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And that does it. I’m done.
I shout as his fingers curl against that spot, my second orgasm exploding through me.
I don’t care that my breasts are exposed or that I must look ridiculous with my skirt and shirt bunched up, my hair a mess, and my underwear loose around my shins. I don’t care that my shouts echo off the pond. I don’t care about any of it because everything is hazy now. My spine curls off the bench like a woman possessed, and I remain this way through the most intense waves of pure pleasure. I’ve come before, plenty of times. But not like this, and not this hard.
When the waves recede, I open my eyes to find Jesse still hovering over me, watching me intently, still at it with his plundering fingers, wringing out every last thrum of my orgasm as I pant and writhe under him.
I collapse, too weak to reach for him.
“Jesse,” I beg weakly.
“I’ve got you, baby.”
I feel everything and nothing, utterly blissed out, staring vacantly up at that face full of tenderness.
He moves over me, his hands adjusting things and pulling me close. The world moves sideways.
And somehow, I’m sitting in his lap, nestled in the crook of his arm. When did he fix my underwear and my bra? Hmm. Don’t care.
The aftershocks are something to behold, made more potent at the sight of Jesse sucking his slick fingers clean of me. He must feel me trembling because he repeats, “I got you,” underlining this with soft, tender kisses to my forehead, nose, cheeks, and lips.
The way he says it feels like an “I love you,” even though I know it’s not. How could it be that? What day is it? Didn’t I meet him yesterday?
How did he make me care about him and trust him this deeply so quickly?
“You good?”
He’s asking because I’m staring off into space, wrapped up around his torso like a baby sloth.
“So good.” My words are muffled by his shirt.
He laughs, caressing my back and shoulders. The rumbly sound in his chest plays so sweetly against my cheek that I want to burrow inside this man.
“Stay tonight.”
I suck in a breath. “Stay here?”
He laughs again. “Yes. I want you in my bed. Not for sex. Just a sleepover, if you want.”
Yeah, right. We both know what happens next.
After everything he did to me already, I shouldn’t have anything left. And yet the idea of a bed sounds lovely. So much more room to play and to return the favor. And I owe him so many, many favors.
* * *
Jesse’s home is built into the slope of a hill in the woods. The main level is a sprawling great room with high ceilings and a fireplace with stonework that soars to the second floor.
Off the open kitchen is a mud room and a hallway leading to what Jesse explains is a series of bedrooms that housed cowboys and other live-in house staff when this place was an actual cattle ranch.
From Jesse’s second-floor bedroom, there’s a broad wraparound deck overlooking the woods on one side and the main road on the other.
I step out onto the deck. Although it’s dark, I can make out the light at the property’s front gate.
When I turn around and go back inside, I find options laid out on the bed for me to wear as pajamas. Men’s tee-shirts, a flannel, and basketball shorts that are likely to hang off me like a tent.
“Sorry,” he says. “I’m not one of those guys that has women over very often. I don’t have a stash of women’s clothes and things they left behind.”
I scoff. “That’s the last thing you should be sorry for. Besides, do you think I’d want to wear the pajamas of someone you used to sleep with?”
