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"I'm fine," he says. Thankfully, his tone isn't angry, but there's a finality to it.
"Grace is quite the kid," I say, and it makes him beam.
"She is, isn't she? She's running me ragged. She’s very bright — way too bright for her age. Gets her into trouble at pre-school. In fact, sometimes I thinkshe'sthe one in charge around here." Pride lights up his voice and his whole face, but lurking beneath it, a shadow flickers. "Sometimes I get scared I won't be enough for her. That she'll grow up missing her mom too much. Especially when she hits her teenage years—I'm scared she'll go through that phase where she feels like she can't talk to me. That she'll pull away, no matter how hard I try."
"Yeah, I understand. I was a teenage girl once—it was probably pretty awful for my aunt and uncle." I shake my head and shudder, which makes him laugh. "However far she pulls, as long as she knows how much you love her, she'll always come back."
He nods. His expression softens, completely defenseless for the first time since I've known him. It catches me off guard and hooks whatever words I was about to say in my throat. Those eyes of his—deep, hypnotizing, breathtaking—pull me in.
Without thinking, I lean forward and brush my lips against his.
His breath hitches, and the realization of what I have done crashes over me. Horror floods through me.Oh God.
"I'm so sorry," I blurt. "I wasn't thinking, I didn't mean to?—"
But the words never finish. His hand slides around the back of my neck and pulls me in, sealing his mouth over mine.
My pulse spikes as I kiss him back, hunger and heat spiraling fast. He groans into my mouth, all desperation and need. The kiss is deep and drugging, his tongue moving with a slow, consuming heat that still somehow feels urgent.
He draws me closer until I'm climbing into his lap, his hand gripping my waist, then sliding up my back—touching me like I'm something precious.
He traces lines across my skin with his fingers, then follows with his mouth, murmuring about the softness of my skin against his lips. My skin tingles everywhere he touches, his slow teasing making me ache with desire. I can taste his need, feel the wild rush of it, his heartbeat thudding against mine.
His hand tightens at the back of my neck, and I shift to reach down and cradle his erection in my hands.
His hot breath hisses into my mouth as I squeeze and caress the length of his rigid cock.
"Please," I whisper between kisses. "I want you to take me. Now. Please." I don't care what happens after—I need him…now.
He groans again, pulling his lips from mine and trailing kisses down my neck—nipping, sucking, awakening nerves I didn't even know I had. I'd expected that when it finally happened between us, it would be wild and urgent, a flash of heat and hunger. But he's taking his time, like he's memorizing me with his hands and mouth.
At least that's what I think—until he suddenly pushes me back, his muscular body hovering over mine. A rush of pleasure steals my breath as his mouth moves lower and his fingers make quick work of my shirt, practically tearing off my bra.
"Oh God," I choke out, the sensation of his mouth on my nipple sending a jolt straight through me. His touch trails fireacross my skin. His fingers slip beneath my panties, finding me wet and aching, and he begins to stroke me slowly—his eyes locked onto my own the entire time.
The connection between us hums like a live wire, my pleasure rising fast and fierce. I can barely breathe.
But I don't want to cum alone. I don't want to break the connection between us.
I want him inside me.
I drag at his shirt, pulling him down until he's pressing me into the bed. My fingers fumble at his jeans, urgency drowning out everything else. I want him more than I want my next breath.
When he finally slides into me—slow and deliberate—it's a perfect ache of pleasure and pressure. And in that moment, I think I may never stop wanting him.
CHAPTER 22
Lennon
My body's heavy. Relaxed. Spent. Mission accomplished, and now I don't want to move.
We lie beside each other in silence, and I enjoy the sensation of her warm softness next to me, the gentle sound of her breath, the rise and fall of her breasts, but my brain won't shut up. Is this when the guilt's supposed to hit? I figured I'd feel like shit—like I lost control, gave in to the one thing I swore I wouldn't.
She hasn't even been here a month, and already I have failed. I told myself there'd never be anyone after my wife. But the second temptation showed up, I caved.
I should feel like the worst kind of asshole. Like I betrayed Georgia. Like I failed her memory. I should be picturing her face—imagining what she'd think if she could see me now, in bed with someone else.
I should be a mess. Angry. Guilty. Torn up.