I don’t know my name.
I don’t know what planet I’m on.
I don’t know if time and space exist.
All I know is the blinding hot passion that’s turning my body into a massive flaming ball of euphoria as Luca strains into me, groaning out my name as his cock twitches out his release while my orgasm rips through me.
My legs shoot straight out.
My toes curl.
My stomach drops and my nipples tingle with so much pleasure that I almost can’t stand it.
I love riding Luca’s cock.
My body has never, ever felt so sated.
Until this moment, I’ve always been the caterpillar.
But loving Luca has turned me into the butterfly.
Tears touch my eyeballs, and I let them fall as Luca sags against me. “Henri? Ah, baby. You’re crying.”
I suck in a shuddery breath that I feel in every cell of my body, but especially in the cells still cradling Luca’s cock. “Sometimes joy leaks out my eyeballs.”
He shifts until he’s holding me, dropping soft kisses to my neck and shoulder. “So that was good?”
“The utter best.”
He kisses my shoulder again. “Thank god. I thought Dogzilla was giving me the you’re doing it wrong look.”
I blink my eyes open, and then start laughing, which makes Luca suck in a breath as his cock twitches inside me.
My cat’s in the shower with us.
She loves showers. It’s a thing.
But right now, we’re getting a heavy dose of stink-eye from Dogzilla, which makes me laugh harder.
“There’s my happy girl,” Luca murmurs.
Happy?
Yes.
Definitely happy.
I don’t know how long it will last, but for this moment, I’m happy.
31
Luca
Cuddling isn’t my thing, but I spend the entire night wanting to wrap myself around Henri.
I don’t—I’m too worried I’ll irritate the allergic rash that she insists will go away in a few days—but I want to.
It’s an odd sensation.
So is the relief that comes when she rolls over in the middle of the night, finds me watching her, and then straddles me for another round of sex.
I refuse to think about what it might mean that she’s embedded herself so firmly in my life, and how much I like it, because if I think about it, I’ll start thinking I can offer her things that I’ve never thought I could offer any woman ever again. That I shouldn’t offer any woman ever again.
I’m up early the next morning, because I can’t sleep with all the plans taking shape in my head to figure out how to keep Henri safe from the world and herself while not offering her things I can’t actually give her.
A nebulous plan is taking shape, and the harder I think about it, the more I wonder if it might actually work.
Why couldn’t it work?
It’s working today. It worked yesterday. It can work tomorrow.
We’ll just take the timeline off our arrangement, and I’ll keep protecting Henri from any other assholes out there, and she’ll keep living in my house, which I will immediately get to work on finishing so it’s livable long-term, and we’ll just fall into both of us being happy and safe.
If she goes for it.
That’s the part I’m not certain about.
However, I know Henri loved the French toast from this local joint in a strip mall not far from the computer repair shop where I drop her laptop off as soon as they’re open, so I pick up an order.
Okay, fine.
I take home seven orders of French toast, because she mentioned once that she likes to reheat them in a skillet, and I want her to have her favorite French toast every day.
I might also charm the hostess into talking the chef out of his magic ingredient.
Not because anything I can make will be that good, even with the magic ingredient, but because it’s the thought that counts.
Henri’s the type of woman to appreciate the thought.
She’s sitting up in bed when I poke my head into the guest room, rubbing her hair, which is curling in all directions and making her utterly adorable. Dogzilla is nestled between her legs, dressed like a furry cowgirl already, and she opens a single eye to give me the don’t make my human unhappy or I will shred your charging cords in the middle of the night look.
I’d be concerned, except Henri’s frowning at her phone as she thumbs over the screen, and that takes priority over worrying that her cat is secretly plotting to ruin my chargers.
Henri’s eyes are puffy over the blotchy rash still staining her cheeks, and I don’t know if she’s been crying or if this is a normal post-allergic-reaction look, but she looks up, sees me, and immediately shoves the phone under the covers.
Caught.
I start to grin. “Somebody’s acting guilty.”
Her face floods with more pink, and god, I could wake up to that every day for the rest of my life.
It should be a terrifying thought, except this is Henri.
She’s the last person on earth who would ever pull the bullshit that I watched man after man pull on my mother until my early teenage years, who would abandon her family when it got too hard, or who would date me because someone paid her to.
The bigger issue will be convincing her that she can count on me.
Good thing I have a week or two to figure out the best way to suggest she stay when the season’s over.
Her nose wrinkles. “Family.”
That puts me on alert like nothing else can. “Which family?”
She mumbles something, and I narrow my eyes at her. “Your sister?”
More mumbles.
And now I’m getting irritated. “Henrietta, I forbid you to give your sister writing advice unless you’re giving her bad advice.”
Swear to god, the cat snickers.
But my bigger concern should be Henri’s narrowing eyes. “You forbid me?”
“Yep.”
Here it comes. She’s settling in for the laser beam eyes and the harping and the secret messages to her cat to hock up a hairball in my cleats.
But as soon as she gets her eyes good and narrowed, she sighs and drops back onto the pillow, scratching idly at her face. “You’re right. I shouldn’t give her advice. Because I’m telling her that everyone loves a straight-laced hero who likes to eat oatmeal for breakfast every day, occasionally forgets to use his blinker, and spends hours meditating by himself.”
“That sounds…”
“Boring and unappealing?”
“I was going to say ballsy and sexy of you.” I shouldn’t be smiling bigger, but damn if Henri being underhanded isn’t making my cock ask if she can play games with us too.
She pulls the phone out from under the covers, pausing to scratch her arms. “I need to apologize.”
“You need to come eat so you can take your medicine.”
“Are you taking care of me?”
“Yes.”
“Hm.”
“Henri, this is what friends do for each other. C’mon. Breakfast and Benadryl. Then we can discuss if you’re putting on clothes.”
She peers at me for a long moment, and I swear I can hear the questions in her head. Are we friends? Are we something more? Am I still leaving when the season is over? Are you going to hurt me?