Robert had been similarly strong for nearly all of our relationship—he exercised regularly and for sure ate better than I did. I hadn’t realized how much I’d taken his strength for granted until he got sick andIwas the one holdinghim.
It had been my absolute privilege to care for my husband. As Major drew me to his chest, though, I realized that, counting Robert’s illness and the ten months since his passing, it had been over a year since I’d been properly held in a man’s arms. What made this more than a hug was the sense that Major was holding my grief for me, as if removing the very weight of it from my chest. For the first time in months, I felt like I could breathe.
Robert’s words drifted over me once more.
Before the anniversary of my death, I need you to sleep with someone.
His note had every ounce of its author’s audacity, but I wasn’t having it.Seriously, fuck off, babe. You can’t leave me and then tell me to sleep with another guy.
My hand absentmindedly went to Major’s belly, rubbing in circles. Hmm. He was the perfect combination of robust and soft.
Now, before you dismiss me out of hand, hear me out.
You can eat my ass, Robert Paige.
I swear, the cheek of that man. We used to invite other men into our bed, and he’d had fewer requests for the guys fucking me in front of him than he did for my life as a widower.
The unmitigated gall.
I turned my face, pressing it into Major’s incredible chest. I’d heard him talk a few times about his roster of lovers, and I bet those guys loved his pecs. They were so firm and inviting.
Still cheesed at my late husband and absolutely not paying attention, I moved so my nose bumped over Major’s nipple—oof, it was on the bigger side—and he shifted under me. My hand drifted lower, and I squeezed at the softness of his lower belly. This was always my favorite part of a bigger guy, the crease between his belly and that cushy pelvic area.
I hummed to myself, knifing my hand into the tight space while rubbing my face into his chest. Oops, nipple again. Mm. I nosed at it, wondering if Major’s bed partners played with his nipples. I bet they did.
This was so cozy and yummy, like a shitty, really sweet reminder of everything I’d lost. I let my hand slide down over the bulge in his pants, rubbing it, moaning when he swelled under my touch.
“Ren?” Major asked, his voice shaking.
I stilled my hand and looked down, horrified. What the fuck was I doing?
Now, before you dismiss me out of hand, hear me out.
Shut it, Paige.
CHAPTER 3
major
Several of my friends had fallen in love over the past few months. While that wasn’t something I’d ever aspired to, I had started to wonder if I was missing out. Seeing Ren like this, though, made me grateful for my no-strings rotation. If the price of love was this kind of grief, I wasn’t sure I could handle it.
Something told me we’d be here for a while, but the benefit of owning the place was that I didn’t have to worry about the time. So I relaxed into the comfortable couch, hopefully signaling that I was here for however long he needed.
At some point, though, he started shifting against me, rubbing his face into my chest, his nose brushing my nipple a couple of times. I tried to ignore the way the back-and-forth motion was sending jolts of pleasure down to my groin. It was simply a bodily response—and I had been blessed-slash-cursed with supersensitive nipples.
It was a little hard to ignore the circular path of his hand when it brushed my underbelly. Another sensitive spot, unfortunately.
I knew Ren liked big guys, and this was clearly a reaction to being up close with a body type similar to his late husband’s, soI had to tread carefully. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings with a rejection, but there was no way in hell I would take advantage of a grieving man.
My honor was immediately challenged, however, when he slid the edge of his palm into the crease above my groin. My breath caught at the intimacy of the move, and I froze, horrified that my cock was beginning to plump under his touch.
Even as I prayed Ren hadn’t noticed, he let out a small moan. Brushing his nose across my peaking nipple again, he rubbed the sharp edge of his hand back and forth over my waistband, stopping every once in a while to grab a handful of flesh.
Surely I was misjudging his intentions. He was not in the right frame of mind to—Christ. He’d just slid his palm over the growing bulge in my slacks. “Ren?” I asked, mortified that I hadn’t been able to hide my arousal.
He drew his hand back as if it’d been burned. His eyes flicked to mine, wide and uncertain. We locked gazes for several seconds, twin deer caught in each other’s headlights.
“Are you okay?” I asked, as blood continued to rush south.
