A Lie for a Lie (All In, #1)(29)

Sure, the house we all grew up in was big, with lots of places to sneak off to—barns are decent places to make out in, if you can get over the smell. And animals don’t generally rat you out—unless you happen to kick over a bucket and it lands in a cow stall, scaring the crap out of them.

Even with the challenges I faced in the dating world, I went out with a guy who had his own place for a while. That proved helpful in expanding my sexual repertoire and putting theory into practice; however, based on my most current experience, that guy wasn’t all that great in bed. Certainly not as giving, skilled, or well endowed as RJ.

Suffice it to say, I don’t put up a fight the next morning when RJ suggests we get the rest of my things and bring them back to his place. But first we have more sex. And then a shower, which leads to more sex. I can see how that particular location might be a little dangerous with someone who isn’t as strong or agile as RJ.

Being intimate with someone who is in such amazing physical condition is pretty fantastic. Not only can he pick me up and carry me around like I weigh as much as a bag of potatoes, he can also hold me up—with the help of the shower wall—and give me an orgasm. It’s extraordinary.

He’s rather extraordinary, really.

After last night there’s a shift between us. It feels like we’re connected in ways beyond intimacy.

We make a quick breakfast, get the rest of my personal effects from my crappy cabin, and return to his place. And yes, we have more sex. Actually, that’s pretty much all we do for the rest of the day. That and eat. I wander around in one of his button-down plaid shirts, and he wanders around in his boxer briefs—my request, obviously.

I’ve never had a fling before, and I’m aware that’s what this is. He lives in New York, and I live in Washington. He has to run an alpaca farm, and I have to finish my master’s and get a job, eventually—or start my PhD, whichever makes more sense.

So I try not to worry about what will happen when I go back home. Instead, for the first time in my life, I just let myself enjoy the time I have with RJ and hope that my heart can handle it. I also enjoy sex with him. A lot. So that helps too.



Days bleed into each other as RJ and I settle into a routine. We make meals together and go boating almost every day, and I even manage to work on my thesis paper. His internet reception is far superior to what mine was, so I’m actually able to get quite a bit done . . . all things considered. As the days on the calendar count down to his impending departure, everything that doesn’t involve spending time with him takes a back seat.

A few days before he’s supposed to go home, RJ changes his plans. My ticket is open ended, and he doesn’t have any obligations until the middle of July, so he suggests that he stay longer. My heart skips a few dangerous beats at the thought of more time with him. I’m so attached to him already, and this is only going to make it that much harder when we have to leave. But I’ll take a bruised heart in exchange for more time, and he delays his departure so we both leave closer to mid-July.

Two weeks before we’re supposed to fly back to Seattle, we run out of condoms. It’s not really a surprise, considering how quickly we’ve been going through them. We’re in the kitchen, making coffee and toasting bagels, me in my favorite uniform—one of RJ’s flannel plaid shirts—and him in his boxer briefs.

He reaches over me, erection poking me in the hip as he grabs two mugs from the cupboard above my head. He sets them in front of me, moves my hair aside, and presses a wet kiss to my neck. He follows that with the gentle scrape of teeth.

“RJ.” It’s more moan than warning.

“How am I supposed to resist you, especially when I know there’s nothing under that shirt.” His fingers dip beneath the hem and skim along bare skin. I bat his hand away, spin to face him, and put a palm on his chest. Not that it’s much of a deterrent, since I hum in appreciation instead of pushing him away—and brush my thumb over his nipple. In the short weeks RJ and I have had to explore each other’s bodies, I’ve discovered that his nipples are a hot zone. So are his neck and the V of muscle at his hips, leading to the hottest hot zone of all.

He grabs me by the waist, picks me up, and deposits me on the counter. His palms curl over my knees.

“It’s been, what, two hours?” I drag my nails down the side of his neck and relish his low groan.

“Two hours too long. I’m going through withdrawal.” He puts pressure on the insides of my knees, a silent request to let him in.

I spread my legs, my appetite for him as voracious as his is for me. “We need to go to town.”

“We will, but breakfast and orgasms first, and not necessarily in that order.” RJ slides his warm, rough palms up my thighs, biting his lip as he pushes the flannel up, exposing me. I’m already wet. It’s pretty much perpetual with RJ. “Fuck, Lainey.”

“Not until after we go to town.” The statement comes out a little breathless—but also with conviction. I internally pat myself on the back for being responsible.

RJ rests his forehead against mine. “I could just slip it in there for a couple of strokes, like two or three. That’d be okay, right?”

I snort a laugh. It’s definitely not a becoming sound at all. And it turns into a moan when RJ pulls his boxer briefs down and rubs the head of his erection along the inside of my thigh.