Page 90 of Yearn

Dominic’s grin sharpened. “No. I’m going to love you until you stop feeling ruined.”

And somehow, impossibly, I believed him.

Minutes later, he led me out into the bedroom.

Both of us dripped water onto the carpet.

He sat me on the edge of the bed like I was a kid.

Then, he bent to one knee and unlaced his wet shoes, set them neatly aside, pulled off his socks with a quick, competent flick.

His clothes were off next, showcasing that amazing young, muscular body—shoulders broad, chest sculpted, every line dripping with power and youth.

My breath caught, and heat coiled low in my belly.

God, he was beautiful, almost too much to take in.

My pussy throbbed.

The aftershocks of my release hadn’t even faded, and already my body betrayed me, tightening, aching, whispering yes, yes, yes, just from the sight of him.

Even more, the domesticity of it undid me as much as anything that had happened in the shower.

It said a man had arrived in my bedroom and planned to stay.

Naked and wet, he came back to me and tugged the comforter down on the bed, then picked me up with ease.

I had no idea what would happen next, just that he planned on having us cuddle.

Minutes later after grabbing his own towel and drying himself off, he turned the lights off in the bedroom and climbed in behind me.

Mmmm.

His chest fit against my back. His arm slid around my waist and settled. His breath touched the back of my neck and made a small, involuntary shiver run through me that had nothing to do with cold.

We lay there with the wet seeping slowly into the blanket, with the room holding the after-image of steam, with my heartbeat gradually learning that I was not under attack.

This was comfort.

This was love.

Still, the mind did what the mind does.

It tried to find the dangers in this moment; it put on Scott’s face and imagined courtrooms and nosy neighbors and the ridiculous, tender evidence of a children’s book left open on a desk or him making me cum in the shower.

No. I like this. I want this. I’m not stopping anything.

My heart answered with the memory of warm syrup, of Dominic making J and Oliver laugh, of him helping me tonight when Scott would have never picked up his own kids.

A strange, quiet truth rose.

I didn’t just want this man’s mouth or his hands.

I wanted the daily, boring miracle of him—the checkboxes, the warmed syrup, the way his eyes tracked my face and the way his tongue licked my tears.

I wanted us, whatever that meant.

Anxiety rose.