Page 75 of The Heartbreaker Next Door

Her hands threaded into my hair, holding me to her chest, as she arched, pushing her flesh deeper in my mouth. I was so hard I could barely think, but I made myself focus on her, on the way her body moved, the way her breath caught when I scraped my teeth along her skin. I wanted her wild. I wanted her out of her mind.

I moved from one breast to the other, giving each the same attention, letting my hands roam everywhere—her waist, her hips, the curve of her ass as she rocked up to meet me. When I grazed her pussy with the back of my hand, she gasped, nails digging into my shoulders.

“Dean, please.”

She was completely uninhibited, rocking her hips up, grinding herself against me with a kind of greedy, joyful abandon that made heat spike up my spine. She moaned, low and throaty, legs splayed wide, then hooked them around my waist and locked her ankles behind me. The angle pressed the length of my shaft directly against her folds, sliding through wetness that coated me instantly. The friction was almost too much. I rolled my hips, grinding against her, loving the feel of her slick and needy underneath me, the way her fingers dug into my back and held me there.

Her hand slipped between us, and she grabbed my steel-hard length, wrapping her fingers tight and guiding me to her entrance. The move was bold and hungry, and it did something to me. I braced on my forearms, pinning her with my gaze, and let her rub my head against her clit, teasing us both until she made a desperate, pleading noise and drew me down, burying me inside her in one long, slow push. The air went out of her lungs, a sharp gasp and then a whimper, as her body clenched around me.

I didn’t move at first. Just hovered above her, feeling her flutter and squeeze, letting the sensation settle into my bones. Her hands were everywhere—running up my arms, into my hair, dragging my mouth down to hers. When we kissed this time, it was different. There was no rush, no frantic “before someone catches us” energy. She kissed me like she meant to memorize my taste, slow and deep, tongues tangling, her lips soft and a little bit swollen. I could taste myself in her mouth, and it caused my cock to swell.

We moved together, slow at first. I pulled out a little, then slid back in, every inch of me aching with restraint. She felt better than anything, heat and velvet and the perfect amount of resistance, like she wanted to keep me inside her forever. Her hands explored my back, nails tracing gentle lines that sent shivers through me.

When I shifted my angle and thrust deeper, she gasped and arched up, breasts pressing against my chest. She peppered my shoulder with kisses, then nipped at my jaw, her mouth hot against my skin. “Oh my god,” she whispered, “you feel so fucking good.” Her voice was raw, awed, like she hadn’t expected it to be this intense.

I fought to keep the pace measured, to drag it out, but the way her body responded, writhing beneath me, I could only hold out so long. Every time I moved, her hips followed, matching my rhythm perfectly, meeting each thrust with her own. We locked eyes, and neither of us looked away. She licked her lips, cheeks flushed, hair wild around her face. I watched her pupils blow wide, watched her lose herself, and it felt like falling, like I’d never hit bottom.

She came first. The first tremor started in her thighs, then built until her entire body was shaking. Her teeth sank into the flesh of my shoulder as she stifled a scream as she let go. Her pussy fluttered, milking me, and the sensation—wet, tight, relentless—dragged me right to the edge with her. My jaw tensed as I buried my face in her neck, inhaling the smell of her skin and hair, willing myself to hold on just a little bit longer.

But then she tilted her pelvis up, locked her legs harder around me, and whispered, “Come for me, I want to feel you.” That was it, the end of me. I thrust deep, once, twice, and then exploded. The orgasm crashed through me, so fierce I had to squeeze my eyes shut, my whole body tensed as I emptied into her, every muscle shuddering. We clung to each other—her arms around my neck, my hands braced on either side of her head—until the shaking stopped and my brain slowly rebooted.

After, I rolled onto my side, pulling her with me so we lay tangled together, her head nestled under my chin, my arms wrapped tight around her. Her skin was damp with sweat, hair stuck to her forehead, but she looked more at peace than I’d ever seen her. She pressed her lips to my chest, right over my heart, and let out a long, shaky sigh.

I traced lazy patterns along her back—shoulder blades, the dimples at her spine, the soft curve of her hip—even as I tried to catch my breath. There was no talking for a while, just the sound of our breathing, the wind outside, and the warmth of the sheets cocooning us together. She hooked her leg over mine and refused to let go.

Eventually, I could hear her heartbeat slowing, her body melting further into me. I brushed a kiss onto her scalp. “You okay?” I said, my voice a low rumble.

She snorted, a little laugh muffled against my chest. “Pretty sure I can’t feel my legs, so… yeah. More than okay.”

I grinned, let my hand drift down to her ass, and squeezed. “Not sorry.”

She looked up at me, eyes soft and unguarded, and smiled. Then she yawned, the kind of honest, wide-mouthed yawn, and nuzzled back into my neck. We lay like that for ages, drifting in and out of a half-sleep, limbs tangled, sheets a mess, the world outside the bedroom a thousand miles away.

I didn’t want to move. I didn’t want to risk breaking whatever spell had settled over us. But at some point, I shifted, reaching for the water bottle on her nightstand, and she caught my wrist before I could get up.

“Stay,” she said, the word so soft I almost didn’t catch it. I looked down at her—hair wild, lips swollen, eyes still dazed—and knew I’d do whatever she asked.

“I’m not going anywhere,” I told her. And I meant it. I would’ve stayed there forever if she wanted.

26

WHEN TRUST ISSUES ACQUIRE REAL ESTATE

Felicity

The sky over Valentine Bay was a muted, forgiving blue—a sky that invited you to pause and take a breath, but not so bold it blinded you to the realities below. I opened the windows, letting in the salt and chill, the fresh layer of brine that still amazed me even after months on the coast. Mav was at preschool, the house was silent except for the occasional protest of the old refrigerator, and I was alone—a luxury I hadn’t afforded myself in years.

I’d always loved the unpredictable rhythms of working in events: the odd hours, the weekends, the thrill of one day being my “weekend” being a Monday or Friday, no matter what the calendar said. In a way, it made me feel like I’d cheated the adult world—a small rebellion against the tyranny of nine-to-five. I could grocery shop without battling the after-work mobs, get my oil changed without an appointment, or sit in the window seat of Main Street Eats and drink coffee for two hours just because the lunch crowd hadn’t arrived yet. Days like this, when the world moved at half-speed, felt like a gift.

But as much as I liked the quiet, it never lasted. My mind was an over-caffeinated hamster on a wheel—never content, never still. Even after the Founder’s Day fundraiser, after I’d wrangled a hundred volunteers and two feuding cookie bakers without a single tray being upended in civil protest, my brain wouldn’t let me rest. I’d spent the past week in the event manager’s version of a fugue state: writing thank-you notes, following up on issues that had arisen, making lists of all the things that would go better next year. It was only after the third day of alphabetizing the checklists that I realized my anxiety wasn’t about next year’s festival. It was about this new reality I’d found myself in.

Since he spent the night after the fundraiser, Dean Lockhart had become a fixture in my life, as inevitable as morning fog and evening sunsets. He’d gone with me to preschool drop-off, picked up extra groceries when I forgot, and—on a wild, uncharacteristic whim—showed up at our door one afternoon with a tray of brownies, claiming they were “leftovers” from his family dinner. I knew for a fact the Lockharts never had leftovers, especially Selma Lockhart’s double fudge brownies, but the way he slid the tray across the counter under that pretense made my heart squeeze. Dean was the kind of man who made keeping promises look effortless, who never raised his voice but could silence a room by simply standing in the doorway.

He also happened to be teaching my son to ride a horse, which was a dangerous double whammy for my already battered sense of self-preservation.

In the afternoons, I’d hear them in the corral, Dean’s voice low and steady, Maverick’s peals of delight ricocheting off the wind and through my open office window. I’d watch from my desk, trying to ignore how easy it was to imagine the three of us as a unit—a family. The word made me queasy and happy all at once. Nothing in my life had ever been exactly easy, but somehow everything in Valentine Bay seemed suspiciously frictionless.

I’d never trusted smooth sailing—not when I’d spent my life on high alert that the next betrayal was hovering just out of sight, waiting for me to let down my guard.