“I somehow don’t think little bean is going to take me for steak or sushi on my birthday,” she says, hearkening back to our earlier conversation. But I hear the relief in her tone.
“Of course he will. Matt Junior is a gentleman.”
“Sushi,” she answers.
“Good to know. Now I’ll have an answer to his question, when he inevitably asks.”
“What about you?”
“Steak or sushi?”
“Yeah.”
“The caveman in me says steak all the way. Sushi is all well and good, but I’m a growing lad.”Growing dafter,my mother would probably say if she could hear me. “Sushi feels more like a snack.”
“A snack?” The upward inflection to her voice is curious. “I bet you’re looking like a snack right now.”
“I’m not always hungry,” I retort a touch defensively.
She’s laughing as she hangs up, which makes me wonder what I’ve missed.
Chapter 25
Ryan
Fifteen weeks, and well into the second trimester, where I’ve resolved to spend less time with Matt. So much for the pregnancy honeymoon period, though I was pretty lucky with my symptoms for the first trimester. Which were mostly defective taste buds and emotional instability. Though I guess the second is still hanging around a little.
Since I moved in, Matt and I have eaten dinner together most nights, and that new normal is starting to feel way too comfortable. So for the past two days, I’ve gone cold turkey. Which means we’re conversing mostly by text.Cold turkey for real, because there’s a definite risk of becoming too dependent on him.
And then there was the dream I woke from two mornings ago, flushed and sweaty, my insides pulsing emptily. As I lay in the murky gloom of the early morning, listening to the rapid beat of my heart, I allowed my mind to drift. Something I hadn’t done since I’d moved in, which is probably why my somnolent brain took me on a trip down (smutty) memory lane.
Since I’d crept out of the hotel back in October, I’d been using the memory of Matt and our night together to get myself off. But that was before. Before I knew the real him. Before I moved in with him, when I told myself it had to stop—that it was wrong. Notto mention dangerous. But that morning, it was my unconscious mind that conjured him. I wasn’t to blame. He was already in my head, and I was already wet and tingling.
What was the harm in one more tiny indulgence?
So I closed my eyes and dipped back into my memories. We were lying in that huge bed. My body was mostly covered in a fluffy hotel robe, wet from the shower, my face bare of makeup. Yet he stared down at me as though I was a rare treasure, sifting his fingers through the strands of my hair. His touch felt so good, and I curled into him like a cat.
Between us, there had been passion and craving and moments of connection that felt almost transcendental. Moments where, if not for the weight of his body, I might have floated away. But that particular moment, lying there with my head on his chest, was one of pure comfort. Something I hadn’t known I’d needed.
This is connection,I thought as my hand wandered aimlessly over the dips and valleys of him, like a cartographer exploring a new and wonderous world. My fingertips inadvertently brushing his thick cock.
“Come up here.” His words were raspy, as though his voice had been long unused.
“Not yet,” I whispered, cupping the heavy weight between his legs. Delighting in the growl of his next breath. “Can I ... can I do this?”
He laughed. “You’re asking? You never have to ask.”
“It’s polite,” I almost simpered. “So can I?”
He threw his arm across his eyes. “You’re gonna torture me, I can tell.”
And oh, I wanted to.
He submitted to my touch, my exploration, and that felt sexy as hell. I brushed the silken head, the satin steel of him against my palm. I climbed to straddle his legs, and he groaned my name, the muscle of his thigh contracting as I pressed my hand there.
His eyes turned to coal as I wrapped my fingers around his shaft and bent to swipe my tongue there. “Yeah.” The word was just a breath, and next, a low growl. “Lick it, darlin’. Make it nice and wet.”
Oh, the effect his words had on me.
