The Plan (Off-Limits Romance, #4)(45)

I grin. “I took a massage class in Chicago. Just for fun.”

I rub a few key spots a little more, then move up to the area around his shoulderblades. As soon as I start rubbing there, I feel him flinch. His body tenses under mine, and he lets out another moan.

“Most people carry tension here…”

He grunts, and I let myself have at the sore muscles around his shoulderblades, and then move up, toward his neck and shoulders.

“Jesus…”

“Someone’s really tense…or slept wrong.”

“Offh.”

I giggle, and his hips flex under mine. “I can feel your heat against my back,” he rasps against my pillow. I rub against him, and he groans. “Fuck. Making me hard…”

I trail a hand back down his flank, then nudge up under him. Gabe shifts over on his side, and I move to lie down and face him. He looks sleepy, smiling as I stroke his abs and drag my hand down toward the bulge that’s straining his fly.

“Oh, fuck.”

“What a dirty mouth you have, Mr. McKellan…”

I unbutton his pants, unzip them, and coax his hard cock out of his briefs, into my hands. “I think I have one, too.”

I suck him into my mouth—because I want to. Because I want to feel his hips shift as I take him deeper, feel him flex his lower back when his balls start to draw up. I like his fingers in my hair, his precum on my tongue, the way his cock swells even more right at the end, before he comes. I think I even like the way my eyes water as I breathe around his hard girth.

What I like the best, though?

After he comes, I wrap an arm around his hips, feeling unsure, as I do it, if it’s too much. Too intimate for what we’re doing. Too familiar.

He doesn’t move, though, for a while—and then I notice that his abs are moving rhythmically below my cheek. And I glance up, and find his eyes are shut.

Oh goodness.

You know that Instagram account hotdudesreading? There should be one called hotguyssleeping. There is nothing like a big, bulky, sleeping hot guy. One in your bed? Better than Christmas.

I cover Gabe up like he did for me last night, and I go make some loaded baked potatoes. When he’s still asleep, I think of tidying the living room, but honestly? I’m sleepy, too. I had a long day at work, including a pregnant mom bring her two-year-old in for a check up and mention her baby wasn’t moving. I sent her straight to the hospital, where it turns out, she lost the baby.

I feel as tired as Gabe looked. It’s cold outside, and I hear rain hitting the roof above us. I want nothing more than to snuggle up behind him, press my back to his, the way we used to, years ago, and fall asleep. When he wakes up, he’ll probably leave like last night. And you know what? That’s okay. We don’t have to have sex every day. We’re not machines.

I tell myself, as I snuggle against him, that I don’t care if this is inappropriate. What’s appropriate, anyway? I’ve lived through thirty-three years. I feel like I should get to just say “fuck it” to appropriate. We’re not doing anything wrong. We’re not hurting anyone. And if it’s weird to snuggle up to your ex-husband, with whom you’re trying to make a baby, if it’s weird to just enjoy his weight and warmth behind you…maybe I need weird.

My whole life, I’ve tried to do things right. Make the “right” choices. Do the “right” thing. And now I wonder: What’s so wrong with doing what feels good?

I open my eyes sometime much later to a darkened room—and a warm pressure between my legs. A few more blinks, a few more lines of thought, and I realize…I’m pressed against the back of Gabe. I’ve got my leg between his legs. I’ve got my arm around his hips.

Oh God, it feels delicious—and I’m pretty sure I dreamed of sex, because right now, I feel so empty. It’s this clenchy, full-but-empty feeling…

I press myself against his ass and freeze when Gabe groans. His abs tighten underneath my palm.

I smile. “Hi…” I glide my palm over the ridge of his hip and stretch my fingers lower, where I find him long and stiff and gloriously bare.

I grip him just under his warm, smooth head and tweak under the rim rim, and Gabe rewards me with a soft grunt. I trail my fingertips down his thick rod and grip him at the bottom, pumping a few times before I need more. I urge him onto his back, where I can pump him with one hand and tease his balls with my other.

When my hand comes underneath them, fingers brushing lightly, he grits, “God…”

I rub my hand up his length as I tug. “Does it feel good?”

“Too good,” he groans. “Keep that up, I’m gonna come before I get inside.”

And so of course I want to keep it up. I wrap my fingers around his long, thick shaft, tracing the rim of his head, then stroking back down until I feel the puffy bulge below. Oh God, Gabe his the biggest balls: so full and heavy. My pussy clenches every time I feel them draw up underneath my touch.

I grip his shaft—as much of it as I can—and start to jack him off with firm, fast strokes. I move from right below the rim down to the base and then back up, caressing his head, where I feel tiny drop of moisture at the slit, and then back down, where I tug on his balls and Gabe’s arm comes over mine.

“Oh, fuck.” He shifts his hips, thrusting into my hand. I wrap my fingers around the top of his taut sac and give a gentle tug.