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You’re not alone.
He plays with my clit, stroking it with gentle fingertips. He sinks inside me inch by inch, the pressure enormous and enormously exciting. When his balls meet my backside, he pauses, both of us adjusting to the sensation of tightness.
My chest, too, is tight. Like there’s a fist gripping my windpipe and squeezing, making it difficult to breathe.
I wasn’t empty before. But now I’m full, just the right kind of full, and even though it’s lovely, it makes me feel sad too.
Remember relationships are a trap. Remember you can’t be trusted. Remember how lovely freedom is.
I guide his hand to my clit. I’m this close, and after holding off all night, I’m ready to let go.
“You can start to move,” I say. “I’m good.”
His fingers, still slippery with lube, stroke my pussy from front to back while he starts to thrust. Tiny thrusts at first, his breath coming in hot spurts as he rocks into me.
Hunger spirals through my core. He fingers me, fucks me, and my clit is so sensitive and so ready to explode it almost hurts.
But it’s when he curls his body around mine—chest to my back, mouth on my nape, warmth everywhere—that I’m finally pushed off the edge.
I moan his name, my orgasm ripping through me with the force of a hurricane. Pound, pound, pound. The pounding doesn’t stop. In my chest, my ears, and between my legs. Hank curses but manages to keep his rhythm, curling an arm around my waist to hold me tighter against him.
I’d forgotten how much I like being held.
I’d forgotten what it’s like being cared for.
I’d forgotten how amazing it is to be so desired and that my needs matter.
He comes a couple of heartbeats later, sinking his teeth into my shoulder. It’ll leave another bite mark.
We really are making messes left and right this weekend.
We lie on our sides and he pulls me into the curve of his body, touching me everywhere. The front of his thighs, furred with hair, meet with the back of mine; his fingers trace lazy circles across my hip.
Eventually, I go to clean myself up in the bathroom.
“Come here,” he murmurs when I climb back into bed, and he pulls us onto our sides again. He pulls the covers up so we’re cocooned in blankets because even though we just fucked like animals, it’s chilly in the room, and I’m shivering.
Again, he tucks me against his body.
“You all right?” He nibbles at my ear. “I’m trying to get you warm.”
“I think we blew past ‘all right’ a while ago, but thanks for asking.”
We lie like that for a while, letting the fire die out while we catch our breaths.
I’m warm and cozy, and I’m surrounded by this man—his smell, his skin—in a way I haven’t let myself be surrounded in a long time.
I’m so scared, which is ridiculous because I’m not staying. There’s nothing to be scared of.
I’m still startled by the words that spill out of my mouth.
“What if this is just you rushing into something that’s not right again?”
His mouth goes still on my neck. “What does that mean?”
“You wanting me this way—you wanting more—what if it’s just another Emma situation? That wasn’t right for you. Maybe this isn’t either. Both happened really fast, wouldn’t you say?”
He hesitates. “Well, yeah. But . . .” He lets out a breath that tickles the hair on the back of my neck. “I know it’s hard to get because a lot has happened between you and me in a short amount of time. But this—you and me—it feels different.”
“What, you didn’t fake a relationship with Emma?” I say with a smile.
I can tell by the sound of his voice that he isn’t smiling. “Is it so bad, what we did? We still had a good time. My family had a good time. And I’m pretty sure Samuel and Emma are full steam ahead on the wedding now. Everyone’s happy.”
I can’t help it when I look at him again, turning my head on the pillow. “What about us? Are you happy?”
“I’m not sure how to answer that, Daph.”
For the first time, I wince at the nickname.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Stevie
I’m having a hard time faking it this morning.
Hank’s family appeared at the doorstep at eight AM sharp, bearing coffee and bags of breakfast wraps still hot from The Barn Door’s kitchen.
“We wanted to see you off, Stevie,” Annabel explains.
“Slash shamelessly ply you with coffee and food so you’ll visit us again soon,” Samuel adds, wrapping me in a bear hug.
We gather in the kitchen. Samuel and Emma, Beau and Annabel and little Maisie too. June and Milly and Rhett.
There are so many of them it’s hard to get a word in edgewise. Not a bad thing in my current state. I’d much rather watch their interactions while trying my level best to muster an appetite than risk saying something dumb—or dangerous—myself.
