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CHAPTER FIVE
FLORA
He’d been driving me crazy all day.
And then after dinner—which he cooked for me, by the way—he’d gone out and done work outside while I sat on the porch with a glass of lemonade, almost like he was showing off for me. I couldn’t take my eyes off him.
I’d managed to stay out on the porch while he showered in the new bathroom—which he put in himself, after consulting with me on tile and colors and fixtures—and tried to keep my mind away from his beautiful body.
His care of me.
No, he hadn’t apologized for being a giant me-Tarzan-you-Jane-I’m-the-man dickhead, way back when I’d gotten my first job offer.
Not in words.
But every action was a living regret for letting me go. I could see it.
I could see it almost as well as I could see those strong shoulders, those corded forearms. That tight ass.
He was sorry.
So when he was in bed, I went to shower. And yes, okay, all right, fine, yes, I admit it, I touched myself in the shower while I was thinking about him.
While I thought about being married to him, and how wonderful our nights had always been. Oh, and our days, sometimes, too. I couldn’t get enough of him.
Maybe I still can’t get enough of him. Maybe I’m addicted. Why else would I have balked at suing for a contested divorce?
Is it just sex? I’ve never wanted any other man enough to test that theory. It’s only ever been Ev for me.
I want him back. Lord help me, I want him back.
But even bringing myself to orgasm in the shower hadn’t been enough. I’d remembered the bottle of whiskey I’d seen at the back of the kitchen cabinet a few days ago, and I’d gone down to the kitchen, arguing with the Aunt Zee in my head.
So I came down.
And Everett was there—delicious in gray sweatpants, bare-chested, his hair softly tousled, utterly irresistible, and making outrageous suggestions.
I’m not sorry, you know.
I’ll own my own desire. Even if he could tell how much I wanted him. Needed him.
He’d kissed me. Kissed my breasts, sucked at my nipples, then set me on the table and worshiped me with fingers and tongue until I came. And then, triumphant, was going to let me go upstairs to my bed, satisfied.
That wouldn’t satisfy me.
Now, I pull him to me, feeling his good hardness up against my center. “No,” I say. “I’m not satisfied. Yet.”
He makes a strangled noise, holding himself back. I wrap my legs around him. “You can satisfy me. I need you, Ev.”
He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t tease me. Just holds back. I can feel the tension in his muscles.
“You sure?” he asks finally.
I reach down and guide the head of his cock into my channel, and we both moan in pleasure.
Yes.
We just fit.
