Morning came like a mosaic – pieces of sunlight filtered through a gap in the curtains while birds cajoled in broken songs beyond the glass. Blinking into the pale gold, he was surprised by how easily his eyes opened. There was no well-worn heaviness burdening his limbs, no customary urge to roll over and barricade himself in the blankets for another hour, or two. Instead, his lungs filled with an organic breath, and for the first time in years, he simply... woke up.
Teresa was asleep beside him, her hair spilling across the beige pillowcase in a meandering river of chestnut, each strand haloed by morning light, as though an artist had painted with a gilded palette. It was pure joy to let himself indulge, drink her in and commit every detail to memory. A sacrament he would gladly dedicate himself to. Could he be indoctrinated into Teresa?
Her lips formed the faintest crescent, as though she’d fallen asleep smiling, forgetting to let it fade. The muscles in his cheeks complained too, cramping from hours spent grinning through his own dreams. He relaxed his jaw in a few silent stretches, but the smile found its way back. Had she bewitched his face so he would be stuck smiling forever? Not that he minded.
He had no idea what time it was, and he wasn’t about to risk finding out. His phone sat on the bedside table, just beyond the cocoon of blankets and, more importantly, beyond the risk of waking Teresa. If she stirred, she’d probably insist they get up, and he wasn’t ready to have the magical world they’d built be consumed by the ordinary one waiting just outside the pool house door. So he stayed where he was and let his thoughts amble back to the night before.
A Lego The Mentalist set could be released soon !!!
As a huge Lego fan, I often discover new ideas from people on Lego Ideas. And here's what I found. But for them to be officially published, they need to be voted on as much as possible.
Here's the link: https://beta.ideas.lego.com/product-ideas/9dc9d1e8-c98a-4f2f-a45a-b8baca69d367
The idea comes from AxwerR.
Thanks to him for this amazing idea. GO VOTE!!
“What’s great about acting is the chance to discover different facets of myself. When you nail a character, you really inhabit them; a part of them is inside you forever. You grow. I’d be lying through my teeth if I didn’t say I act for other people. I want people to like (my work). I think acting makes you discover parts of yourself because you’re forced to. There’s always going to be parts of you up there.”
Jane paused, perspiration beading across his forehead, his breathing worn so thin his lungs were screaming. The room smelled of cinnamon and honey, the air heady enough to taste.
They’d been at it for hours.
Her neck was suffused, tiny pink bruises, the ones she’d begged for, blossoming just below her clavicle. Tomorrow she’d hide them beneath silk and pretend they weren’t there, fingers toying absently with her collar while he sat across from her knowing exactly what lay underneath. Little bedroom secrets.
Ebony hair curled damp against her temples and her bottom lip was marked by the ruby imprint of her own teeth.
Neither of them had climaxed.
Deliberately, of course. If he left decisions to his dick, he’d spend half his life coming. A brush of her hand. The sashay of her hips as she crossed a room. One look and he would be buying new pants.
No, this wasn’t that.
This was endurance – a marathon.
Though he couldn’t deny he enjoyed their sprints too. If his headstone ever needed engraving, it could simply read: Here lies the man who spent years discovering how many times Teresa Lisbon could come in a single sitting.
But this was markedly different. Holding her there. Holding himself there. Keeping them both balanced on the knife-edge between euphoria and frustration until the distinctions blurred.
When he didn’t answer, her fingers wandered between her legs where the tip of his cock skirted her entrance. The sight nearly incinerated what frail restraint he had left. Her skin glistened where they met, need gathered between blushing, Georgia Peach folds. Her fingers traced the point of contact, pale skin stretched over delicate veins while his own throbbed beneath the surface.
The more he spoke, the harder it became to actually hear him. Her focus kept diverting to the sensual movement of his mouth and to the precision of his hands as he cradled each ravioli and set it aside with impossible delicateness, as though the fragile pasta might bruise under rougher fingers.
There was no reasonable explanation why she was so turned on by it all – the sheen of perspiration at his brow, or the way the tip of his tongue peeked out when he concentrated. Even the scent of herbs and butter tangled with the musky notes of his earthy cologne was affecting her in unspeakable ways, making her pulse stumble and her thighs wet.
She looked back at the folders on the island, hoping that smothering herself in work might extinguish whatever was smoldering under her skin.
“So what’s with all the piles?” she asked – thinner than intended and much too high to be nonchalant.
If Jane noticed, he didn’t let on.
“The first pile is things I’d like to see for myself. People, places, that sort of thing.” He pointed with his elbow at the stack on the far left. “You can take me.”
The thread of dominance in his voice only stoked the embers.
Still fussing, he transferred the finished ravioli onto a lined tray, then moved to another bowl and started whisking whatever was in it. His sleeves had ridden up, moulding the shirt to one bicep as he worked. It looked ripe enough to bite into.
Teresa’s body betrayed her immediately, heat and arousal pooling in her core.
How was he supposed to forget the feeling of her when his mouth carried the memory? Every inhale would feel like an inquisition. He would be condemned, forever haunted by the warmth and the yield of her lips.
Charlotte had asked him not to touch the fire. Not only had he ignored her – he’d doused it in fuel and fanned the flames with his own hands.
The room stayed empty, of course. Teresa wasn’t coming back. If the last few weeks had taught him anything, it was how efficiently she could probably pack a life into a bag while cursing his name under her breath.
He didn’t resent her for it, he understood. If he could, he would smite himself. Bang on Hades’ gate and demand early admission, toothbrush in his back pocket.
If fucking up could be distilled into a single image, it stared back at him from the darkened window – his own reflection, warped and dim, a man he didn’t quite recognise.
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