Crazy Girl(63)

“Sorry about all that,” I said after a few moments.

“Sorry I got you in trouble,” she murmured.

Henry had attempted to reprimand me, but that was in no way Hannah’s fault. She didn’t do anything wrong. “Don’t. That had nothing to do with you. That guy’s just an asshole.”

“Yeah,” she agreed. “A lot of guys are jealous of my tot throwing skills. It’s hard being this good at something.”

I chuckled. “I have to admit you were pretty impressive. Not as good as me, but damn close.”

“Pfft. I could take you on any day,” she bantered. “If you’re lucky, I’ll give you a few pointers.”

I feigned offense with a scoff. “I was pro, ya know? No one was better than me.”

She cut her eyes at me, flirty and teasing. “Is that so?”

“You’re dating a former pro-potato thrower,” I played along.

She widened her eyes. “That kind of turns me on,” she said before drawing her lower lip between her teeth as she gazed at me seductively.

I smirked, not because what she’d said was necessarily that funny, but because she was trying to make me smile and forget about Henry-the-shithead. I appreciated the effort. Hell, I welcomed the distraction. “Is that so?” Taking a seat on the stool beside her, I pulled her seat toward me so she was between my legs.

She pouted her lips, her expression sultry. “Oh, yes. Definitely makes me hot.” Placing her hands on my legs, she glided them up to my thighs. My muscles tensed as I watched her, my shitty moment with Henry evaporating.

Playing along, I shook my head. “I’d always dreamed of going pro, and I would have been the best there ever was,” I rolled my arm obnoxiously, “but the dang shoulder injury cut me down in the prime of my rookie year.”

“Some dreams die…hard.” She shrugged as she slid her hand down and palmed my hard-on.

And just like that, my bad afternoon started to fade. In the moments that followed I had her pressed against the glass doors that led out to the back yard overlooking the water. We’d tipped the stool over, knocked a tiny painting off the wall as she held herself steady, while I devoured her neck and shoulders, tearing off what clothing I could. When I couldn’t take it anymore, I spun her around and hoisted her over my shoulder and carried her to my room where I could bury my frustration inside of her.





“I am a writer. Therefore, I am not sane.”

-Edgar Allan Poe





I gulped in air, tears stinging at my eyes, my body wrenched from the orgasm I’d just experienced. I wanted to laugh and cry all at once. This was one of those things I could never make any sense of—the urge to cry after an orgasm. What Wren had just done to me, the edge he’d slowly brought me to and sent me flying over, had been incredible. I wasn’t sad. Quite the opposite. Sometimes feeling so high and coming down from it can make a woman emotional—in a good way. In a fabulous way, actually.

We lay there for some time, skin glistened with sweat, breathless, neither of us speaking. The tension that had been coming off of him in waves had eased, but as he lay staring up at the ceiling, lazily stroking my arm, he seemed deep in thought. I didn’t ask him, even though I would have loved to have known what he was thinking at that moment, or maybe I wouldn’t. Maybe he wasn’t thinking a thing, which would have bothered me considering my mind was all over the place. Had that been as amazing for him as it had been for me? I doubted it. I imagined he’d had many women, probably far more wanton and beautiful than me. I was a masochist that way. I couldn’t help but wonder about it as we lay there naked. It was a sickness, really. But I was a woman that feared being one of many; of being mediocre; not being memorable. Out of all the things I feared in my life as a single woman, it was that one that scared me the most—to be broken down to nothing more than a lay. After a few moments, he awkwardly slid his arm underneath me and pulled me to him, spooning my body to his. My heart squeezed. Maybe the act had been simple for him—done without thought—but for me, the little things meant the most. He moved me, and I didn’t just mean physically. I liked how he just…did. He didn’t ask, and he didn’t hesitate. He wanted me close to him and he made it happen. If it had been me, I would’ve thought about it, wondered if I should ask first, and made it completely awkward. And in that, he’d added a few more points to the Wren-is-awesome score sheet. When he just acted, I didn’t have a chance to think, and there was so much relief in that. The warmth of his body enraptured me, and I was incredibly grateful I was facing away from him so he couldn’t see the way my lashes fluttered from the comfort of it.

With his free hand, he stroked my arm and body, squeezing me softly from time to time, before sliding it up my belly, between my breasts to my throat. Gently, he gripped my neck. “You’re so tiny,” he murmured, his voice gravelly. “I could choke you out with one hand.”

I laughed because I knew as terrible as his words sounded, this was most likely Wren’s best pillow talk. But I loved it, because like the man, it was anything but ordinary. “I don’t doubt that you could,” I told him. And I didn’t. He could snap me like a twig if he’d wanted to, but that’s what drew me to him—that someone so powerful could be so gentle.