Page 28 of If You Like It, I Love It

And damn my eyes for stealing glances at him every time I try to focus on the TV. We’re watching a movie. Well, there's a movie on the screen, but I’m too busy trying not to watch him—and failing. His arms look too good in that shirt, and I know all too well how good it feels to run my hands over his biceps and shoulders, his firm chest . . .

I glance again and catch him looking at me, too. Those eyes. That smile.

“Do you know the main character’s name?” he asks, letting his eyes drift toward the TV for a second before pulling them back to my face.

“Is it Jack?” That doesn’t sound right, but it’s the first name that comes to me.

“Couldn’t tell you, beautiful. I’m not watching this movie any more than you are.”

It was a simple admission, not an invitation for me to climb onto his lap, not a suggestion that I straddle his dick or “mmmm” at how it’s straining against his pants or press my pussy against it, and it certainly wasn’t a plea for me to pull my shirt over my head and fling it at the coffee table.

I think it missed the table, but I don’t bother looking over my shoulder to see because that would delay kissing him, and I’ve been wanting to kiss him since he tried to convince me I should pick that ridiculous blue wallpaper.

The man disagreed with me, and I wanted to kiss him. And it wasn’t just to shut him up about the wrong wallpaper.

I can’t be around him anymore without wanting to touch him in some way. This is a problem—one that could’ve been prevented. But I let it happen, and now, I want it to happen all the time.

The way we’re touching right now is a terrible idea, but I’m not sure a bad idea has ever felt so right. I want it. He wants it.

He tugs on my long, flowy skirt to bring it higher. I lift up onto my knees to release the fabric. His fists have it bunched around my hips in a matter of seconds. Two seconds more and he’s squeezing my ass while our kiss becomes frantic.

When his hand slides closer to the center strap of my thong, I arch my lower back, encouraging his fingers to move lower, to slip between my legs. I rarely wear anything other than jeans or shorts, and I had no idea he was going to stop by, so I didn’t wear this skirt just to grant him easier access. It’s warm out, and I chose it for comfort.

The ease of access is a definite bonus, though, because I’m about to take Glynnis’s advice and ride this man’s impressive dick.

I undo his belt and the button on his pants. As I slide his zipper down to free his erection, his thumb pulls my thong roughly to the side and goes straight to my clit. He wants to get me off first, which I generally appreciate, but that doesn’t matter to me right now. I want to be in control, to take what I want, to not wait or follow a man’s lead for the first time in far too long.

Enzo reads my intention as I pull away from his thumb. He maneuvers his body beneath me, creating the needed space to shove his underwear and pants down to his thighs. I take over holding the narrow fabric to the side of my pussy, and as soon as he’s settled back into place, I wrap the fingers of my free hand around his dick and notch the head at my entrance, smiling at him as I glide it back and forth to prepare us both.

His intense expression is so empowering . . . adoring and lust-filled and gracing the most gorgeous fucking face I’ve ever seen. He’s making it abundantly clear that he’s more than happy to follow my lead, to let me do what feels good on my own terms.

And it feels so much better than good when I slowly slide down his shaft until I’m fully seated, full of him. The glide is perfection all the way down, and now that I’ve taken every inch of him inside me, the fullness is incomparable.

A younger, more idealistic version of me might’ve said we were a perfect fit, like we were made for each other. The older, wiser version of me knows better than to say that . . . out loud. But I don’t mind thinking it, and I definitely don’t mind feeling it.

I don’t mind the feel of his firm grip on my hips either. It’s stabilizing, and while I’m not usually a woman who needs to be stabilized, in this moment I do, because otherwise, I might melt against his chest and let this feel like more than I can allow it to be.

I press my shins into the couch cushions to push myself up, inch by inch until only the tip remains inside me, and then I banish every too-intimate, too-sweet, too-close thought and ride his perfect cock like this is my last chance to use it.

It could be. It always could be.

I slip out of my bed shortly after sunrise, leaving Enzo sound asleep. He’ll reach for me if he wakes before I come back inside, but I need to check on Oliver. He didn’t eat much yesterday.

He’s not getting worse, I don’t think, but he’s not rebounding. At best, I have a depressed alpaca on my hands. The worst isn’t even something I can let myself consider. For now, I’m weighing solutions to cheer him up, and hoping it’s not what I fear it might be.

Oliver is sitting under his open-air shed, wide awake but not up and about yet. I tell myself this is an improvement. He’s been choosing to sleep in the barn more and more often the past few weeks. That’s not the norm for most alpacas, but it’s way out of character for Oliver. The only walled-off space he likes is his trailer.

“Hey, big guy!” I offer him some feed from my hand. He eats it without a hint of enthusiasm. “Are you punishing me for something? You going to hold a grudge forever?”

He tilts his head, offering me his favorite scratching spot on his neck. I take the hint and comply. He has me well-trained, but I don’t mind. It’s a good sign that he wants attention. And he’s eating. Whatever is going on with him could pass as quickly as it began.

I’m a vet tech. I know how finicky animals can be. Sometimes, they’re just like kids. One minute, they’re scaring you with a sudden illness, and the next, they’re back to running in circles and rolling in the dirt.

Oliver will be pronking and wagging his tail again soon.

When he starts to nibble on the fresh hay that I’ve put down for him, I refresh his water. He seems content now. A little compassion goes a long way when you’re feeling down. I get it.

I try to reenter the house as quietly as possible, but Enzo is already up, making coffee.