Page 22 of Maverick (The Bull Riders #3)

“Are you distancing me on purpose?” She looks at me.

I’m not doing anything on purpose. I’m not doing it on accident, either. It’s all just kind of happening.

I turn toward her, and then she’s right there.

Right within kissing range, and it’s difficult for me to resist cupping her cheek.

So I do it. I drag my thumb along her cheekbone, let myself trace the line of her lips.

I learn the shape of them. She’s beautiful.

It’s hard not to compare her to Sadie. Not because I think anyone compares to my wife, and not because I need to think about her, necessarily, but because that’s just the nature of things when it’s been so long since you’ve had a new partner.

I was with Sadie for five years, which means it’s been a whole decade since I took someone other than her to my bed.

It’s been that long since I kissed lips that were unfamiliar. Since I had to navigate the delicate balance of taking a new partner to bed.

And it is a balance.

You have to figure them out. You have to take care of them. You have to work out that whole process.

I’m out of practice.

And back then, every time I slept with someone, I thought it could go somewhere.

Even though I didn’t have a goal of falling in love and getting married necessarily, I hoped I might.

I had this dream that I could meet somebody, and that it would fix me.

That it would pull me up out of the mire that my childhood had left me in.

That the right woman would make me into a better man, and that happened.

Now I know, though, you can’t leave it up to somebody else to fix you. Because the problem is that when they go away – and inevitably they will – you lose all that fixing. All you’re left with is a mess. A huge mess.

All the fragments that you ever had, all the broken parts and pieces. All the ruin.

I would never put that on her. I don’t believe in it, not now.

Not anymore.

So it’s more than just her being a new partner. I’m a whole new person. I want to touch her. Want to taste her. Want to have her again. Want to gorge myself on her as many times as possible. But it’s different. Different than the way that I looked at things before, because I’m different.

She’s the one who doesn’t have experience. She’s the one who’s only in her twenties, I should feel like I know exactly what I’m doing, but I don’t.

Mainly because I lost my mind somewhere back at her cottage, I should never have kissed her. I should never have taken it this far. Twice. Now I’m sitting on the couch with her, touching her face, dreaming about making it happen again. I shouldn’t be doing that either.

It is foolish, and yet here I am.

I’m a fool, apparently. Not a huge surprise.

But you would think there’d be some perk to being the thirty-five-year-old here. I’m not feeling it.

She’s the one who kisses me. Slow and exploring.

I should push her away. I don’t. Instead, I pull her close.

Kiss her. And kiss her. Like I have nothing else to do, nowhere else to be.

I pull her onto my lap, taking the kiss deeper, pushing my fingers through her hair.

I can’t remember the last time I just made out with somebody.

Maybe when I was sixteen? It’s been a long time.

Just kissing for the sake of it. Learning the shape of her mouth.

Tasting her. Swallowing down her cries of pleasure.

She arches her back against me, and I push my hand up underneath her top.

The thrill of getting to second base grabbing hold of me.

I’m not even sure I know who I am. I feel like a young idiot.

I certainly don’t feel seasoned or experienced.

I don’t feel bleak and wounded, and I’m comfortable with bleak and wounded.

I’m not comfortable with this. The sharp thrill of desire that rocks me as I continue to kiss her.

The deep desire that overtakes me as I rub my thumb over her nipple, pinch her lightly.

She wiggles against me, moves so that she’s straddling me.

I take her top off, I can’t help it. I hold onto her face as I kiss her, and she rolls her hips against me.

Panting as she rubs herself on me, chasing release even with those pajama pants on.

I move my fingers through her hair, kiss her neck, kiss her down to her breasts, where I suck one nipple deep into my mouth. My whole world is reduced to this.

The feel of her body on mine, those soft breasts under my lips, the panting sounds she’s making as she continues to ride me, rolling her hips toward the peak of pleasure.

If there was anything else before this, I don’t remember it now.

If there’s going to be something else after this, I don’t particularly care.

What I want is her. What I want is this. Everything, all of it. All the time.

The movie is still on, but neither of us are watching it. There’s no condom here, and I’m not in a rush to go get one. I just want to play with her. To explore her body.

And so I do. I tease her, pinch her, and she arches her hips forward, shuddering hard. I slide her off my lap, onto the floor, taking her pajama pants off as I move between her legs and start to devour her.

I hold her down there on the floor as I lick that slick crease of hers, take my time learning the shape of her. The flavor.

I’m fascinated by her lips. Whether they be above or below. And learning the shape of a new partner is a joy I have been deprived of for a very long time.

So I indulge myself. Until she’s begging me to stop.

Until I’m so hard it hurts. I move my hand into my sweatpants, taking care of myself while I keep on pleasuring her.

I come on a hot rush, just as she does again, and then I press my forehead against the carpet.

I’m dizzy. I really can’t remember the last time I did that.

Got myself off in a rush instead of going all the way with my partner.

I mean, I’ve done it by myself plenty of times in the last few years. I’m a hand job king, much to my chagrin.

But this…

It doesn’t feel innocent. Doesn’t feel like youthful games. It should. Instead, it feels like something sharper. More intense. That we couldn’t even be bothered to get a condom.

She just lies there on the carpet, unmoving. I pick her up and put her back on the couch. Wrap her back up in that blanket. That movie is still playing. I’ve lost the plot completely.

I’ve lost the plot completely.

That phrase plays itself over and over in my mind until the credits roll.