As Lane had assumed, Jake had recognized Shirley leaving AJ’s and took it upon himself to find her. A few of the times I’d seen him over the last few months, he’d really been up in Ligonier scoping her out, confronting her and not being able to appropriately put her in her place. He’d wanted to tell Lane in Miami, but Lane had become wholly focused on getting back to me.
I made slow circle eights on Lane’s abs while I thought about how painful his and Jake’s childhood must have been, and now another scab had been ripped off. Abruptly.
Shirley had never mentioned any of this to me. She’d probably thought that being able to watch Lane through my eyes—to see him succeed and fall in love—would ease her conscience. Jake had tried to tell her that was bullshit, but she wouldn’t hear it.
As we lay quietly in bed, sneaking soft touches while we listened to Brooks snoring on the dog bed, I came to terms with losing the second person crucial to my staying sober. Who would be my rock now? I wasn’t strong enough to do it on my own.
“I’m there for you now, Bess. And you’re a lot stronger than you think,” Lane said, turning to face me as he threaded his hand through mine.
“Did I say that out loud or are you a mind reader?”
“The latter. This evening started out about me supporting you, and ended with you taking care of me ... again. I just want you to know that I’m right by your side, no matter what,” he said before kissing me.
“I said it out loud.”
He chuckled. “Yeah.”
I ran my hand through his dark hair falling on his forehead. Seeing him with his head on my pale pink pillowcase, exposed and vulnerable, did something to my heart. I fell more in love.
“I love you, Mr. Wrigley.”
“Lane,” he said with a wry smile, reminding me of when we first met.
“Why me?”
“We were always meant to be, Bess. You were the bright yellow in my colorless, bland life.”
And then he kissed me again, this time not stopping. With his hand traveling south, his fingers found me.
“Don’t stop,” I said, my breath coming in small pants as he stroked me.
He put another finger inside me as his thumb teased my sensitive spot, and I concentrated on pulling air in and out of my lungs.
“I believe you like calling me Mr. Wrigley,” he teased, then nibbled on my neck.
My fingers dug into his back, scratching their way down to his ass as I called out his name with my orgasm.
The second his fingers left my body, I wanted something to replace them. Reaching down, I wrapped my hand around his erection, stroking up and down its length, my thumb smoothly grazing over the tip.
“Bess,” he growled.
I didn’t answer; instead I straddled his legs and guided him inside me. Exhaling a low moan, I sank all the way down.
“Come here,” Lane demanded once I was seated on him. When I leaned forward, he took my mouth, sliding his tongue inside while his hand went to my hip, setting the pace at which he wanted me to move.
It was slow and languid. I pulled up and slid back down with the grace of a ballerina until Lane’s hand held on for better purchase, encouraging me to go faster. With his hand bruising my side, I rode him like a stripper in Vegas.
Racing to the finish, not concerned when we would make love again because we knew we would—hoped that we would—we both hit our climax quickly, crying out into the night, squeezing out every last emotion of the day from each other.
As Lane spooned me, I let out a little sigh and said, “I’ve got to go back to work tomorrow, you know.”
“Okay,” he said easily as he slid his hand down my back, coming around from behind to tease my clit. “Are you sure I can’t convince you otherwise?”
