“Mmmmm.” Connie objects, covering my hand with hers and placing it back on her stomach. “It’s okay, Don.” She whispers.” Go back to sleep.” She says, as she scoots her ass back against me and wiggles around until my cock is back between her ass cheeks. She pulls my arm more tightly around her, placing my hand just under her bare breasts. I settle back against her warm body, listening to her breathe, feeling her heartbeat against my hand and trying not to hump her ass with my ever hardening cock. I’ve seen her naked a hundred times, never imagining that I’d ever get to touch her, even if it is somewhat chaste.
The next time I wake up, I’m alone in bed and I hear the shower running in the bathroom. I flip onto my back and wonder if I had been dreaming. A few minutes after the shower stops, the bathroom door opens. By looking in the mirror over the dresser, I can see Connie in the bathroom, drying her hair. She’s wearing a red tank top and white shorts and looks like a cover model. When she sees me watching, she smiles. It’s not a seductive, alluring smile, but a big, broad, happy-to-see-you smile. I return hers with a huge smile of my own.
“Do you need to get in here?” She asks, inclining her head towards the toilet, while looking at the tent my cock is making in the sheet.
“I’m okay, if you want to finish your hair.” I tell her, making no attempt to hide my hard-on. I figure at this point, it doesn’t really matter.
When she’s done in the bathroom, I grab my shaving kit and my clothes and head that way. When I walk past her, she touches my arm and lightly kisses my lips.
“Good morning.” She says. “How did you sleep?”
“Great!” I tell her. “How about you.” I ask, as I continue into the bathroom.
“I slept great, too.” She says. “I felt so safe in your arms.” She smiles.
Safe? Safe from what? Safe because she knew I wouldn’t do anything or safe because I’d protect her in a strange place? What an interesting word to use.
We leave our bags with the concierge, and walk around Manhattan for a couple of hours, before catching the train. We start out walking next to each other, then Connie loops her arm through mine for a few blocks and then we end up just holding hands.
After we get home, we settle back into our pre-Chris routine. The only difference is that Connie starts wearing less and less clothing when she comes down to watch TV or play cards. The third night after we’re back, I’m watching a movie on TCM and she comes into the room wearing only a tank top and bikini panties. It’s obvious she’s not wearing a bra and the flimsy material of the tank top clings to her breasts, creating a clear outline of her sumptuous nipples. She sits on the couch and tucks her legs under her.
“What’re we watching tonight?” she asks. I’m watching you.
“Some movie that was made before you were born.” I answer laughing. “You can change it if you want.”
“It’s okay.” She says. “I’ll watch it with you.” I haven’t spied on Connie since we’ve returned from New York. Our relationship changed during that weekend and it seems like a betrayal of her trust to keep spying on her. Of course, I haven’t stopped recording her, just in case I change my mind. I’m still trying to figure out if her skimpy outfits are meant to entice me to take our relationship to the next level, or just a reflection of her level of comfort around me.