Page 91 of Married in Michigan

“I’m with you, Paxton,” I breathe, still orgasming so hard it’s difficult to form words.

He nuzzles the side of my throat, and I breathe in his scent, feel his shoulders moving, feel the slow rough desperate slide of him through my juddering, squeezing core, feel his hard hips slam again mine, feel his powerful arms around me, sheltering me, feel his breath on my skin, feel him give me all of him—heart, soul, body, giving himself to me in way I didn’t know was possible, in a way I never anticipated anyone giving himself to me.

He doesn’t say it—and I’m glad. It would have been too much. I couldn’t have handled that, not on top of the intensity of this.

I see it, though. It’s in his melting golden-brown eyes as they meet mine, in every line of his face, in the way he goes weak and limp as our mutual climax fades, leaving us shaken and shaking.

He collapses on me, and I hold him there, heels hooked around the back of his knees, fingers tracing lazy circles on his back as he gasps against my breasts.

“Makayla,” he whispers.

“Ssshhhh,” I whisper, stroking his hair. “Let it be.”

“Crushing you,” he mutters.

I can’t help but kiss his temple. “Yes. I love it.”

He’s buried inside me, still, and I won’t let him move. “I don’t want to fall asleep on you, but I just might, in about ten seconds.”

I brush his hair away from his temple, scratch his back. “You can. I’d like it if you did.”

He inhales deeply, breathing me in. “Never felt this way before. Not even close.”

“Me either.”

“Don’t hurt me, Makayla,” he whispers. “You’re getting a part of me I’ve never opened up for anyone before. Scares the shit out of me.”

I don’t quite sob, but it’s a near thing. “Same.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” I say, laughing-sobbing-whispering.

I cradle him to me, and our breathing synchs, and his weight is a crushing burden I love more than anything, and I feel him fall asleep, and I drift off myself.

20

Iwake alone in the big bed, naked, cold from dried sweat, on top of the blankets, sore between my thighs and aching with a renewed need.

A soft, mournful song is being played on the piano.

I lie, listening for a few moments, and then rise, not bothering with clothing. Follow the music to the piano.

Paxton—white basketball shorts, shirtless, muscles gleaming and moving in the dim light, eyes closed, fingers moving on the keys with effortless grace. He plays a simple song, sad and slow. He leans forward, head bowing, playing with deep emotion.

I stand behind him, listening as he plays.

After a few minutes, the song ends, and his fingers come to rest on the keys, stilling.

I settle my hands on his shoulders; move to stand flush against his bare spine. He rests his head against my belly, and my hands splay now on his chest.

“That was beautiful,” I whisper.

“Thanks.” He doesn’t move. “I composed it.”

“Really?”

A nod. “I discovered piano sophomore year of high school. Sort of by accident.”