Page 63 of Heart Breaker

Almost there. Just a little longer.

And I finally let go. The release tears through me with breathtaking force, leaving no part of me untouched. For a few suspended seconds, everything disappears beneath it. My vision goes bright at the edges as wave after wave crashes through me, stronger than anything I’ve ever experienced. I tip my head back, my chest rising and falling in uneven breaths as I groan her name. When it finally passes, exhaustion and relief settle heavily into my bones.

We sink onto the mattress together. Lottie is tucked against me, her back warm against my chest, her shirt still pushed down to her waist.

“Was that okay?” I ask.

A low laugh vibrates against my cheek. “Of course it was okay.”

I tighten my arms around her. “I’m asking if I was too rough with you, not if you enjoyed yourself.” I lean forward to kiss her. “That part was pretty obvious.”

Lottie shifts out of my arms, sitting up in bed. “I feel amazing,” she murmurs. “And no, you didn’t hurt me. Not even a little. I loved it.”

I wait for her to settle back in beside me, but instead, she pushes herself out of bed and pads toward the door. Sitting up in bed, I watch her pluck her underwear and jeans from the floor.

I want to ask her to stay, to spend the night here with me, but tonight has been more than either of us expected, and I’m scared to push her. So instead, I reluctantly watch her go.

“Night, husband. Get some sleep,” she says over her shoulder. “You look exhausted.”

I shake my head, raking a hand through my hair, and stare up at the ceiling feeling the weight of everything that changed tonight as my bedroom door clicks shut behind her.

I know I crossed a line, but I have no regrets.

But I can’t help but think that I’m setting myself up for heartbreak because I know how this ends. One year from now, Lottie will walk away. And when that happens, it’s going to hurt like hell.

TWENTY-FOUR

Lottie

When I left Wes in his bedroom, I immediately began trying to remind myself that what had happened between us had been a one-off. It was an exception, a lapse in judgement, a temporary moment of insanity that we would both awkwardly and quietly move past. By the time I dragged myself out of bed the next morning, I was certain there was nothing more to it than that.

It turns out I couldn't have been more wrong.

The next day, Wes came home from work and rather than avoid me, he found every reason to touch me. A hand on my hip as he moved by me in the hallway. His lips on my neck as I cooked. The night ended with his face between my thighs.

The same thing happened the next day, and the day after that. It didn’t matter what we were doing, Wes’s hands and his mouth always found me. The low murmur of his voice near my ear when he leaned in close enough for me to catch the clean scent of his soap was all it took before I was turning in his arms and he was stripping me from my clothes and making me come.

Wes seems to be applying his typical focused determination to making me blush, and giving me orgasms, and he’s doing it with tremendous success.

The strange part is it never leads to sex.

It’s like he can’t resist me when we’re together, like whatever restraint he has slips just enough for him to give in. And then, just as quickly, he pulls it back and puts distance between us again. Like he wants me, but he’s afraid of wanting too much.

Despite everything changing between us, most things haven’t changed at all. Every night, he disappears down the hall to his own bedroom and I retreat to mine. He still texts me throughout the day and leaves a latte waiting for me on the counter in the morning. We’re still essentially roommates, only in some ways we’re much more than that. Because now I've become painfully aware of the weight of his thigh pressed against mine, of the way his gaze sometimes lingers on me a second too long. Those moments are the ones I can’t make sense of, the ones that keep me awake at night as I grow more and more confused about what we are doing.

Aren’t men like Wes supposed to leave? Isn’t that how this works after they’ve gotten you in their bed? Men like him sweep in and make you feel special, then they move on to the next challenge, the next conquest, the next woman.

At least, that’s what I’ve always believed.

A man like him doesn’t stick around after thoroughly destroying a woman’s ability to think straight. Especially with a big, manly body like his and the monster he has tucked away in his pants.

You have to see it to believe it, because Wes is proportionally perfect. His penis is so perfect that staring feels less like a choice and more like something I’m powerless to stop. Men built like him are supposed to be confined to romance novels and fantasies, not walking around Deep Cove in T-shirts and baseball caps.

None of it changes anything. I’m not going to be the woman who gets clingy after a few mind-bending orgasms. I can appreciate a beautiful man without becoming attached. That’s what I keep telling myself.

The bottom line is, Wes and I need to talk about what we’re doing, and I plan on doing just that after we have dinner at my parents’ tonight. I figure my best bet is to wait until he’s trapped in a car with me with no chance of escape.

I pull a handful of clothes from the hamper while I wait for Wes to get home. He had a flight today and just messaged me to say he’ll be home in 20 minutes. Without thinking, I pick up one of his T-shirts from the pile, a gray one that matches his eyes. The fabric is soft in my hands as I lift the collar to my nose and inhale a small breath. It smells like him. My eyes flutter shut. It’s ridiculous how much I like the way that man smells, and how the scent has become so familiar to me over the past few weeks. I swear I could pick him out of a lineup blindfolded.