And I did. Guiding myself into her heat, I felt at home for the first time in seven years. Taking my time, I stilled at the feel of myself filling her. “Oh God, Jules.”
We rocked together slowly until the friction wasn’t enough.
Her feet found my ass and dug in, and I plunged deeper, harder. Our mouths fused, her nipples rubbed against my chest, and my thumb found her sensitive spot.
As she began to shake, my heart pounded heavy against my breastbone. It was the hottest missionary I’d ever experienced.
With another thrust of me in and out of her, Jules came. I rode her waves slowly, drawing each tremor out of her until her breathing steadied. Then I picked up the pace again until I could do nothing but succumb to my own climax.
Jules
“Let me get a warm towel and clean you,” he whispered into my ear, and slid out from me.
I already missed him. There was an immediate hollowness where he’d been. I hadn’t made love in seven years, and now after two times with this man, I needed to be filled.
I loved it.
I hated it.
I wanted it.
I despised needing it.
My head hurt and my blood pumped with a vengeance. This was exactly what I’d spent years trying to avoid. Needing someone, being dependent on another person—emotionally.
Yet my body insisted I grab onto this man; I’d dreamed of him for years. Every time I closed my eyes, his image filled my every thought.
I heard him banging around in the bathroom and wondered if I could hide under the bed. My hand found my hipbone, and then my empty core dripping from him, weeping for more, and I was instantly disgusted with myself. Having come completely undone within weeks of Drew worming his way back into my life, I pitied myself.
My thoughts were as rumpled as the quilt underneath me.
“Hey.”
He was back, wiping me clean, drying me, kissing me, and loving me like I’d imagined so many times. Lingering touches along my skin triggered my nerve endings.
Physically, I wanted more.
My overactive brain wanted my mouth to screamstop, but my heart wouldn’t allow it.
“Come here,” he said, and I did.
I crawled right up to him in my stupidly small bed with the pink quilt and lavender shams. Darla had loved both when we saw them at the secondhand store. I couldn’t say no to her clapping and jumping—the same way I couldn’t deny her father.
“It’s going to be okay, Jules. Let yourself fall. I can hold us both; I can brace your fall. I even have enough room for three in my arms.”
My entire body shook and shivered at the idea of it.
He kept muttering these sweet nothings until I must have dozed off. I vaguely remembered waking up in the middle of the night when Drew unlatched the door and left it slightly ajar.
“In case Darla needs you,” he said softly.
Then I drifted off again, dreaming of his home and Darla settled in his guest bed, but in my dream, it was her very own room. She was drinking iced tea mixed with fresh lemonade, and petting a turtle. Drew was walking around the house shirtless, his tattoos on display for the world to see, but instead of the crest there was a different one that readDARLAinside a heart. I was barefoot and pregnant again, this time with my feet laid up on a pillow—not working forty hours a week at a shit job.
I woke trembling and chilled.
I had to get the hell out of here. He’d left years ago—was his word really worth trusting?
No.
