gotten a diagnosis of emphysema and rheumatoid arthritis, so she needed specialized care. We . . . didn't have much money. Showgirls don't make much and certainly don't have health coverage. At that time I had a . . . job that covered some of it, but not the medicines and treatments my mother needed. So one evening over dinner, Hugo explained that he would be willing to support my mother if I would marry him. In the beginning it was very cordial."

I whisked the brown sugar into the half and half, still not looking at her. "I'm betting that changed."

She fiddled with one of the broken eggshells. "It did. Between finishing up my residency and my mother's illness, I was stretched thin for time and emotion. Hugo was impatient. He wanted to start a family to carry on his name."

I looked up. Simone rolled her eyes. "No. I took birth control pills. He suspected but couldn't prove it, which did not help matters. For nine years, every Friday night we had sex. Or rather, he had sex. I just lay there and let him."

I uttered a pretty strong four-letter word as I set the batter aside and came over to her. Simone reached up, resting her hands on my shoulders. Not quite holding me back, but making me look her in the eyes. "Dwayne, I am fine. Really. I stayed with him for my mother's sake. When she passed away I began steps to divorce him but then . . . he developed brain tumors. Bad ones. Now he was an old man with nobody else to care for him and even though I didn't love him, I understood what my duty was. I was his wife, so I stayed with him until he died. And that's what my marriage was."

Her voice wavered, and I knew she was trying not to cry. I slipped my arms around her, pulling Simone close, trying like hell to leech some of that bottled pain out of her. Dear God, I couldn't imagine it. Nine years of passionless sex. Nine years of being someone's trophy instead of a lover. And those last two years—

"He hit you," I whispered, feeling Simone tense.

She twisted, glancing up at me. "How did you hear about that?"

"Your x-ray. It showed your arm's been broken before," I told her. "Don't be mad; Loretta spotted it. We agreed to stay quiet."

Simone took a shuddery breath. "When I fell on the floor. That's how I knew it was broken. I'd been through it before and recognized the pain. Yes Hugo hit me. He had an aluminum cane but I took it away after the first time. The tumors made him hard to control, hard to deal with."

"I don't care! He shouldn't have touched you!" I snapped, stroking her back. "I know it's wrong of me but I'm glad he's dead; saves me the job right there."

Simone was about to say something when she gave a yelp and pulled away from me. "Oh! The pan! It's . . . !"

I looked over as the smoke alarm went off and big rolls of smoke rose from the griddle. Moving quickly I grabbed a potholder and took it off the flames, throwing some of the flour on it before carrying it to the sink. Simone tried to get to the smoke alarm but I was taller and managed to flick it off. The two of us looked at each other and burst out laughing.

High emotion. We'd gone from something deadly serious to something intensely stupid and that loop de loop gave Simone the giggles. She shook all over when she did that, which was sexy as hell, so I took her in my arms again and kissed her, feeling her splutters die down as the kiss deepened.

I purely adored her. Funny and sexy and cute as hell. Brave, too, despite the misguided loyalty. Hugo Hiver never deserved her and it was a wonder she'd survived him.

"Okay then," I told her. "You never have to say another word about the man. I'm glad your marriage is over."

She gave a sigh of agreement. "Oh me too. In fact—I am never getting married again."