A tremor ran through her, and she barely pushed the word, “Yes,” out of her throat.
He slid inside, going deep, one hand clutching her hip. And then, he started to move. Slow, easy strokes, with the other hand caressing her back, rounding her ass cheek, and dipping into her crack. Over and over, he took the same route, making her feverish with need.
He leaned forward, his chest to her back, and he whispered in her ear, “You feel so fucking good.” Angling her higher, he reached between her legs and circled her clit.
A bolt of lightning tore through her, and she sizzled.
“You smell good.” Voice still at her ear, he thrust into her, faster now, his body heating up. “You taste good.” And then he was fucking her so hard, he drove her up the bed with each punishing stroke. She had to flatten her palms against the headboard to keep from slamming into it.
She wished she had a mirror. She wanted to place the grunts and dirty words with his expression. But pure erotic bliss took possession of her mind and body, and she could only concentrate on the tightening, rising sensations, lifting her toward a perfect state of bliss. And then he stroked her into a climax that flung her into a whole other world where she was no longer skin and bones. She soared into a realm of pure ecstasy.
“Oh, fuck. I’m gonna come.” Slamming into her, hips punching, he lost his rhythm, lost his finesse, and he shouted with his release. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
Finally, his grip relaxed, and he slowly eased out of her. When he fell to her side, she got to see his sweaty, tired, and deeply satisfied expression. She wanted to curl up in his arms. Wanted to stay with him.
She never wanted this intimacy to end.
But she didn’t know his limit. Yes, he was into sex with her. But did he normally hook up with women at their place, so he could be the one to leave? Or did he pat them on the ass, thank them for a good time, and ask them to go?
“Hey.” He brushed the air off her face, cupping her cheek. “What’s going on?”
She could vomit her insecurities and doubts all over him. Yeah, that would be fun. Or she could keep the game going so they’d do it again.
Yes, that one.
So, she smiled. “Just thinking how it’s my turn to ask the next favor. And you can bet it’s going to be a good one.” It took everything she had to swing her legs off the bed and get up. “’Night.”
* * *
Coffee.
Sliding her feet into shearling flip flops, Phinny headed down the hallway. Seemed ridiculous to hold onto these old things, considering the heel and toes of the footbed had totally worn away. She’d have to get some new slippers. Why did she cling to her old designer clothes anyway?
The closer she got to Declan’s room, the more anxious she grew. Last night, she’d told herself he was crossing some kind of line, breaking through an intimacy barrier. But the truth was…she was making it up. She didn’t know how he felt because he didn’t reveal anything.
I’m the one falling for him.
So hard.
And walking away was going to hurt. But what choice did she have? Even if they fell madly in love with each other, she couldn’t stay in Calamity. She supposed she could find a philanthropy that needed help with auctions. Glori could probably help her with that, but she wasn’t about to be stranded out here on this godforsaken—
Oh. She’d done it again. Spewed her mum’s words when anyone could see this ranch was beautiful, lush, and vibrant. In any event, she couldn’t stay here, and he couldn’t move to England. There’s no hockey.
She hoped it wouldn’t be awkward this morning, that he wouldn’t worry about her becoming clingy. Ha.
I want to cling to him like a spider monkey.
Well, she’d just have to keep faking it, pretend she was cool, just like she’d been doing. As she passed his room, she found the door wide open, and the bed made. Looks like he got an early start today.
She headed downstairs, mindlessly reaching for the doorknob of Kurt’s private office as she passed—only it turned.
What?
This entire time, it had been locked. Declan didn’t have the key. Even Mitch, the ranch manager, didn’t have it. She stood there wondering who’d opened it. Can I go in? I won’t touch anything. I just want to take a peek.
A shadow fell over her, making her shiver. It almost felt like Kurt was in there, and she was a little girl all over again. Oh. Oh, God. She remembered.
“Phinny? Is that you?”
The visceral memory hit so hard, she closed her eyes to see it more vividly.
She didn’t know how old she’d been, but she’d worn a white eyelet nightgown, her feet bare on the cool, wood floor. She remembered it was dark in the hallway, and she’d been drawn by the golden line of light underneath the door. Her heart had knocked against her ribcage as she’d turned the doorknob and peered in to find her father at his desk, glasses on, reading a computer screen.
He yanked his glasses off with one hand. “What’s up, buttercup?”
“Daddy, I can’t sleep.”
Daddy. Sorrow wrenched her heart. She’d called him daddy. God.
As he’d rolled his chair back, he’d crooked a finger, inviting her to come in. She’d rounded the big desk and stood before him, arms held high, waiting for him to pick her up.
He’d lifted her onto his lap. “Do you want to finish that drawing you were working on this morning?”
She’d nodded, and he’d swung them around to his credenza where he kept art supplies for her. Play-dough, markers, crayons, all kinds of paper—construction, sketch, notepad—and colored pencils. He had a little tub of Elmer’s paste. She remembered that the lid had a stick attached to it.
She’d sat on his lap, hunched over the drawing, while he’d gently scratched her back.
Love burst through the dam, spilling into her veins, flooding her very soul.
Daddy.
She hadn’t hated him. He’d never been too busy for her.
She’d loved him.
Her hand flew off the doorknob as if it had been burning hot. And then she hurried to the kitchen.
The scent of fresh coffee filled the house, and she was surprised to see a French press on the counter next to two mugs and a cream and sugar set. Declan didn’t drink coffee, so someone was here. Well, this isn’t for me. She’d make her own.
But she was still rattled by the memory, so before coffee, she needed to get outside, breathe in fresh air, and get her chores done. Kicking off her flip flops, she jammed her bare feet into rubber boots, stepped outside into the chilly early morning air, and grabbed the baskets from the barn.
“Good morning, beautiful.” The chickens didn’t run from her anymore. They didn’t cluck and get in a tizzy—probably because she was calm with them now. As she collected the eggs in the comforting darkness of the coop and the soft cooing of the hens, the memory came back to her. Sitting on his lap, his fingertips scratching just as she’d liked, she could recall a feeling of well-being. She’d been comfortable with him. Why had she suppressed those good memories?
Oh, God. She knew.
Of course, she knew.
Phinny set the basket down and headed outside into the sunlight.
Her mum wanted her to be a good girl for Andrew.
She’d wanted her to wear a dress, brush her hair, put in barrettes.