Page 50

I don’t know if she’s made time to see him on the nights I’ve been at work, but every morning when I get home, she’s here. And if she’s in her room, her door’s cracked open just enough for me to peek in and make sure she’s okay. I like to think she does that for me.

“So, what movie did you pick?” she asks, shifting the conversation.

“Uh—” I glance at the screen. “ Love in Disguise .”

Truthfully, I don’t even remember picking it. Not when she smells like that, not when she’s curled in close, pressing into my side like she wants me to hold her.

Does she want me to hold her?

I can’t tell.

Fuck, I wish she’d tell me what she wants.

Casually, I drape my arm along the back of the couch, not touching her but leaving the space open, an invitation. A test. She hesitates for half a second before shifting closer, pressing into me, her knees brushing my hip as she settles in.

And hell if that doesn’t make me want to pull her in completely.

I press play on the remote and try to focus, but I don’t see a damn thing.

All I smell is her. All I can focus on is how it feels to be touching her after so long.

My mind races with the last time I had her against the damp grass outside of our home.

The way I settled between her legs. The way her pussy gripped me as she came.

I try to remember the way her cunt smelled and tasted when I had her in my bed, the soft moans that she released, and I kick myself for not touching her more.

The only sound I can really process right now is her breathing, steady and even as she watches the screen.

The candle that I’ve lit every night since she came home flickers in the corner of the room, glowing warm and golden against her skin despite the early summer heat.

I picked them up when she was in the hospital because they made me think of her.

The scent rightly called Honeysuckle Cowgirl. I wonder if she knows it’s for her.

“Are you warm enough?” I ask, my voice quiet though no one else is around. I try not to look at her bare legs, peeking out from beneath that oversized t-shirt, but I fail miserably, and my gaze tracks the curve of her thighs down over her calves and end on her painted toenails.

“Yes,” she whispers as the opening credits roll.

But I still can’t focus. I think it’s a funny scene. I think I’m supposed to laugh because I hear her soft chuckle, but all I can process is the way she just shifted even closer without a word. She’s touching my ribs now, barely, but I feel it across my heart.

My fingers flex behind the couch. Then unflex. Then flex again.

I want to touch her so badly I can hardly sit still.

I don’t know what to say, don’t know what to do, because my entire body is attuned to hers. I barely register the movie as the scene changes, but then she shifts again. And this time—this time her knees are practically in my lap.

“Regan…”

She looks up at me, tilting her head slightly, a soft, easy smile on her lips. “Mhm?”

My heart pounds. My restraint is hanging by a thread. I’ve been so damn patient following her lead, and I’m about to blow it if she says no.

“Would you like me to hold you?”

She bites down on her bottom lip, like she’s nervous to ask, and it’s the cutest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.

Her big blue eyes are even prettier up close, and all I want to do is brush the hair from her cheek, trail my fingers along the soft skin of her neck, press my lips to hers and devour that pout. But I need to wait.

“Yeah,” she whispers, voice barely audible over the low hum of the TV. “I think I’d like that.”

Hell yes. This is what I’ve been waiting for.

My hands settle on her hips, gentle, careful, lifting her easily into my lap so her back is pressed against my chest while I lean back. She melts into me, head resting against my shoulder, body fitting into mine like she belongs there.

I tighten my arms around her waist, holding her close. Her t-shirt rides up as she shifts, and my hands find their way to the soft, bare skin of her thighs to keep her in place while I tell myself not to get hard and, ah, fuck.

I shouldn’t touch her like this. I shouldn’t need to touch her like this.

But I do.

I squeeze lightly, just enough to ground myself, but then I feel it—the way her breath catches, the way her chest rises and falls just a little quicker.

She shifts again, and the fabric of her shirt rides even higher.

She’s practically dry humping my cock now and since he hasn’t had much action, I’m already halfway hard.

My hands glide with her movements, sliding over smooth, heated skin, and—What the hell?

She’s bare.

No underwear.

My brain short-circuits. My body locks up. She’s sitting on my lap in nothing but a t-shirt.

And now I’m completely hard.

She must feel it; there’s no way not to now.

“Regan,” I whisper, my lips closer to the shell of her ear, breathing her in, letting the warmth of her skin pull me under. “Are you wearing underwear under this shirt?”

She smiles. Slow. Knowing.

“No.”

My grip tightens. “Why?”

She wets her lips, blue eyes dark and heavy-lidded. “Because I want you to touch me.”

Fuck.

I hesitate for only a second before I’m moving, flipping her onto her back, hovering over her as she lands against the couch with a soft gasp. Movie be damned, we’re doing this tonight.

Her t-shirt is bunched up at the sides, exposing bare, soft skin, but I barely process anything past the sight of her legs parting, one foot dropping to the floor the other to the back of the couch as she opens for me. Her soaked, glistening pussy is right there, waiting, begging.

She lifts her leg off the floor, raises her knee up to her chest before dropping it to the side, falling open further, and I swear I forget how to breathe.

“Fuck me,” I murmur, voice thick, throat tight.

She looks up at me, cheeks flushed, dark, red hair wild against the cushions, blue eyes shining like she knows exactly what she’s doing to me. And damn, I want nothing more than to taste her, to spread her open and devour her, to have her coming all over my face, my tongue, my hands—

“Are you sure?” I rasp, my restraint barely hanging on.

She nods. No hesitation.

“Yes.”