“Oh yeah? Well, your lizard brain is sexy as fuck.” I lowered my mouth to her throat and her collarbone and the top of her chest. “Along with the rest of you. I can’t seem to get enough.”
“Really?”
“Really.” My dick had barely had a rest but was already showing interest in round three.
“You’re just saying that to make me feel better.” She hooked her legs over the backs of my thighs and slid her hands down over my ass.
“I’m not. I’ve never wanted anyone this much. Or this often. Or so quickly. This probably isn’t the right time to say I wanted to fuck you the moment your grandmother showed me your picture, but it’s the truth.” I kissed my way down her sternum.
“Yeah, I’m not sure there’s ever a right time to say that. But I like it.”
“Just wait, I’ve got all kinds of inappropriate shit in my head.”
She laughed. “I do love getting inside your head.”
I kissed the fullest part of one breast. “It’s a scary place. I wish it wasn’t, but it is.”
“I don’t mind.”
She’s telling the truth, I thought, moving up to kiss her lips again. She doesn’t mind the shit in my head. She understands me. She trusts me. She accepts me.
She might even have been able to love me.
Was it too late?
Was I too fucked up to be good enough for her? I mean, what did I really have to offer? There was no way I could make her happy in the long run. I’d already made that mistake with someone way less worthy. Why would I ever repeat it?
As for being happy myself, I’d given up on that idea years ago. When I closed my eyes at night, all I craved was the dark.
But she made me want to dream again.
Twenty
Stella
“I can’t even believe there’s any left. I thought for sure you’d have eaten the rest of this for breakfast yesterday.”
I scooped up another bite of apple pie. It was still delicious, even chilled and two days old. Or maybe it was just that anything was going to taste good sitting on his lap in the kitchen at two in the morning, wearing nothing but the button-down shirt he’d had on at dinner while he wore nothing but jeans.
“Believe me, I thought about it.” He reached onto the pie plate and grabbed a stray piece of crust. “But this one isn’t going to last much longer. I’m afraid you’re going to have to bake me another.”
I laughed and fed him a bite. “I’m not going to have time. These things take all day. I’m supposed to leave tomorrow—or is it today? I can’t believe how late it is.”
“Supposed to?” he asked. “Does that mean there’s a chance you could stay longer?”
I thought for a second. Did I have anything I really couldn’t miss this weekend? “I guess I could stay through the weekend. I’m supposed to have brunch with my sister on Sunday, but she’d probably understand if I canceled.”
“Good. Cancel it.”
I elbowed his ribs. “You just want another pie.”
“I just want more time with you.”
A shiver stole up my spine and cascaded down my arms. I looked at him to see if he was joking, but it didn’t seem like it. “Okay. I’ll call her.”
“Will she be upset?”
“Well, I’ve been promising to help her with the seating chart for her wedding, so she might be annoyed that I’m not around to listen to her complain about how hard it is that certain relatives aren’t speaking to one another, or so-and-so can’t sit with what’s-her-name because of a divorce, or why Nate’s office friend couldn’t just get a plus-one and make it an even number at that table.”
Ryan started snoring, eyes closed.
“I know,” I said, laughing, “but she’s a wedding planner so she takes all this very seriously. Plus she’s pregnant, so she’s extra emotional.”
“So what you’re saying is that I’m actually doing you a favor by convincing you to stay longer.”
“Possibly. I should at least talk to her though. Make sure it’s okay.”
He pinched my thigh. “I will allow you a phone call.”
“Just one?”
“Just one. Beyond that, I’m gonna need more pie.” He began to unbutton the shirt I wore. “Or more you.”
I set the fork inside the empty pie plate and swiveled so that I faced him, one leg on either side of the chair. “I don’t come with butter and brown sugar crumble topping.”
His hands slid beneath the shirt. “You don’t need it.”
Our insatiable lips found each others’ again. I wound my arms around his neck, feeling more confident and less self-conscious with every passing moment. This was so easy with him. It didn’t seem fair that we lived so far apart—but at least I’d have a little more time here.
Although the real problem wasn’t the distance, was it? It was the fact that we wanted different things in the future. What would be the point of continuing this thing beyond Sunday? He liked me, but he liked living alone more. I was a temporary distraction. A diversion. Emme was right—harboring illusions about a future together would only lead to a broken heart.
And I wasn’t the kind of woman who thought she could change a man. I’d never seen that kind of relationship play out successfully. Usually, she started to resent the fact that she was doing everything possible to turn him into her vision of what he should be, and he stubbornly refused to change because he didn’t want to be someone else. And he’d told her that from the start.
No. I would not be that woman.
I wouldn’t fall for this man, who’d told me in plain English that he didn’t date, liked living alone, and never planned to get married or have a family. Talk about setting myself up for disappointment! Nope, I would enjoy the bonus weekend of my fuck fling, look at the whole thing as a wonderfully sensual experience that upped my sex drive and self-esteem, and do my best to remain as emotionally detached as he was.
“Hey,” he whispered, his hands squeezing my waist. “Do you want to stay the night? I was going to walk you home after we ate dessert, but now it’s pouring rain.”
Rain? There hadn’t been any rain in the forecast. I picked up my head and listened. I didn’t hear a thing.
“See? It’s bad out there,” he went on, rubbing his stubbled jaw against mine. “Better stay here with me.”
I smiled. “You’re as bad as Grams, making stuff up.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m only trying to protect you by keeping you close to me.”
The room spun. My heart threatened to burst. “Okay. I’ll stay.”
Yep. Complete and utter emotional detachment.
That was the key.
Except … it’s hard to remain emotionally detached from someone when his body fits so perfectly inside yours. When his hands in your hair leave you breathless. When the weight of his chest and the thrust of his hips and the sound of his ragged breathing renders you mindless and panting, your hands clutching, your muscles tightening, your body begging for more, more, more.
When he looks down at you and you feel his heart beating hard against yours.
When he pulls your hair and bruises your skin and the pain feels more like pleasure.
When he reaches the edge of his own release and holds back, determined to take you with him this time.
Tell me, he whispers, slowing his movements to deep, long strokes, his thick cock gliding in and out of your body with ease. Tell me how to make you come like this.
And you pull him tighter to you, tilting your hips for the angle you need, for the friction exactly where you desire it. Like this, you say, shocked at the words coming out of your mouth, but beyond shame, beyond fear, beyond fantasy. Fuck me like this.
He understands and keeps himself buried inside you, fucking you harder and faster, the base of his cock grinding against your clit, the tip hitting the deepest reaches of your body.
Yes, you whisper, you pant, you cry out. Yes, yes, yes, because you want this so much and he’s moving just right and he’s telling you to come on his cock and you actually feel it start to happen. One second everything inside you is twisted unbearably tight and the next you’re unraveling, the tension unspooling like ribbon, your nails digging into his skin, your sigh long and loud, your body pulsing around his in sweet, blissful relief.
“Really?”
“Really.” My dick had barely had a rest but was already showing interest in round three.
“You’re just saying that to make me feel better.” She hooked her legs over the backs of my thighs and slid her hands down over my ass.
“I’m not. I’ve never wanted anyone this much. Or this often. Or so quickly. This probably isn’t the right time to say I wanted to fuck you the moment your grandmother showed me your picture, but it’s the truth.” I kissed my way down her sternum.
“Yeah, I’m not sure there’s ever a right time to say that. But I like it.”
“Just wait, I’ve got all kinds of inappropriate shit in my head.”
She laughed. “I do love getting inside your head.”
I kissed the fullest part of one breast. “It’s a scary place. I wish it wasn’t, but it is.”
“I don’t mind.”
She’s telling the truth, I thought, moving up to kiss her lips again. She doesn’t mind the shit in my head. She understands me. She trusts me. She accepts me.
She might even have been able to love me.
Was it too late?
Was I too fucked up to be good enough for her? I mean, what did I really have to offer? There was no way I could make her happy in the long run. I’d already made that mistake with someone way less worthy. Why would I ever repeat it?
As for being happy myself, I’d given up on that idea years ago. When I closed my eyes at night, all I craved was the dark.
But she made me want to dream again.
Twenty
Stella
“I can’t even believe there’s any left. I thought for sure you’d have eaten the rest of this for breakfast yesterday.”
I scooped up another bite of apple pie. It was still delicious, even chilled and two days old. Or maybe it was just that anything was going to taste good sitting on his lap in the kitchen at two in the morning, wearing nothing but the button-down shirt he’d had on at dinner while he wore nothing but jeans.
“Believe me, I thought about it.” He reached onto the pie plate and grabbed a stray piece of crust. “But this one isn’t going to last much longer. I’m afraid you’re going to have to bake me another.”
I laughed and fed him a bite. “I’m not going to have time. These things take all day. I’m supposed to leave tomorrow—or is it today? I can’t believe how late it is.”
“Supposed to?” he asked. “Does that mean there’s a chance you could stay longer?”
I thought for a second. Did I have anything I really couldn’t miss this weekend? “I guess I could stay through the weekend. I’m supposed to have brunch with my sister on Sunday, but she’d probably understand if I canceled.”
“Good. Cancel it.”
I elbowed his ribs. “You just want another pie.”
“I just want more time with you.”
A shiver stole up my spine and cascaded down my arms. I looked at him to see if he was joking, but it didn’t seem like it. “Okay. I’ll call her.”
“Will she be upset?”
“Well, I’ve been promising to help her with the seating chart for her wedding, so she might be annoyed that I’m not around to listen to her complain about how hard it is that certain relatives aren’t speaking to one another, or so-and-so can’t sit with what’s-her-name because of a divorce, or why Nate’s office friend couldn’t just get a plus-one and make it an even number at that table.”
Ryan started snoring, eyes closed.
“I know,” I said, laughing, “but she’s a wedding planner so she takes all this very seriously. Plus she’s pregnant, so she’s extra emotional.”
“So what you’re saying is that I’m actually doing you a favor by convincing you to stay longer.”
“Possibly. I should at least talk to her though. Make sure it’s okay.”
He pinched my thigh. “I will allow you a phone call.”
“Just one?”
“Just one. Beyond that, I’m gonna need more pie.” He began to unbutton the shirt I wore. “Or more you.”
I set the fork inside the empty pie plate and swiveled so that I faced him, one leg on either side of the chair. “I don’t come with butter and brown sugar crumble topping.”
His hands slid beneath the shirt. “You don’t need it.”
Our insatiable lips found each others’ again. I wound my arms around his neck, feeling more confident and less self-conscious with every passing moment. This was so easy with him. It didn’t seem fair that we lived so far apart—but at least I’d have a little more time here.
Although the real problem wasn’t the distance, was it? It was the fact that we wanted different things in the future. What would be the point of continuing this thing beyond Sunday? He liked me, but he liked living alone more. I was a temporary distraction. A diversion. Emme was right—harboring illusions about a future together would only lead to a broken heart.
And I wasn’t the kind of woman who thought she could change a man. I’d never seen that kind of relationship play out successfully. Usually, she started to resent the fact that she was doing everything possible to turn him into her vision of what he should be, and he stubbornly refused to change because he didn’t want to be someone else. And he’d told her that from the start.
No. I would not be that woman.
I wouldn’t fall for this man, who’d told me in plain English that he didn’t date, liked living alone, and never planned to get married or have a family. Talk about setting myself up for disappointment! Nope, I would enjoy the bonus weekend of my fuck fling, look at the whole thing as a wonderfully sensual experience that upped my sex drive and self-esteem, and do my best to remain as emotionally detached as he was.
“Hey,” he whispered, his hands squeezing my waist. “Do you want to stay the night? I was going to walk you home after we ate dessert, but now it’s pouring rain.”
Rain? There hadn’t been any rain in the forecast. I picked up my head and listened. I didn’t hear a thing.
“See? It’s bad out there,” he went on, rubbing his stubbled jaw against mine. “Better stay here with me.”
I smiled. “You’re as bad as Grams, making stuff up.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m only trying to protect you by keeping you close to me.”
The room spun. My heart threatened to burst. “Okay. I’ll stay.”
Yep. Complete and utter emotional detachment.
That was the key.
Except … it’s hard to remain emotionally detached from someone when his body fits so perfectly inside yours. When his hands in your hair leave you breathless. When the weight of his chest and the thrust of his hips and the sound of his ragged breathing renders you mindless and panting, your hands clutching, your muscles tightening, your body begging for more, more, more.
When he looks down at you and you feel his heart beating hard against yours.
When he pulls your hair and bruises your skin and the pain feels more like pleasure.
When he reaches the edge of his own release and holds back, determined to take you with him this time.
Tell me, he whispers, slowing his movements to deep, long strokes, his thick cock gliding in and out of your body with ease. Tell me how to make you come like this.
And you pull him tighter to you, tilting your hips for the angle you need, for the friction exactly where you desire it. Like this, you say, shocked at the words coming out of your mouth, but beyond shame, beyond fear, beyond fantasy. Fuck me like this.
He understands and keeps himself buried inside you, fucking you harder and faster, the base of his cock grinding against your clit, the tip hitting the deepest reaches of your body.
Yes, you whisper, you pant, you cry out. Yes, yes, yes, because you want this so much and he’s moving just right and he’s telling you to come on his cock and you actually feel it start to happen. One second everything inside you is twisted unbearably tight and the next you’re unraveling, the tension unspooling like ribbon, your nails digging into his skin, your sigh long and loud, your body pulsing around his in sweet, blissful relief.
