Page 91 of Well Aware

He didn’t remove his hand, though, when he was standing.

He left it there, kept his hold on Iris, and guided us out of Hopps as everyone else waved us on.

By the time we’d gotten home, Iris was so fully engrossed in her documentary that she threw a fit when I asked her to get ready for bed.

Thanks, Shaw.

Beau, thankfully, offered to deal with it while I was getting showered and ready for bed.

By the time that I finished up washing the shampoo from my hair, he was there, joining me in the shower.

His rough hands moved to the softness of my belly and pulled me into his hard body.

Years in the military had honed Beau’s body into a lean, mean, fighting machine.

He was hard all over, and there wasn’t an ounce of fat on him.

He was in better shape than I was, and I’d spent the last fifteen years of my life getting my body into elite shape thanks to my career as a professional soccer player.

If you were to look at the two of us side by side and were asked which one was the professional soccer player, every single one of them would point toward Beau.

I turned in his arms and wrapped my arms around his neck, having to stand on my tiptoes to do it.

The water sluiced down over my waterproof cast and onto his shoulders.

He leaned down, his back blocking the spray, and pressed a soft kiss onto my mouth.

I deepened that kiss, pressing the length of my body against his as I did.

His hard cock was pinned between us, pulsing with each beat of his heart.

I let my hand smooth through his beard, liking that he’d let it grow wild again after selling the Cowgirls.

No longer the face of the organization, he’d been able to go back to his previous style.

“I love this.”

TWENTY-THREE

Somewhere between praying hands and throwing hands.

—Text from Beau to Court

BEAU

“I love this,” she said as she smoothed her fingers through my beard.

“My beard?” I asked.

“The beard, yes,” she confirmed. “But that you let it grow out again. I missed seeing it bushy. I guess that’s just how it was when I met you, and I’ve missed it.”

“Spent twenty years of my life shaving it. I don’t really like having a shaved face, so when I was able to let it grow out, I did,” I informed her “It’s good to know you like the bushiness of it, because that’s all it becomes if I let it grow out. There’s no taming it.”

“Have you tried beard oil?” she asked, once again fascinated with running her fingers through the bushy strands.

“Beard oil. A beard balm. Brushing it. But you’re more than welcome to try to tame it. For the rest of our lives.”

She smiled. “Getting a little ahead of yourself, aren’t you? You haven’t even taken me out on a proper date yet.”