Well Matched (Well Met #3)(77)

His laugh was a rumble. “We’re authentic. Or something.” He reclaimed the loofah and scrubbed my back gently. “One of the kids said to me a couple years ago, if your boogers aren’t black you’re doing Faire wrong.”

My laugh bounced around the shower tiles and his chuckle joined it. “Charming.”

“Teenagers are smooth.” His arms closed around me, cuddling me to his body as we let the spray rinse us off, and there was that tight feeling in my chest again. But this time it wasn’t about lust. There was nothing about this time in the shower that signaled sex. His arms stroked down mine till he reached my hands, threading our fingers together and holding on tight. I felt safe in his arms. I felt sheltered. Like nothing was going to hurt me ever again.

He felt so good I could cry. In fact, I was crying: silent tears that streamed down my cheeks and were thankfully washed away unnoticed by the shower. Being with him like this was dangerous. It was temporary. It was fake, just like everything else between us. But it felt real, and that was why it was so dangerous.

What if I said something? What if I said the words, told him I didn’t want to pretend anymore? What if I made a hole in this wall around my heart and showed him the way in? He might not want it. He would be so kind as he let me down easy, making sure I understood this was just a friends-with-benefits thing. I should be thankful, really, that someone like him would give someone like me just a little bit of his time . . .

I fought to breathe against the sob in my chest as I willed these feelings away. They were inconvenient. They were unwanted. Especially right now, while I still had him. Plenty of time to cry later.

But I should have known better. Mitch noticed everything when it came to me, and the hitch in my breathing was too obvious, especially with my back pressed to his front like this. “Hey.” He turned me around and tipped my face up to his, cradled in his hands. “What is it?”

I shook my head hard. I couldn’t do this. Not with his eyes so blue and open and staring down at me like I could hold his heart in my hands. But to my horror the words spilled out before I could stop them. “I know this isn’t real. But I don’t care.” I reached up, holding his face in my hands the way he held mine, as though this could anchor us together. As though reality couldn’t intrude on what we shared right here and now. “I don’t care,” I said again. “I just want . . .”

“Are you kidding?” He kissed me deeply, thoroughly, his tongue laying claim to my mouth while his hands laid claim to my body. “What about this feels fake to you?” He turned us carefully, moving us in a slow, intimate dance until my back was against the porcelain shower wall. “Do you feel this?” He took my hand and curled it around his cock, hot, hard, and growing harder as I touched him. “Does this feel real to you?” He encouraged me to stroke him as his hand delved between my legs, doing some stroking of his own.

“Yes,” I gasped, moving against his hand, unable to think.

“I’m not sure.” I could barely hear his voice over the spray of the water and the haze of pleasure that had taken over my senses. “Maybe I’m not doing a good enough job of convincing you here.” He took his hand away, but before I could protest he’d lowered himself to his knees in front of me, hands stroking up my legs to grasp my hips, and my hands went flat to the shower wall as he let me know with his mouth, his tongue, and some very well-placed fingers just how real this all was. I shattered into a million pieces in that shower, doubts spiraling out of control and away, more tears mixing with water that was starting to grow cool. Something in my heart broke as well, taking a sledgehammer to that wall that had encased it, kept it safe for all these years, leaving nothing but dust in its wake.

How was I going to put it back together?



* * *



? ? ?

Much, much later, I was curled up on the couch in my favorite yoga pants. Right before dinner had been delivered Mitch had pulled on a pair of gray sweats that he’d taken from the duffel bag he’d optimistically tossed in the back of his truck. I recognized that duffel from our weekend away and that knowledge warmed me, made me feel like we had a shared history that we were building together. Condoms, an overnight bag . . . he’d definitely come prepared tonight.

But now, full of spicy Thai noodles and with every muscle in my body relaxed, I indulged in a full-body stretch while Mitch channel surfed, looking for a movie we could pretend to watch. A yawn slipped out of me, long and languid and completely unexpected. I slapped a hand over my mouth, embarrassment heating my cheeks. But Mitch just tugged me closer against him, kissing the top of my head and encouraging me to rest against his chest. One hand stroked through my long-since-unbraided hair, over and over in a hypnotic rhythm.

“Long day.” I felt his voice against my ear as much as I heard it, and I nodded.

“You don’t have to stay if you need to get home.” I blinked heavily, embarrassed that I was practically dozing in his arms. God, give me a couple of orgasms in quick succession, followed by carbs, and I was out for the night. Some exciting date I was.

“What?” He looked down at me, brushing a lock of hair off my forehead. “You don’t want me to stay?”

“No, I do. Just . . .” I didn’t know how to put this. How was I supposed to ask when he was meeting someone next? What woman’s name was in his phone for tomorrow morning? For Monday? I had no right to ask, but it was all I could think about. “No early morning appointments tomorrow?” There, that was as obvious as I dared.