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Everything he had to give. He was already lifting her into his arms before she got a response out. “Please fuck me.”
As the first threads of dawn began to lighten the sky outside, he carried her to the bedroom and lowered them both to the bed.
Balanced above her, he ran a knuckle over her cheekbone. “You’re not sore?”
“Do me easy.”
“You’re easy to do.” He laughed. “Don’t take that the wrong way.”
She covered his mouth with her hand. “Quit while you’re ahead.”
Quitting was the last thing he did. And between this cute moment and the back-arching, toe-cramping, all-out sensational orgasm he gave her were precious acts of thoughtfulness—a pillow under her hips, her hair moved out of the way, her clit teased until she was ready, the hands that were gentle while firm, and the lips that were soft but insistent. He made her buzz all over with satisfaction.
This time, there was no staying awake, just a hazy drift into sleep, lying close and sated.
When Lenny woke it was to daylight streaming into the room. The bedside clock said 9:05 a.m. She was alone, and her body felt worked over, and that wasn’t entirely unpleasant. There was shower water running. The polite thing to do would be to wait for Halsey to come back into the bedroom, clean and damp and smelling of soap. Or be a good houseguest and investigate the kitchen and start on breakfast.
Polite and good just weren’t going to cut it. She wanted to watch him shower, see him naked and dripping with his hair slicked back and stubble on his jaw. This was her chance. She got all the way to the bathroom before she realized she hadn’t stopped to put something on. Too late to retreat. From behind the glass screen, he caught her movement and smiled, and it no longer mattered that it was daylight and there was no camouflaging her body or the mess her hair must be, because his smile told her he was delighted to see her, and delight looked decadent on him.
Neither of them spoke. T
he water ran. Halsey did a slow and deliberate appraisal of her that made her heart rate kick. She did her own of him. Heaven help me. Behind that glass screen was a man who most definitely worked out and often, who’d work her over methodically and skillfully, and they weren’t finished with each other yet.
“You’re a beautiful woman, Lenore Bradshaw. I’m not entirely sure what I did to get lucky to have you here. Do you want to join me?”
Yes, very much. No, there was the practical consideration of needing to pee. She shook her head. He shut the water off and snagged a towel. He’d shaved so she missed out on seeing scruff.
“How about I give you some bathroom time?” He wrapped the towel around his waist.
“How about I remember there’s another one and go use that first.” She’d missed out on shower sex, too, and that was a sour note.
He was on her before she had a chance to worry about her breath. His was minty, and he got her all warm and wet pressing against her, holding her face between his hands. “Good morning. Did you sleep well?”
“Good morning. You put me in a sex coma.”
“Glad you recovered.”
“I’m more than willing to go under again.”
He kissed her some more, and when he let her go, it was to ask how she liked her eggs.
She liked her eggs anyway he wanted to serve them, and smelling of his soap and toothpaste and wearing his T-shirt and no pants, she ate them at his kitchen counter scrambled with bacon and mushrooms.
“If Mallory shows up with a neck tattoo, I’m blaming you,” she said as he put his naked back to her to pour coffee.
“If you thought it would help, I’d tell her about my experience.”
Mallory liked Halsey, and his alicorn story would be real to her. The obvious thing to do would be to leap all over his offer, except for the part about him being exactly the kind of man Mal didn’t need in her life—another unlikely thief and miserable liar to shatter her trust.
“Jesus, Lenny, I’m sorry. I get that’s not appropriate.” He collected their plates and took them to the sink. She wished it were. She’d half convinced herself there was a loophole, a way to quarantine the truth of Halsey so Mallory could have his insights.
He rattled around in the kitchen, cleaning up, stacking the dishwasher, not meeting her eyes.
“It’s okay. Don’t worry about it,” she said.
He closed the dishwasher drawer with a little more force than necessary, making silverware rattle. “It’s not okay. I’m having trouble dealing with the fact I don’t have the privilege of being in your life.”
He didn’t look at her until he finished that sentence, and when he did, it was to show his frustration and reflect her own confusion.
