Something Reckless(77)
I move my hand, stroking him, encouraging him. His thrusts become irregular—deep and then shallow, hard and then soft, frantic and then controlled.
When he’s about to come, I feel him swell inside me. My body is exhausted, but I shift my hand so my palm rubs my clit and I climb with him. His hands squeeze my hips harder and harder, and I come first, seconds before he releases.
When he withdraws, I sink into the bed, too exhausted to move, feeling used and ravaged and whole.
I’m faintly aware of him climbing out of bed, and the mattress shifts as he returns and places a warm washcloth between my legs.
I moan into the pillow as he washes me. He’s so tender. Sweet. I thought playboys were supposed to be selfish in bed, get off and get out. Not this man. Nothing seems to drive him and please him more than my pleasure.
When he’s done washing me, he lies on the pillow next to me and brushes my hair from my face. “Are you okay?”
I force my eyes to open, and nod. I’m sore but sated. Aching but exhilarated. “I’m better than okay. I think you’ve finally made up for all those months I suffered without sex.”
“Well, I haven’t recovered from my dry spell yet, so you’re going to have to indulge me a little longer.”
I snort. “What? As if you’ve been sex deprived since Cally and Will’s wedding. Right.” The smile falls off my face when I register his stoic expression. “Right?”
He rolls on top of me, settling between my legs and framing my face in his hands. “I was waiting for you to take me seriously,” he whispers. “I thought I had a chance after Will and Cally’s wedding, but then you shut me out again. I haven’t been interested in anyone else, and I think I was waiting for you.”
It feels as if my stomach is being squeezed in a hot, sweaty fist. He wouldn’t say those things if he knew about River. About Connor. Why does the universe deliver everything you want exactly when you can’t have it? “I thought you only wanted me for sex.”
“Not even at first.”
He tucks another lock of hair behind my ear before pressing a kiss to my forehead. Then he gathers me in his arms and pulls me against his chest, where I feel small and safe, where I’m surrounded by his scent and his strength, and I fall asleep.
* * *
Sam
I’m in love with her.
Maybe the revelation should leave me smiling or, at the very least, content, but instead I’m terrified.
I’m in love with Elizabeth Thompson.
Every time we’re together, it’s intense and sweet and so fucking good. She leaves my body and mind buzzing. Every time I’m with her, I find myself terrified of how badly I want to keep her in my arms, but even more terrified of never holding her again.
I’m done being nothing but the guy she lets tie her up—the guy she uses for the occasional post-wedding booty call.
For two years, I told myself I was okay with that. I told myself I didn’t need anything more from her, that I didn’t care that she’d so easily dismissed the possibility of anything real between us. I told myself she didn’t own my heart. Maybe I even believed those lies. Then I walked in on her in bed with Connor and felt as if she’d ripped my heart out.
Now, she’s sleeping in my arms, those long blond curls everywhere, her pale, makeup-free lashes making her look soft and innocent. I trace her cheekbone with my thumb then the line of her jaw, the length of her neck, the delicate skin over her collarbone.
“You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever touched,” I whisper. My heart aches with emotion, as if it might burst if the pressure isn’t released soon. I’m scared to love her. I’m scared to love anyone, but Liz more than most. She looks at me like Superman just walked into the room, and it makes me feel powerful and weak all in one confused breath. I find myself distracted by thoughts of her, and that was okay when it was about sex, when I found myself planning the next time I could get her naked and get inside her. But it’s not just sex now. I find myself planning things I can say to make her smile, find myself thinking of things I want to do with her years in the future.
Last night on Facebook, I saw a picture of her holding one of her infant nieces, and I instantly imagined how she’d look pregnant, her belly swollen with a child. How she’d look holding a baby of her own in her arms. My baby.
I’m a rational guy. Two plus two has to equal four. I don’t see how a future with Liz works. Do I take her to family dinners and remind Della of how her husband once betrayed her? Do I leave my job at the bank and go with her when she travels all over the country to work on Christine’s campaign? My head sees this mess I’ve fallen into and knows the math doesn’t add up. But my heart hurts with all this emotion I’ve trapped in there. Sooner or later, something’s going to have to give.