Reckless(57)

Maybe she’s what I’ve needed all along.



* * *



I dry her off and wrap her in a huge towel, while those drowsy hazel eyes stare up at me.

This—her, me, us—this feels right, and I’m smiling like a fool when I toss on a pair of boxers to check on the kids, who are still asleep.

Breathing a sigh of relief that my kids are conked out, I turn in the hall and nearly bump into Tori, who’s now wrapped in her thin pink robe. I take my time admiring her long lean legs and the way the robe drapes over her hips and breasts, ignoring the twitch in my groin.

“Where you going?” I whisper.

Because it looks like she’s headed to her room.

Her soft voice is so low, I have to strain to hear her. “Thought you’d want to get to bed. Want your space. I know you have to get up early.”

I almost laugh. With my lips grazing her ear, I ask, “Is that really what you want? To sleep in your room? If it is, that’s fine, but I’d rather have you in my bed.”

She smiles against my shoulder. “Yeah?”

I pull back just far enough to look her in the eye. “Sweetness, you’re mine now, right?”

That smile tugs up further. “Yes.”

“And what happened back there…” I hook my thumb over my shoulder. “That wasn’t a late-night booty call. That was us taking the next step, which means I definitely want you in my bed.”

Every.

Damn.

Night.





33





Tori





Goosebumps line my skin even though I’m not cold. How can I be cold? Ethan’s naked body is wrapped around me—arm slung over my hips, face nuzzled against my breasts.

I stare down at his huge form nestled around me and grin.

He called me his woman.

Yeah, I’m still thinking about that, hours later in the dark.

A wave of euphoria washes over me as I let myself relish being with him like this.

In my head, I’m ticking off all the boxes…

He’s self-employed and smart and ridiculously handsome.

He adores his kids and treats his momma well.

He likes my cooking and makes me laugh.

Not to mention, he’s a rock star when it comes to sex.

Who comes twice the first time they sleep with a man? No one I know. Most of my friends fake it, go home, and ride the vibe alone.

That silly saying comes to mind: Save a horse. Ride a cowboy.

I am so down with this.

I’m blushing when I think of his obscenely large but magnificent package.

And he wields it well, as the steady ache between my thighs indicates.

Then he cuddled me, whispering sweet words and stroking my back until I passed out.

Holy fucking boyfriend lottery.

He didn’t even make me feel like an idiot for freaking out over that spider. I should’ve been embarrassed. Screaming and flailing around naked and looking like a fool. But he was so considerate and gentle, I want to cry about it now.

Here I was, thinking my sister had found the husband of the century, and I’d be shit out of luck. Yes, cognitively, I realize that luck is not preordained. It isn’t meted out at birth like tickets to a carnival ride. Ten for you and none for you, you little loser.

But if love makes you stronger, helps you feel optimistic and hopeful, pain is dysmorphic, magnifying your weaknesses and pointing out your faults. And last year was so gut-wrenching, so insistent on reminding me that I was a big, fat dumbass who failed out of college and dated other big, fat dumbasses, and I couldn’t help but wonder if my sister had been born with all the lucky genes.

It’s probably the residual hormones from those orgasms making me high—I mean, hello, I had two!—but I haven’t felt this at peace with myself in a while.

Sure, the feminist voice in the back of my head quirks an eyebrow and asks, Girlfriend, did you really need a man to feel better about yourself? But I don’t view Ethan as my savior. He’s more like the really handsome guy who gave me a ride out of my pity party.

In this fantasy, though, we’re riding a horse, and Ethan is shirtless and sweaty.

It’s my fantasy. Don’t judge.

I’m staring up at the dark ceiling, running my fingers through his thick hair, all the while ignoring how turned on I’m getting.

It’s hard not to with his warm breath brushing over my nipple and that massive redwood jutting against my leg.

The hot shower and sex relaxed me into a boneless state, but I jerked awake a few minutes ago, afraid Ethan had let me sleep in and the kids would find me in his bed.

I watch the clock, all of a sudden anxious about what happens when it goes off. You can never tell what sex is going to do a couple’s dynamic. I’m laughing to myself, thinking about some of Viv’s morning-afters.

Once, she woke up in a guy’s bed, realized he never washed his sheets because they smelled like dirty feet, and she raced out of there, never to give him the time of day again.

On an impulse, I turn my head and take a whiff of Ethan’s pillow.

Yum. Clean man and dryer sheets.

When the alarm goes off, I smile at the growly sound that rumbles through him. He leans over and smacks the clock into silence and then pulls me back to him, fitting my back to his chest.