“I think that ship might have sailed.”
He frowns. “You’re still young.”
I frown at him.
“I’m forty next year.” I let out a snort-laugh. “It would be termed a geriatric pregnancy. It’s frowned upon and generally considered high-risk. I’m not young anymore. It is what it is.”
“Oh yes, I forgot.” His mouth tips up at the corner. “You’re an old lady.”
I stick my tongue out at him.
“I’m a cradle snatcher and, yes, I’m old.”
“You still look fucking sexy for a granny.” His voice is a rough growl.
His hand slides across my stomach, fingers splaying over the soft skin there before gliding up. He cups my breast, gives it a gentle squeeze, and his voice drops about an octave.
“Have you had a long enough break yet?”
The question lands somewhere low in my body, and just like that, I’m interested again. Apparently, my refractory period is around four minutes now. Excellent. I’ll add that to the list of things I’ve learned about myself tonight, right after the part where my knees can touch my ears.
I roll onto my stomach and push up, lifting my ass.
He makes a sound from deep in his throat.
The mattress dips as he moves behind me, his hands finding my hips. There’s a pause, just a beat, before he speaks.
“Iamgoing to miss you, Robyn.” A breath. “I’m… I’m sorry.”
And then he’s pushing into me in one long, slow stroke that has me dropping my forehead to the pillow. He grips my hip with one hand and starts to move, building a rhythm that’s quick anddeep and unforgiving, while his other hand slides beneath me and his fingers find exactly where I need them.
Why did he apologize?
The thought drifts through my head, and I try to hold on to it. Why? What is he sorry for? For ending the arrangement? For not wanting more? For?—
His fingers move faster against my clit, and the thought dissolves. All of it is gone. Just like that, I’m chasing my next orgasm; the crazy thing is that I can already feel it building.
