Page 8 of Merry Merry Biker
Picking the blankets up from the floor, I folded them and added them to a camp chair she had set up in a corner. It was only then that I realised she didn’t have any furniture. There was, however, a huge arsed, fully decorated Christmas tree and Christmas decorations all over the house. My Sprite seemed to really love Christmas.
Tidying up as much as I could with my fucked-up ribs, I picked up my cum stained shirt from last night, along with any other dirty clothes and set them by the washing machine. I’m sure she’d not mind me using it, but I’d ask her first. Finding all the makings for coffee, I started a pot before looking in the fridge for something to make for breakfast. Seeing that she had bacon, sausage, and eggs, I took them out and started cooking. My stomach started growling in hunger at the scent of bacon. The soup from last night, while delicious, had long since worn off.
Turning the bacon, I noticed that the coffee was ready. Opening cupboards until I found mugs, ignoring the Christmas-themed ones, I found a large black one at the back of the cupboardand filled it to the brim with the delicious black gold, closing my eyes as the first hit of caffeine rushed through me.‘Was there anything better than that first coffee in the morning?’I wondered, turning back to the stove and the food cooking there.
Breakfast was nearly done by the time I heard Sprite walking down the passage towards the kitchen. Turning slightly to look at her over my shoulder, I couldn’t help but smile at what she was wearing. She had on dark green leggings, a Christmas jumper filled with gingerbread men, and fluffy red socks; her hair was in a jaunty ponytail that swung with every step she took.
She came to a stop when she saw me staring at her, “What?”
The grin that spread over my face had her narrowing her eyes at me, “Nothing, Sprite, you’re cute as fuck, though.”
“Huh,” she uttered with a little sniff and walked to the coffee pot, not saying anything else. Taking a Christmas mug from the cupboard, making me smile at how much she seemed to love Christmas, she filled it up, leaving just enough space for milk. Taking a big sip, she sighed as she closed her eyes, her face relaxed in bliss.
Opening them to catch me watching her, she grinned, “I love that first taste of coffee in the morning. The rush makes me happy.”
Shaking my head at her words, they weren’t much different to what I’d been thinking. Taking plates out of the cupboard that I’d found when I was looking for the mugs, I started plating up our breakfast and took it to the table. Sprite grabbed our coffees and some cutlery before sitting down.
“This looks amazing. Thank you,” she declared, tucking in. We ate in silence for a moment, not that it was awkward. You would have thought it would be, with us not knowing each other, but it was comfortable. I’m not sure what it was about her, but she wasthe easiest woman I’d ever been around. There was no denying the chemistry between us, and my age didn’t seem to bother her, not that we’d discussed our ages, but I was definitely a lot older than her. Although she seemed to have her life sorted and completely together for someone who seemed so young.
Once she’d finished, she pushed her plate away, pulled a leg up onto her chair, wrapping an arm around it while she continued to sip on her coffee while she waited on me.
“Thanks for cooking breakfast, leave your plate, I’ll clean up once I’ve finished my coffee,” she said with a small smile, stopping me as I went to pick up my plate.
Sitting back down, I picked up my mug and waited for the questions I could see building on her face.
Tilting her head slightly, she continued to peruse me, I waited. I was a patient man, in my previous form of work I’d had to be. “Ask your questions, Sprite.”
“Will you answer them truthfully?”
“If I can and if I can’t, I’ll tell you,” I told her honestly. She seemed satisfied with that answer, sitting back more comfortably in her chair.
“What’s your name?”
“Tommy,” I answered with a smile.
Shaking her head at me, she demanded, “Your full name.”
Sighing, I sat forward, my hands clasped together on the table, I looked at her, “Tommy O’Shea.” She jerked in surprise at the name. I waved a hand around her home. “This is the house I grew up in,” I told her. “Although it looks better now than it did then. It’s certainly more cheerful.”
So far, she’d not said a word at learning my name. I watched as she bit her lip, watching me. My cock hardened as her tongue swiped across her lower lip. This woman was going to kill me at this rate. I seemed to be constantly hard around her.
I was jerked out of my thoughts when she said, “You’re Colm’s nephew. The one he thought was dead. He kept this house for as long as he could, hoping you’d be home. But when he hadn’t heard from you for two years, he decided to sell.”
“Yeah, for reasons I can’t go into, it was better that they thought I was dead. It wasn’t safe for me to come home until I’d tied up a few loose ends. I’m glad he sold it to you. You’ve made it into a home, which it wasn’t when I lived here.”
“Do you want to contact Colm? They’re all home for Christmas.”
I shook my head, “No, I’ll wait a few days until I’m moving better.” Then the thought hit me that she may want me gone and my head jerked up to look into her chocolate brown eyes. “Unless you want me to go.”
Her hands shot forward to grab hold of mine that were still resting on the table and gave them a quick squeeze, replying earnestly, “No, I don’t want you to leave. You’re welcome here for as long as you want.”
“Thanks, Sprite, I won’t be a problem. I’m happy to chip in on cleaning and cooking. I’m not a freeloader. Do you need to go into town for groceries?”
“I didn’t think you were,” she assured me with a small smile, “and no, we’re good for the next couple of days for food.”
She stood up from the table, picked up our plates and took them to the sink, seemingly done with the conversation. Turning back to me once she’d set them down, she asked, “There is one thing you can clear up for me, though.”
Crooking a brow at her in query, she grabbed my hand and pulled me up, taking a pen from the kitchen counter where it had been lying next to a notebook that looked like it was used for making lists. She pulled me along to the pantry. Opening the door and switching on the light, she gestured to the height chart on the door frame. It was the one good memory I had from this house; every year on my birthday, my mum would measure me and make a mark against the frame. Running a finger down the list from when I was about three years old until she stopped when I went to live next door.