I love it when a woman asks for exactly what she wants—and when I can give it to her. I ease out, nearly all the way, then drive back into her.
“Yes, yes, yes,” she moans, stretching her neck.
“You want me to fuck you good and hard?”
“I do, yes, I do.”
“Then let me put you on your hands and knees.”
Her eyes sparkle with dirty yeses.
In seconds we scramble around, shifting position. The beautiful woman lifts her hips, and I slide back home.
Stilling myself as her body hugs me.
Then I roam my hand up her back, grip her shoulder, and pin her in place as I fuck her deep and hard, with powerful, long thrusts that make her shake with pleasure.
She drops down to her elbows, and in seconds, she’s gasping again.
Groaning.
Then shouting my name once more.
“Oh God, yes, oh God yes,” she moans, tensing, and a climax seems to tear through her body.
That’s enough for me.
It trips my wires, and pleasure seizes me, taking me captive. I come hard.
The aftershocks radiate spectacularly through every damn cell in my body.
I dip my face, giving her a little bite on the shoulder.
“Mmm, nibble on me,” she murmurs.
I nip her once more.
She laughs lightly. It’s a great sound, and it makes me smile.
I roll to my side and ease out of her. “I’ve wanted to do that with you for more than seven years.”
She turns her gaze to me. Her eyes are etched with happiness, but it reads a little temporary. “When I woke up this morning, this wasn’t how I expected tonight to go,” she admits with a touch of sadness.
My shoulders tense. Is she about to gather her things and fly out of here? I don’t want her to go. But then, she can’t truly take off. She has nothing to wear.
Hazards of jilted bride sex, it seems.
Still, I want her to want to be here.
I didn’t expect to feel so much want. Not tonight, and not of that variety.
“I’m sure you didn’t,” I say with sympathy. That’s the reality of her day, and I can’t escape it.
Hell, she can’t truly escape it.
She was dumped on her wedding day.
My stresses are nothing compared to hers.
“But,” she adds, running her fingers down my arm, “I’m weirdly, strangely glad I’m here.”
A smile tips my lips.
All things considered, that’s as good as it gets with compliments on a day like today.
And I’ll take what I can get from her.
Oh yes, I will.
After we clean up, I bring her back to bed, nuzzling her neck. “Do you have to go?”
I hope she says no. I really want her to stay. It’s been a while. A long while. No one’s spent the night in ages, and having a woman in my arms feels too damn good.
No, that’s not it.
Having Katie in my arms feels great.
She props her head in her hand. Fear flickers across those pretty eyes—worry too. “Do you want me to go?”
I hate what she’s been through. That it may make her doubt . . . everything. “Hell, no. I want you to stay.” I can give her that much—the truth, something her slimeball of an ex couldn’t muster up.
“And I definitely want you to spend the night,” I add, even as nerves prickle along my skin.
What the hell? I’m not a guy who feels nerves. But I do with her, and I think I know why. She’s tough on the outside, using her humor as a shield, her sex appeal as a source of strength. She’s all confidence and guts, but she’s also remarkably fragile.
I don’t want to take advantage of her.
I don’t want to be the kind of guy I was raised by.
Don’t want to be the bad guy. That’s my worry—the possibility that I could hurt her.
She’s had more than enough of that lately.
“You want me to stay?” She sounds like she can’t believe her luck.
“I sure as hell do.” I sit up. “Wait, are you hungry? I haven’t fed you. I should be ashamed of myself.”
Her stomach rumbles. “I am hungry, and I want to stay.”
With a smile, I swing my legs out of bed, stare at the wedding dress in tatters on the floor, then grab a T-shirt from a drawer and hand it to her.
She pulls it on, swimming in it. “How do I look?”
“Good enough to eat again.” And that’s the truth too.
After I tug on boxer briefs, we head downstairs, where I whip up scrambled eggs.
“You can cook,” she says, whistling in admiration as she sits on a stool at the island counter.
“Isn’t that like the equivalent of saying I can put down the toilet seat? Seems a basic skill.”
She shrugs. “You’d be surprised.”
I throw her a dubious glance. “Don’t tell me Mister Jackass didn’t cook?”
“Didn’t cook. Didn’t clean either.”
I groan. Men. What is wrong with some of them? “Well, I have a person to cook for.”
She sighs softly. “Tell me more about Abby. What she’s like?”
A smile takes over my face. “Are you trying to win my heart? Asking me to talk about my little lady? Well, if you insist,” I say, with an of course I’ll go on and on shrug. “She’s feisty and snuggly and smart. She wants to get a dog, but that’s hard with me being on the road. She’d take a cat though, she says. Or a hedgehog, if that’s easier.”
“Are hedgehogs easier on the road?”
I stop, raising the red plastic spatula, wondering what the hell the answer is to that. “You know, I have no idea about the care and feeding of hedgehogs. But I know this. She wants to name it Dolly. Cat, dog, or hedgie.”
Her eyes pop. “Shut the front door. She’s a Dolly Parton fan?”
I give her a look, complete with a full-on eye roll. “As if she’d be anything but. My kid has taste, Katie.”
Katie’s eyes twinkle, and I want to keep putting that light there. “The best taste,” she says.
“No doubt. And hey, I’d still think she was the bomb even if she loved Green Day or Nickelback but whew.” I stop to wipe a hand across my brow. “Glad she does not.”
“Bless her heart,” Katie says, full-on Texas style, then her eyes sweep the kitchen and land on a framed photo of Abby on the edge of the island counter. My little bear is perched in a saddle on a pony, reins in her hands. “That is adorable. Does she want a pony too?”
“She might have mentioned it. But she says she’ll name it Mia.”
Katie tilts her head, RCA dog style. “That’s going to need a little more explanation. Not Dolly, or Cinnamon Apple or Midnight Ranger or some other very horse-like name?”
Ah, this name might open a can of worms. But what’s the harm in bringing it up? I’m not getting my kid a pony, no matter how much of a softie I am. And my kid isn’t getting a sibling from me, so the reason Abby likes the name doesn’t truly matter.
I turn off the flame, slide the eggs onto a plate. “Apparently, Mia is her dream name for a little sister. She has a half brother, so she says”—I dip into my daughter’s sassy but sweet voice—“if you won’t give me a little sister, I’ll gladly take a pony named Mia instead.”