Unforgettable (Cloverleigh Farms #5)(39)

But I had to take her with me. “Come for me,” I growled, or maybe begged, as I dangled from the edge, losing my grip. “Come for me. Now, now, now—”

“Yes!” she cried out, her body contracting around my cock as it throbbed inside her.

I kept moving until I couldn’t anymore, until my muscles gave out, until I collapsed on top of her in complete and utter bliss. Her hands came up to my head and threaded into my hair, and we stayed just like that for a moment, our skin slick with sweat, our breath coming hard and fast, our bodies still connected.

But after a minute, I realized I must be crushing her, and I lifted my chest from her upper body. “Sorry. You okay?”

“Um, I just had two orgasms in like twenty minutes. I’m amazing. Well, you’re amazing.”

I grinned down at her. “Thanks. Want a third? Because I think I could do it.”

She laughed and swatted at my chest. “Whoa there, cowboy. This pony needs a little rest. I think you might have bruised my spleen or something.”

“Sorry.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Liar.”

“You’re right.” Rolling off her, I carefully extracted myself, kissed her shoulder, and stood up. “Be right back.”

When I returned from the bathroom a few minutes later, she was lying exactly where I left her, on her back on top of the covers, one arm across her stomach, the other above her head. Her forehead was wrinkled, like she was fretting about something. I got back on the bed and lay on my side, my head propped in my hand.

“Hey.” I tugged a strand of her hair.

“Hey.”

“That’s a serious face you’re wearing for someone who just had two orgasms in twenty minutes.”

She smiled sheepishly. “Sorry. I was just thinking.”

“For fuck’s sake, don’t do that.”

She rolled to her side and faced me. “Do you think this is crazy?”

“No.”

“Not even kind of crazy? I mean, given our history?”

“I mean, maybe a little. But I don’t think it’s bad—unless one of us has strange expectations about what it is. Wait—we don’t, do we?” Suddenly I was nervous that we hadn’t laid out the parameters before we jumped into bed.

She laughed. “You should see how scared your face is. Don’t worry, no strange expectations here. I know what this is, and it’s okay. We’re still friends.”

“Okay.” I paused. “So what don’t you know?”

“I guess I was just lying here wondering why this feels so good with you.”

“It’s supposed to feel good.”

“I know. But for me, it hasn’t always. And I’ve been working through some stuff for the last few months—well, really, if I’m honest, it’s been a lot longer than that—so I’m trying to sort of fit us into that bigger picture.”

“What do you mean?”

She reached out and brushed her fingertip over a small scar on my chest. “My therapist believes I’ve kept people, especially men, at a distance, because I don’t want to reveal my past. I’m scared of being judged for my decisions.”

“All of your decisions? Or one in particular?”

“One in particular.” She kept her eyes on my chest.

“Meaning . . . the baby?”

“Yes. Because I felt a lot of guilt about giving it up, I never let anyone get close enough to tell them about it. I purposely put up a wall—this thing that prevents me from really letting someone in. But with you, it isn’t there.”

I brushed a piece of hair off her face. “No. It isn’t.”

“I guess—I guess it’s a relief to feel like I have nothing to hide. No reason to put up the wall. You already know the deepest, darkest piece of me, the part I’ve kept concealed from everyone else, so I have nothing to feel anxious about. It freed me up to just feel . . . good.”

“So what you’re saying is, my dick isn’t just big, it’s therapeutic.”

Laughing, she gave my chest a push. “God, your ego really never quits.”

“I can’t help it. I’m around you, and I’m eighteen again.”

“But smarter. And safer.”

“Don’t forget slower and more skilled.”

She giggled. “Definitely slower and more skilled. No more rifle.”

I took her hand, and automatically, our fingers interlocked. “So I decided to go over to baseball practice tomorrow morning.”

Her eyes widened. “Really? What made you decide that?”

“I ran into Coach Dean’s son David this afternoon. Virgil had already told him I was around for the weekend, so he was making the hard sell too. He told me about this kid, a new kid—a lefty pitcher like me—who’s got a great arm but struggles with control. I thought I might go over and watch him throw a little bit. See if I can help him out.”

“I think that’s awesome. Those kids are going to love having you there.”

“Maybe. But it’s not really the kids I’m concerned about. It’s the asshole parents, the ones who’ll ask why a fuckup like me is coaching their kids.” I shrugged. “Guess you were right about me being afraid of something.”