“Yes. Please,” I say.
Another smack. Another cry from me. Then, my world tunnels to these sensations—his hand smacking my ass, the bite that spirals through me, the hot rush of pleasure in my core.
Then this—the giving in, as I fall to pieces in his arms one more time, sinking into blissful oblivion. He follows me there with a powerful thrust, then grunts, growls, murmurs.
And quietly kisses me.
Sometime later, I don’t know when, he’s kissing my hair, whispering sweet nothings of praise, then saying, “Next time I’m going to use that cat toy on you.”
“Only after I watch you fold the sheetsandmake the bed.”
“Deal.”
I feel shiny inside and out from the wordsnext time. From the easy promise in them. From the possibility of all our next times.
A little later, after we straighten up, he pulls on clothes and fetches my dog from the house. Through the window, I spot Banks taking Hudson for a quick midnight stroll through the lavender bushes. The sight of that man walking my pooch makes my heart beat far too fast.
When he returns, he settles Hudson onto the floor and comes back to bed.
“Thank you,” I tell him. “I seriously appreciate your dog-walking skills.” I pause, then add, “Among others.”
“You’re welcome.” He doesn’t ask for anything in return. I get the sense he gives to give. It’s in his nature, these little acts of service. Gently, he turns me around so I’m facing away from him. He rubs my neck, kneading the usual sore spots. Yeah, it’s definitely in his nature.
“Like this skill too,” I say, relaxing into his touch.
“Good.” He sounds happy. Maybe that’s what he gets out of these little gestures. They make him happy too—to be able to give and know it’s received. So I happily take, knowing it’s working for both of us.
A few minutes later, he kisses the back of my neck, then stops rubbing. With a sigh, he says, “I still regret not coming to your hotel room.”
“Don’t,” I say.
“But I do. If I had, maybe we could have started sooner.”
Started, not stopped.
He wraps his arms around me, like we’re not stopping whatever this is becoming—little gestures and big feelings.
38
HER TURN
RIPLEY
“I knew it wasn’t her.”
The humble brag comes from Grandma the next day as the three of us settle into a table at the restaurant at The Ladybug Inn.
Haven’s call time isn’t till this afternoon, so we stole away for a girls’ breakfast like old times, when Grandma used to take us here once a month back when we were in high school. Well, as long as we brought home good grades and excellent attendance.
Haven knits her brow at the older woman. “How did you know there’s a pic?”
Amused, Grandma shakes her head. “Send my girls out of the nest, and they forget all about me.”
Haven’s mouth falls open in awareness. “You’re right. I almost forgot about Daisy’s penchant for gossip. She told you?”
Grandma nods. Her bestielovesgossip, so I’m guessing sheshowed Grandma the pic of Haven, New Chris, and the director fromPage Sixthis morning.
I saw it too—Banks showed it to me as we walked Hudson together. He laughed about it, mostly over ourtwin antics. He said the same thing as Grandma.I knew it was you.
