Fluffy(71)

“Yes?” I say instead. It’s safer.

“You wrote, To Will, who always knows where he’s going. When I’m with you, Mallory, that’s so true. I feel like I know myself and my path better than ever. But only with you.”

I kiss him fiercely, my own words coming from his mouth a connection that closes a circuit, that completes a loop.

Slowly, with a piercing sense of being known to my core, my body joins my mind and heart with a deep presence that touches some equally tender piece of Will, because as our climaxes build, he stares into my eyes. There's more emotion in those beautiful blue-green eyes than I've seen in a lifetime of faces. Soon he's kissing my neck, his low groan meeting my soft cries as we come together.

I didn't know I could feel so integrated. So hot. So turned on.

So known.

Peaceful silence fills the air as we breathe our way back to earth.

“That was… wow.”

“Yes.”

Lifting up, he kisses the tip of my nose, eyes on mine as I stroke his back. He's in me still, hard and touching a spot that makes me shudder.

He laughs. “More?”

Reaching up, I kiss him in answer, then say, “Later.”

I expect him to pull out and move. He doesn't, instead brushing my hair around my ear, eyes taking in all the secrets of my face.

Which aren't many when I'm post-sex, in Will Lotham's arms. Sex with Will is a truth serum. I can't keep anything from him.

“I am so stupid,” he says, the last words I expect to hear.

“That was anything but stupid!”

Throaty, rumbling laughter answers me, his eyes still on mine. “Not talking about the sex.”

“Then what?”

“You.”

I squeeze my thighs. “Pretty sure I am the sex.”

“You're the whole package.”

My mouth spreads with a grin. “Thank you. You have a few nice attributes, too.” I squeeze one of them until he grins back.

With great care, Will pulls out, takes care of the condom, and gives me a fabulous view of the same ass my heels couldn't budge moments ago. Electricity finds new conduction paths along my skin as I pull the sheets and coverlet back up, burrowing under.

His eyes light up as he turns back to me, then he joins me under the covers, curling me against his chest. Some of his hair curls in irregular patterns. My nipple sticks to his rib.

Ah, Fluff.

A wave of exhaustion hits me. His breath, too, steadies as we float off. So many firsts tonight. First home-cooked meal. First lovemaking. First overnight.

Please let them all be firsts. Not lasts. I need so much more.

“Mmmmm,” he says, the sound fading with a comfort that gives my body another reason to relax. You don't breathe like that with someone you don't trust. He's here. He's falling asleep.

With me.

Will Lotham and I just made love.

And my fourteen-year-old self doesn't geek out for a single second of it.





19





Until three hours later, when Will is crashed out on my shoulder, his hand near my neck, smelling of, well–me.

The ceiling stares back at me, as if I've made it upset by looking at it for so long.

Did that really just happen? Did Will Lotham have sex with me?

More importantly: Did I have sex with him?

And is he really staying the night?

This is too easy.

Way too easy.

The spot above my heart, where ribs and cartilage form a protective cage over the strongest and most vulnerable muscle in the body, feels like someone is trapped in there, banging on the bars of a prison. Will's body spreads over me, possessive, vulnerable, his sleep so natural.

His presence so abnormal.

People have a strong need for the familiar when they're put in unknown territory. We assimilate quickly–those of us who adapt are the ones who pass on our DNA, evolutionarily. I can adapt.

I can definitely adapt to making love with Will.

Just did.

But what takes time is the mental shift. The slow comprehension that this isn't an anomaly. The new normal for me will be unfettered access to Will's naked body.

And inviting him into my own.

What is familiar, then? I'm in my own home, sure. But I need more comfort.

I need chocolate.

Now.

Peeking under the covers, I take in the sight of my naked thigh covered by Will's naked thigh. I blink. I blink again, imagining my eyes are a camera, memorializing this image. Yes, it's silly. Yes, it makes me smile.

And yes, it's perfect.

He's spending the night. Expecting breakfast. Maybe some morning nookie.

Scratch that.

Look at that body again. Did someone carve him out of ivory, soapstone, a big old chunk of solid testosterone?

Definitely some morning nookie.

The rasp of my own breath in the back of my throat is all I hear as I move my hip just so, trying not to wake him.

Midnight expeditions for chocolate when you are alone are easy. Cravings hit. Emotions overwhelm. We aim for the fix that makes the storm of impossible feelings calm down from a whirling tornado to a wind gust.

But turning to a theobromine therapist when you're stuck to your lover–the residue of Fluff mixed with other, lovelier fluids–is layered with obstacles.