Page 55 of Stud

“Ainsley.” He murmured my name, reverent, as his strokes quickened. I molded the bottoms of my feet over his calves, squeezing my knees into his sides, meeting his steady thrusts. Shuddering, he shifted his angle and lavished my breasts with attention, flicked my nipples with his tongue. His slight scruff scratched at my skin, spurring my arousal.

“I don’t want it to end,” I murmured.

I don’t want us to end. They were still there, my irrational fears. The belief that love and commitment were fleeting things destined to fall apart. That Owen was too good to be true.

“This is just the beginning.” His eyes were at a full one-hundred percent now, molten and fierce. Begging me to trust him. He planted his palm on my cheek, holding me firm, not allowing me to look away. Our connection deepened, causing a tear to leak from my eye. We were joined, our bodies moving as one, our emotions bared in this unguarded place of openness. We didn’t kiss. We rocked and moaned and whispered each other’s names as we neared the peak.

“I’m close,” I panted.

“Let go, baby. I’m gonna explode.”

He lowered his full weight on me, cradling me close as we bucked together and tensed. My orgasm hit me in a towering wave, my insides clamping on him as I shook. I dug my nails into his strong back. His release followed mine, a surge of heat pulsing between my thighs. He rolled his hips harder into me, a string of expletives growled in my ear, his legs shaking until he collapsed forward.

“Will you still want me if I’m blind?” I rasped.

He laughed, his weight dropping heavier on my chest. “Definitely. Especially since I’ve lost my sight, too.”

“Blind leading the blind.”

“As long as I’m with you, don’t really care.”

“You’re heavy, cowboy.”

“Shit.” He pushed up and pulled out. His hair was sex-strewn, mine likely as tousled. We grinned at each other. “That was insane, and I’ll be right back.”

He disappeared out his door, and I starfished on the bed, enjoying the afterglow. My body felt well-used and languid, a light tingly sensation still fluttering through my belly. My heart had also grown. It was engorged, inflated with Owen, Owen, Owen.

I imagined us cuddled on his couch while we fought over the remote, his sink crammed with my toiletries, our coats hanging side by side in his entryway.

I imagined a future with him.

I hadn’t let myself think beyond sex with a man since Brandon. That kind of hurt hadn’t been worth the risk.

Even now, the possibility of getting in deeper with Owen only to lose him to some awful deceit lingered. Time would ease this nagging doubt, the fear that he would hurt me. It also wasn’t the worst idea to lower the intensity a notch. Wait for my overthinking brain to settle. I still planned to enjoy our budding relationship, but a bit of space would do me good, calm my mind. I began gathering my clothes.

I heard Owen before I saw him. “Not sure if you like classics, but we could watch a movie. Or I could watch you while you tear apart the rest of my apartment. We could find a breakfast place tomorrow.” He walked in as I finished dressing. He frowned when I stepped into my sandals.

“Actually, I think I’ll head home. That was amazing. You’re amazing. But I need to take this slower than I realized, if that’s cool with you.”

His gaze darted to the jar of glass by his bed, tension tightening his features. “Yeah. Sure. I get it.” But he rubbed the back of his neck in agitated strokes.

He pulled on his boxers, covering up all the perfection I could have spent the evening exploring, but this was better. This was what I needed. This would allow me to get used to the idea of Boyfriend Owen, so I wouldn’t pull another stalker move and ransack his place like a complete kook. In time, I’d get over my past and trust him not to break my heart.

Fifteen

Thirteen letters for the internal pressure that causes tubing to fail. Or how your chest feels when your girlfriend learns your lie from someone else.

B U R S T P R E S S U R E

Owen

Like a pirate nearing a treasure chest, I approached the lumberyard I’d visited a handful of times, greedily eyeing the stacks of reclaimed wood—mountains of maple and walnut and black ash. Trees salvaged from people’s yards to be repurposed into functional furniture or decorative art.

My Mecca.

The owner, Ellen, waved to me, her Rottweiler trotting at her side. “You’re becoming a regular.”

“It’s the woodchip fumes. Gets me high.”