“You feel so fucking good,” I tell her, already on the brink of losing my mind. “God, Sarah.”
“I love how deep you are.”
“Me, too,” I groan, burying myself again. “Me, too.”
Her fingers slip into the space between our bodies, gliding over her clit as I fuck her. I wish I could contort myself to let my tongue do the work, but I’m only mortal. And I’m damn glad she has the self-awareness to do what it takes to get herself there.
“Come with me, Ian,” she pants. “I’m close.”
Christ. I thrust into her harder, eager to catch up, eager to feel her sharp spasms of pleasure gripping me. I groan as the first wave hits, then sends me flipping headfirst over the edge of the waterfall. Waves of pleasure pound me from all sides, and I’m going under, falling hard, swirling into the blackness.
I wait for the spasms to fade before I pull her up and against my chest. Her heart thuds so hard I can feel it through layers of loofa netting. Or maybe that’s my heart?
The two organs we agreed to keep out of this are fighting for attention, and I remind myself there’s nothing symbolic about this. It’s sex, pure and simple. Nothing more, no hearts involved.
That’s the way this has to be.
A few nights later, I call my mom.
The phone rings so many times that I think she’s not going to pick up. When she does, her voice is breathless like she’s been running.
“Mom? It’s Ian. Are you okay?”
I kick myself for thinking I need to tell her who I am. For reminding her that her only living son is on the phone, instead of the one she lost.
“Ian, baby. How are you?”
“I’m good.” Relief floods through me that she’s not hurt or sick or— “I’m great, actually. Did you get my message?”
“Yes, and I’m so excited. How long are you in Oregon?”
“I’m not sure right now.”
I consider telling her about Sarah. About the fake marriage proposal and all that entails. My parents had their differences, but one thing they always agreed on was that they adored my college pal. Sarah had several holiday dinners with my family, and everyone grew to think of her as one of us. Even Shane.
Especially Shane.
There’s a lump in my throat that wasn’t there when I picked up the phone, and I force myself to swallow it down as my mother prattles on about her vegetable garden and her nemesis at the Senior Center and the gentleman friend she played bingo with last Thursday.
“So what else is new with you, sweetheart?” There’s a hopeful tone in my mother’s voice that tells me what her next words are going to be. “Any news in the romance department?”
I hesitate, wanting to tell her.
But now isn’t the right time. Hell, I’m not even sure how seriously Sarah’s considering my offer. I like to think she’s getting there, but I might be kidding myself.
What if she says no?
The whispered words in the back of my brain fill me with more dread than I wish they did. I wouldn’t be heartbroken, because you can’t break something that’s already been smashed to bits. But if Sarah won’t marry me, I can’t fathom meeting anyone else on earth who’d fit my life the way she does.
That’s not love—it’s common sense—but my stupid chest aches just the same.
“No news,” I tell my mother carefully. “Not yet.”
“I always hoped you’d find happiness with someone,” she says, her tone a bit wistful. “A happy marriage is such a blessing.”
And an unhappy one is a curse.
I don’t say this out loud. The words would cut her deeply, and she’s already been cut badly enough.
