“I’m not upset. Just feeling guilty.”
“Leave the guilt to me. I earned it.”
“No, no. We agreed to be partners in this. That means we share any blame.”
“Okay, but as partners who now have lots of sex—”
“Lots?”
“Tons. A phenomenal amount.” He reaches out and draws me against him. “Record worthy.”
A kiss to the crest of my cheek has my eyes fluttering closed. I rest my hand on his firm chest and tilt my head to give him better access. “That much, huh?”
“Yes.” He nibbles on my earlobe. “I’m calling an audible.”
“Football talk. Sexy.”
He hums, warm breath tickling my skin. “Can I interest you in some ball handling?”
“Less sexy.”
“Damn it.”
Undeterred, he kisses the curve of my neck, his big hands roaming over my back, down to cup my bottom. He’s had me three times since coming home. And still, I want him. My body sways against his as heat and need wash along my skin.
He palms my breast, making a pleased sound when he finds me braless. The blunt tip of his thumb worries my nipple. Lust leaves me floating and weak.
“What were we talking about again?” I murmur, nipping at the column of his neck.
“I forgot.” He hauls me up and carries me into the bedroom.
And so it goes. We insulate ourselves in a blissful bubble of sex and happiness. When we’re together, the outside world goes away. It’s not a situation I’m familiar with, and yet it feels exactly as it should.
Only there’s a small voice in the back of my head that likes to remind me that there’s a vast difference between playing house and seeing things through for the long haul.
I tell that voice to shut it.
Twenty-Nine
Pickle:Hey. I’m going to be finishing up pretty late. Sorry about that.
Pen:Not your fault. It’s okay. I’m writing a paper now. Boo. Oh! I painted the den tobacco brown. Here’s a pic.
Pickle:You did awesome. I admit, I thought brown would look off. But this is great. I like the monochromatic darkness.
Pen:your assessment makes me smile.
Pickle:I did major in art history. My sense of color is now highly educated
Pen:Oh, is it? You can give your opinion on the shade of blue I’m going to paint the pantry then
Pickle:Okay. But if this is some girl trap, I’m going on record now that it’s not my fault if you hate it later.
Pen:Shows what you know. If I hate it, I’ll pick the other color
Pickle:If you say so
( . . . )
