A WEEK TAKING CARE

The apartment had that particular Sunday-morning hush, the kind that settles after suitcases have been zipped, hugs exchanged, and the front door clicked shut with a finality that felt like a starting pistol. Topanga and Riley were gone, off to Philadelphia to see Alan and Amy and catch up with Morgan, leaving behind the faint scent of Topanga’s perfume and Riley’s strawberry lip gloss.

Cory stood in the living room, hands on his hips, surveying the quiet like a man who’d just been handed a week of unscheduled time and wasn’t entirely sure what to do with it. Maya leaned against the kitchen doorway, a smirk playing on her lips.

“Well, Matthews,” she said, her blue eyes glinting. “Looks like it’s just you and me.” Cory turned, his brown eyes meeting hers. “Topanga’s instructions were pretty clear. Take care of each other. Maya pushed off the doorframe, her short blond hair bouncing as she walked toward him. “I think we can manage that. But I’m not spending a week watching reruns and eating cereal out of the box. We’re doing something together every single day.”

“Every day?” Cory raised an eyebrow. “Every. Single. Day.” Maya poked his chest with her finger. “And I’m planning it. You just show up and look pretty.” Cory laughed, the sound warm and easy. “I’m fifty-one years old. Pretty is a stretch.” “Please,” Maya said, her gaze traveling over his tall frame, lingering on his curly brown hair that was just starting to show threads of silver at the temples. “You’re aging like a decent scotch. Now go put on something that doesn’t smell like the couch.”

Monday was the art gallery downtown. Maya had picked it because a new exhibit had opened, something about light and shadow and the human form. They wandered through the rooms, their shoulders occasionally brushing, their commentary drifting from sincere appreciation to playful mockery. “This one looks like a melted traffic cone,” Maya whispered, nodding at a towering red sculpture. “It’s a commentary on urban decay,” Cory said, deadpan. “It’s a melted traffic cone.”

They laughed, and an older woman with a docent badge gave them a look. Maya looped her arm through Cory’s, pulling him toward the next room. Her breast pressed against his bicep, soft and warm through her thin blouse, and Cory felt a flicker of something he quickly tamped down.

“This one’s interesting,” Maya said, stopping in front of a large canvas. It was a nude, tastefully done, all curves and shadow. “Very interesting,” Cory agreed, his voice a little rougher than he intended. Maya glanced at him, her smile knowing. “Careful, Matthews. You’re drooling.” “I’m appreciating the form.” “Uh-huh.”

Tuesday was the beach. They drove out early, beating the crowds, and set up a blanket near the water. Maya stripped off her sundress to reveal a pale yellow bikini that hugged her 34C breasts and left little to the imagination. Cory, in his navy swim trunks, tried very hard not to stare. “You’re burning,” Maya said, handing him the sunscreen.

“I just got here.” “Your face. It’s red.” She grinned. “Come on, I’ll do your back.” He sat on the blanket while she knelt behind him, her hands slick with lotion, working it into his shoulders and down his spine. Her touch was firm, deliberate, and lingered longer than strictly necessary. “You’re tense,” she murmured. “Long week.” "The week just started.” Her fingers kneaded the muscles at the base of his neck, and Cory let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. When she finished, she lay down on her stomach next to him, the strings of her bikini top trailing over her back.

“Your turn,” she said. Cory swallowed. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” “Why not? Fair’s fair.” She turned her head, one blue eye peeking at him. “Unless you’re scared.” He wasn’t scared. That was the problem. He squeezed sunscreen into his palm and began smoothing it over her shoulders, her back, the dip of her spine. Her skin was warm and impossibly soft. When his fingers brushed the sides of her ribs, just below the curve of her breasts, she let out a tiny sigh. "You’re good at this,” she said.
“Years of practice with Topanga.” “Lucky woman.”

Wednesday was Coney Island, all noise and neon and the smell of fried dough. They rode the Cyclone twice, Maya screaming with her arms in the air, Cory holding on for dear life. They shared a funnel cake, powdered sugar dusting their fingers and lips. “You’ve got some—” Maya reached out and wiped sugar from the corner of his mouth with her thumb, then popped it into her own mouth. “Got it.” Cory’s pulse kicked. “Thanks.”

They played ring toss, and Cory won a small stuffed bear that was missing an eye. Maya named it Claude and carried it around like a trophy. By the time the sun set, they were exhausted and giddy, leaning on each other as they walked back to the car. “Best Wednesday ever,” Maya declared.
“You say that every Wednesday.” “Because it’s true.”

Thursday was a movie, some indie thing Maya wanted to see. They sat in the back row, sharing a bucket of popcorn. Halfway through, Maya rested her head on Cory’s shoulder. He could smell her shampoo, something floral and clean. Her hand found his in the dark, their fingers interlacing on the armrest. Neither of them moved for the rest of the film. When the credits rolled, Maya lifted her head, her lips dangerously close to his ear. “I liked that.” “The movie?” “The company.”

Friday morning, Maya announced they were going to the Marriage Hotel. Not the one in Greenwich Village where they’d had lunch with Topanga and Aubrey, but a different location, uptown, with a suite that had a view of the park. “A suite?” Cory repeated. “Two nights,” Maya said. “Topanga and Riley said to take care of each other. I’m taking that seriously.”

The suite was gorgeous—high ceilings, a king-sized bed, a deep soaking tub, and a minibar stocked with champagne. Maya had packed a bag for each of them, and she’d clearly put thought into it.
“I didn’t know we were doing an overnight,” Cory said, eyeing the bag she handed him. “You’re welcome.”

They ordered room service and ate on the bed, watching the city lights flicker to life outside the window. Maya had changed into a silk robe, pale blue, that ended mid-thigh. Cory wore a hotel bathrobe, feeling both underdressed and overdressed at the same time. “Champagne?” Maya asked, holding up a bottle. “Always.”

She popped the cork with practiced ease and filled two flutes. They sat cross-legged on the bed, knees almost touching, sipping the cold, bubbling liquid. “Remember lunch at the Marriage Hotel in the Village?” Maya said. “With Topanga and Aubrey?” "Hard to forget.” “You were different that day. More confident. More… evolved.” Cory swirled his champagne. “I felt different. Like I’d finally figured out who I was supposed to be.”

Maya leaned forward, her robe gaping slightly at the neckline. “And who is that?” “Someone who doesn’t have to pretend anymore.” Their eyes locked. The air in the room thickened, charged with something unspoken but undeniable. Maya set her glass aside and reached for his, placing it on the nightstand.

“Cory,” she said, her voice soft but steady. “I’ve been thinking about this all week.” “Thinking about what?” “This.” She leaned in and kissed him. It wasn’t tentative or questioning. It was a kiss that had been building for days, through art galleries and sandy blankets and dark movie theaters. Cory’s hands came up to cup her face, his thumbs brushing her cheekbones as he kissed her back. Her lips tasted like champagne and something sweeter, something purely Maya.

When they broke apart, both breathing hard, Maya’s robe had slipped off one shoulder, exposing the smooth curve of her collarbone and the upper swell of her breast. “I want you,” she said, no trace of hesitation. “I’ve wanted you all week.” “Maya—” Cory started, but she pressed a finger to his lips.

“No guilt. No overthinking. Just us. Topanga and Riley told us to take care of each other. This is how I want to be taken care of.” She untied her robe and let it fall away. Her body was stunning—soft curves, firm breasts with pale pink nipples already peaking, a neat triangle of blond hair between her thighs. Cory’s breath caught.

“Your turn,” she whispered. He stood and shed his robe, revealing his tall, lean frame and the thick seven-inch cock already straining toward his belly. Maya’s eyes widened, then darkened with hunger.
“Fuck, Cory,” she breathed. “That’s …still impressive.” “I’m glad you approve.”

She crawled across the bed toward him, her movements feline and deliberate. When she reached the edge, she sat back on her heels and wrapped her hand around his shaft, stroking slowly from base to tip. “I’ve imagined this,” she said, her thumb circling the head. “Every night this week.” “What did you imagine?” “This.” She leaned forward and took him into her mouth.

Cory groaned, his hands fisting in the sheets as Maya worked him with her lips and tongue. She was enthusiastic, skilled, taking him deep and then pulling back to flick her tongue over the sensitive underside. Her blue eyes stayed locked on his face, watching his reactions with obvious pleasure.

“Maya,” he gasped. “That’s—fuck, that’s good.” "Just like high school good" She hummed around him, the vibration sending sparks up his spine. Her free hand cupped his balls, rolling them gently, and Cory felt his knees threaten to buckle. “Lie down,” she said, pulling off with a wet pop. “I want to ride you.”

He did as he was told, stretching out on the bed, and Maya straddled him, her wet heat pressing against his cock. She rocked her hips, sliding her pussy along his length without taking him inside, coating him in her arousal. “You feel that?” she whispered. “That’s how wet I am for you.” She reached between them and positioned him at her entrance, then sank down slowly, inch by inch, until he was buried to the hilt. They both moaned, the sound mingling in the charged air.

“You’re so fucking deep,” she said, her voice strained with pleasure. She began to move, rising and falling in a rhythm that started slow and quickly built. Her breasts bounced with each thrust, and Cory reached up to cup them, thumbing her nipples until she cried out. She leaned forward, bracing her hands on his chest, and the new angle made her gasp.

“Right there,” she panted. “Oh fuck, right there.” Cory grabbed her hips and thrust up to meet her, driving into her with increasing force. The bed creaked beneath them, the headboard tapping against the wall in a steady, obscene rhythm. “I’m close,” Maya whimpered. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

He didn’t. He fucked her harder, deeper, his own climax coiling tight at the base of his spine. Maya’s walls clenched around him, and then she was coming, her whole body shuddering as she cried out his name. The sensation was too much. Cory felt himself tip over the edge, and he pulled her down hard, burying himself as deep as he could as he came, spilling inside her in hot, pulsing waves.

They collapsed together, sweaty and breathless, Maya sprawled across his chest. For a long moment, neither spoke. “Well,” Maya finally said, her voice muffled against his skin. “That was worth the wait.” Cory laughed, the sound rumbling through his chest. “I think we’re going to need more champagne.” “And more of that,” she added, lifting her head to grin at him.

Saturday was a blur of room service, long baths, and more sex than Cory had had in a single day in years. They explored each other slowly, thoroughly, learning what made the other gasp and moan and beg. By evening, they were both deliciously sore and utterly satisfied. “We should do this again sometime,” Maya said, tracing patterns on his chest. “I think that could be arranged.”

When Sunday came, they checked out of the hotel and drove back to the apartment, the car filled with easy silence and the occasional shared smile. Topanga and Riley would be home in a few hours, and reality would resume. “No regrets?” Cory asked as they pulled into the parking garage. Maya shook her head. “None. You?” “Not one.”

She leaned over and kissed him, soft and sweet. “Then I’d say we did a pretty good job taking care of each other.” Cory smiled. “We should thank Topanga for the suggestion.” Maya laughed. “Let’s not. Some things are better left as our little secret.” And with that, they gathered their bags and headed upstairs, both of them already counting down the days until the next time Philadelphia came calling.

But when they opened the apartment door, they saw Topanga and Riley at the kitchen table drinking flutes of champagne. Topanga smiled and asked "Did you two take care of other at the Marriage Hotel?