We finished a late dinner together at a candlelit table. We shared a glass of wine she'd discovered deep within a forgotten cabinet in the kitchen. Miraculously, neither of us felt interested in indulging beyond that.
For once, one was enough.
Afterward, the two of us bustled together quietly, cleaning the dining area, bar, and kitchen. We swept, mopped, and wiped down surfaces. I stored food and leftover cocktail ingredients in the makeshift ice chest we'd created while Wynnie touched it up with a fresh layer of blue frost.
All the while, we stole glances and touched each other in passing. It felt like a quiet, private dance, just the two of us. We barely spoke, just going through the steps with casual efficiency.
Finally, we counted out our earnings for the night. It was the first time we'd spoken in nearly an hour.
"I think we need to count again." Wynnie furrowed her brow in disbelief.
"Three times wasn't enough?"
"We must have carried an extra one somewhere."
I chuckled. "You'd better get used to seeing numbers like this. It was only an opening night, too. They’re fine, but they’re nothing compared to a busy weekend when you’re truly successful. This coin is just the tip of the spear."
"What are we supposed to do with a sum like this?"
I shrugged. "Buy more ingredients? Get better plates and cocktail glasses, maybe? Maybe we can even hire someone to help out."
She gasped. "You think we'll make so much money and be so popular that the two of us can't handle it?"
"Not if we ever want a day off. There’s no way we’ll want to be open seven days a week indefinitely. At some point, we’ll want a day off. Maybe two.”
“And you don’t think this was a one-time fluke?”
“Everyone who showed up tonight had a great time. They'll talk. You can kiss your sleepy evenings goodbye."
“This all… it all feels like so much. A month ago, I was eating burnt soup and stale rolls, hoping a bolt of lightning would strike the inn down for good.”
“You really would have wanted that?”
“At least I wouldn’t have felt responsible for how it ended, yeah. Just a pile of burnt splinters. All thanks to fate. Bad luck. Chance.”
I knew that feeling all too well. Responsibility had weight. Dropping that weight felt like a moral failing, but if someone knocked it out of your hands? Different story.
It was just like all those dark women's romance books. The fantasy worked because the heroine never had to want the thing. Someone bigger, stronger, and impossible to refuse took the choice out of her hands—and with the choice went the guilt. She got to have the desire without admitting she had it. The reader got to feel it without owning it.
And with the Breakwater Inn, Wynnie could have dusted her hands, finally rid of the place, without the guilt of having run it into the ground herself.
Now, however, the inn was flourishing. To that point, so were we. Her skin was radiant, flushed with a contented, exhausted glow. Mine… might have been. I could tell my complexion had cleared somewhat, and I was almost certainly several pounds slimmer than when I’d arrived.
Together, we’d found something comfortable. It still didn’t have a name—not officially—but we were learning its shape. The routine way we felt each other’s space, let our edges touch, only confirmed as much.
“You want to keep the inn now, right?”
“I do.” Her gaze left the stack of coins and rested on me, then cast out over the serving area where the fire crackled softly. “Now that I can see what’s possible. Now that I have good memories here, too.”
“This evening is a little glimpse of the future.”
She sighed happily. “Just you and me, taking care of guests together.”
“And taking care of each other, too.”
“With real food that I didn’t burn to bits. Respect instead of pity from my neighbors. Maybe enough money to fix up a few more things.”
There were no backs of napkins nearby for me to scrawl out any equations. Even so, I could do some basic arithmetic. Assuming we increased our overhead slightly and hired someone, we’d still net a tidy sum each week.
“Wynnie? I’m no mathematician, but at our current rate, I think would could save up more than a hundred gold per year.”
"Seriously? Oh, by the gods. I’ll have to… to open a bank account. And lock my coffers at night. Oh dear. Oh dear me."
“Mo’ money, mo’ problems, eh?”
“Aptly put. Although perhaps there are benefits to having money.”
Wynnie worried nervously at the hem of her sleeve. By now, she'd worn the fabric thin. It was nearly see-through in places.
"Maybe we'll get you some new dresses, too. We can afford it."
"Do you want to see me in pretty new clothes?"
I chuckled, then fixed her with a heated gaze. "Actually, I'd rather see you out of them."
"Why, Mr. Andrew Reborn Wilson, are you suggesting what I think you're suggesting?"
"Probably."
"Right here? Over the bar top?"
That wasn’t exactly what I had in mind, but it wasn’t the worst idea I’d heard. Part of me wanted to say yes. A very big part of me.
Not that part, though, although that part was getting bigger by the second.
But the other part of me—the more reasonable part—wanted our first time to be somewhere special and comfortable. Until now, we’d mostly explored heavy petting, plus one notable act of toe-curling oral. If we were going to take things a step further, I wanted to do it right.
No more sweaty first-times bent over a table after closing, I mean.
Fortunately, it appeared Wynnie had the same idea. She bit back an impish smile and scrunched up her nose. "Why don't we retire to the bedroom and see if we're on the same page."
“Lead the way.”
I almost said m’lady, but once was enough for a lifetime.
She took my hand and just about ran to her bedroom. Even though there were no guests for the night, she still closed and locked the door behind us. Something about the security made everything feel that much more intimate. All the troubles of the outside world we'd dealt with over the last few weeks couldn't reach us here.
At least, not without a battering ram or lock pick.
A single candle lantern burned slow and steady. Wynnie dropped my hand and picked nervously at her fingernails, pausing a few steps into the room. She looked between me and her bed, then down at her clothes. It was as though she were frozen in place, unsure of what to do next.
"Is this your first time?" I asked.
"Does that make it weird?"
"Honestly, not really. You don't mind that it's not my first time?"
She shook her head. "No. Actually, I think it's sexy."
"Really?" I hadn't expected that.
"Yeah. The thought of you with another woman? I don't know why, but it does something for me."
"Huh."
I made a quick mental note to ask more about that later. But for now, this was just the two of us. We finally had the chance to get to know each other in the way we'd obviously wanted to for some time now.
She held her hands behind her back, grinding a toe into the hardwood floor. Her head cocked lightly to the side, chin tilted to look up at me.
I couldn’t wait any longer.
"Want me to kill the lights?"
Some girls liked their privacy. As a first-timer, she might be self-conscious.
She glanced over at her candle hurricane lamp, which was still flickering brightly. It filled the room with a healthy glow that was somewhere between mood lighting and just bright enough to read if you didn't mind straining your eyes.
A barely perceptible shrug made her chest bounce weightily. "Maybe we'll just put something over the lamp. I'd like to see what I'm doing."
I was hoping she'd say that. Call me a typical guy, but I love having enough light to see the person I'm with. Especially when it came to someone with Wynnie's body—that was a big part of the fun.
Wynnie’s juicy thighs rubbed deliciously against each other as she walked to her bed. Her hips swayed. Even under her dress, I could see her ass jiggle. I removed my shirt and draped it over the candle lantern, making sure it could still breathe and keep the flame alive. The room descended into a comfortable darkness.
My footsteps barely made a sound as I padded over to her by her mattress. For a moment, all I could hear was our breathing, coming fast now with anticipation.