The Plan (Off-Limits Romance, #4)(55)

His eyes pop open. “Fuck, is this okay? For the—in case we’re—”

I smile. “It’s okay,” I whisper. I curl on my side and rub the bed beside me. “Lay down with me. I’m cold.”

And there he is behind me, his big body cupping mine, and I can feel his long, not-flaccid cock against my backside, even as he drapes an arm over me and presses a kiss my shoulder.

“I don’t want to fuck this up for you,” he rumbles.

I grab his hand, kissing the fingers. Does he mean like physically? No, of course he doesn’t. He must mean he doesn’t want to mess up what we’ve got going. He knows the baby is important to me. Fucking outside those strict perimeters opens up all sorts of other doors. I close my eyes. I know this. “You’re not,” I hear myself whisper.

Somewhere in me is a box of space where everything is organized and logical. Where I know I’m putting everything at risk by doing things to cheer him up, by bandaging his feet and toying with his pretty hair. But all the rest of me is infinite, and yawns around that tiny space. All the rest of me cannot be told. Can only take and feel and need.

I turn around and run my hands over his glorious shoulders. I let myself look at his face, like really look, and when I do, it’s easier than anything to see the sadness on him.

“You okay?” I trace the faint brackets around his mouth.

Gabe shuts his eyes, and I scoot closer, wrap my arms around him. His face on my throat feels good and right. I can feel his breath, warm on my skin. I feel his torso, rocking slightly with his heavy breaths.

“I thought I’d walk her down the aisle. Buy her first car,” he says softly. “She was born mine, Marley. And I lost her.”

His face presses into my skin, and my heart tears.

“God. I’m so, so sorry…”

“Nothing helps.” His hand rifles through my hair, clenching a strand lightly. “Except this. Is it wrong to use another person?” His lips move on my throat, kissing as he speaks softly. “I’ve been trying to stop wanting you.”

“But do you want to?” My arm comes around his neck. I feel him shake his head.

“I feel like it’s okay. I feel okay. Do you?”

His hand traces my hip. He groans before he kisses my throat.

Hungry, hungry, hungry…

Both of us.

We build it up again and tear it down and come apart and lie there panting, gazing at each other in the darkness with our solemn, hungry eyes.





4





Marley





I trace a fingertip over his thick throat. “Do you run to help you, too? Sometimes I notice you doing it more than once a day.”

His eyes close. “Kinda takes the edge off.”

“Come to me, instead,” I whisper. “Don’t run in your boots.”

He pulls me closer. I can feel him nod.

“You can’t replace her. And you wouldn’t want to. Can you see her again at some point? Can you have some contact with her?”

He draws in a shallow breath. “More later.”

“Good. That’s something.”

But it isn’t, not really. I feel his pain like a bright glare in the darkness; I can feel his grating want thicken the air around us.

I take his hands and put them on my breasts. “Do you feel these? Do they feel bigger?”

He stops breathing for a moment. “Could it happen the first time?”

“It could, yeah. If both of us are healthy, it might.” I run my hands over his face again. “It probably shouldn’t feel so natural,” I whisper, draping my leg over his.

“Maybe it should,” he rumbles.

I smile. “I thought you hated me.”

He laughs. “When you go there, I was going to pack your truck and drive it off myself.”

“Right off the bluff, huh? That bad?”

I hear him swallow. “I didn’t want to get fucked up again.”

“Again,” I whisper.

“Yes. Again.” The words are forceful. Almost angry. His hand comes to my shoulder, squeezing it slightly. “Did you think last time was nothing?”

Tears burn my eyes. “I was afraid it was.”

“You were afraid of me from day one. You never trusted me, Marley. And not because of my problems.”

“You’re right,” I whisper. “I thought you were cheating. That you’d leave. Or that you never even wanted me at all. Because of how it happened. I was so worried that I would lose you, I was…”

“Never happy,” he says, stroking my cheek.

Shamed tears fill my eyes and fall as I blink.

“You’re right. I know. I’ve felt bad for years…about it.”

He laughs, soft and hoarse. “You think I was? I was a fucking train wreck. You did better than me. You held a job down, cooked… You tried to look out for me, even though I acted like a fucking crazy person when you did.”

“Why did you do that?” I trace one of his curls.

“I don’t know.” He exhales, leaning slightly away, even now. And then his head burrows under my chin. “I never had a mom, you know? I made my own breakfast and lunch and dinner since I was seven. My dad fell off the back porch once and landed on some fucking lawn mower blade. He almost bled out. I couldn’t remember the phone number for 9-1-1.”