“That’s not the point.”
“Then what is the point?”
I don’t have a good answer. I just know that crossing that line feels dangerous, like stepping off a cliff without checking if there’s ground on the other side. “It’s not something we should’ve done.”
Marshall leans forward, his forearms resting on the table. “You didn’t answer my question, though. Do you regret it?”
I look at him and think about lying. About saying yes.
But I can’t.
“No,” I admit. “I don’t regret it. I needed to get out of my head, so thank you. For helping me with that.”
The memory hits me without warning. Marshall’s cock in front of my face, thick and heavy, the head flushed and leaking. The way he stroked himself, his hand moving from base to tip, squeezing. The way he looked down at me with that smug, hungry expression. The way he came all over my face, thick and hot, marking me.
My face heats up. I can feel the blush spreading from my cheeks down my neck, and I look away, hoping he doesn’t notice.
Of course, he notices.
His smirk returns. “Why are you blushing?”
“It’s just the heat,” I say, too quickly.
He raises an eyebrow. “Is it?”
I look away, focusing on my plate. “I was just thinking about last night.”
“What about it?”
I take a breath and make myself say it, because if I don’t, he’s going to keep pushing. “I was impressed. With your… size.”
The grin that spreads across Marshall’s face is smug and a little infuriating.
“Oh, shut up.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You’re thinking it.”
He chuckles, and the sound is warm and low, and it does things to my chest that I refuse to examine. “It’s not as great to be this size as it might sound,” he says after a moment. “All of the women I’ve been with, my ex-wife included, complained about it. I spent years holding back because I didn’t want to hurt them.”
I glance up at him, and there’s something raw in his expression, something that makes me think this isn’t just casual conversation. This is something that actually bothered him.
I want to say something stupid like I wouldn’t complain, but I bite my tongue hard enough to taste copper. That’s not a path I can go down. Instead, I force myself to say what needs to be said.
“Even though what we did was hot,” I start, picking my words carefully, “and what we needed in the moment, it can’t happen again.”
Marshall regards me for a long moment, his eyes searching my face. Then he leans back in his chair and nods. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“We can agree to never speak about it.” He picks up his coffee again, his voice even. “It was one night of madness. That’s all.”
Relief washes over me. “Yeah. One night.”
We finish breakfast in silence, the tension easing into something that feels almost normal. I drain my coffee and start stacking our plates, grateful for something to do with my hands. Marshall stands and checks his watch.
“I need to get started on the garden. The supply delivery is coming this afternoon, and I want to map out the irrigation layout before it gets too hot.”
