When I Was Yours(60)

“Cleaning up my girl.” I kiss the tip of her nose.

When I’m done, I take the washcloth back to the bathroom and then head straight back to Evie.

Grabbing the blanket from the bottom of the bed, I climb up next to her, cover us both with the blanket, and wrap her up in my arms.

“That was all kinds of amazing,” she says, looking up at me.

I shimmy down, so we’re face-to-face. “Yeah, it was. Really amazing.”

She starts running her fingers through the scruff on my chin. I love it when she does that.

“So, can we do it again?”

A laugh escapes me. “When? Now?” I say at her expression.

She gives me a smile that says yes.

“But aren’t you sore?”

“A little, but it’s not bad.” She runs the tip of her finger over my lips, tickling me.

Capturing her finger, I run my teeth over my lips, alleviating the itch. Then, I graze my teeth over the pad of her finger, and she shivers.

“Well, if you’re really sure you want to, then give me ten minutes, and I should be good to go again.”

She slides a hand between us and wraps it around my cock.

He pays attention immediately, and she raises a brow at his sudden growth.

My girl is awesome. Am I the luckiest bastard in the world, or what?

“Okay, maybe not ten minutes. More like two.” I grin.

She laughs as I roll her onto her back, taking the sound in my mouth as I kiss her, and I slip my hand between her legs, getting her ready for round two.





Since that day in Adam’s office, the one where I went to yell at him about the divorce settlement and ended up having sex with him before he was harsh and cold toward me—not that I didn’t deserve it, but just maybe not at that moment—yeah, that day…well, we’ve been going at it regularly since then.

Meaning, we’ve been having sex at any given opportunity. It’s been happening for nearly two weeks now.

Don’t ask me what it means or what’s going on because I have no clue. We don’t talk. We just f*ck.

And I’m afraid to ask him in case I don’t get the answer I want.

When I left his office, I was hurting from his words, but I couldn’t think of anything else but him. I couldn’t get his smell or taste off me, and I didn’t want to.

I’d missed him for ten long years, and I wasn’t ready to let go. And as it turned out, he felt the same—well, that, or he just really likes f*cking me.

Probably the latter.

The next night, he turned up at the café, right at the end of my shift. It was almost like he knew what time I would be finishing.

He stood there in the doorway. He didn’t have to say anything. I was pretty sure I knew why he was there.

But he said, “That he wanted to talk.”

I said, “Okay.”

I locked up the coffee shop and followed him back to his bungalow in silence the whole way. My stomach was churning with nervous excitement, my heart racing.

He opened the door, letting me inside his place.

The moment it shut, I was pushed back up against it, and his mouth was on mine.

Our clothes were gone soon after. I was on his bed with his head between my legs, and I was crying out his name. Then, he was inside me, screwing me like it had been too long since the last time.

When it was over, we both lay there, on separate sides of the bed, staring at the ceiling.

Then, Adam got up and went into the bathroom. When I heard the shower go on, I took that as my cue to leave.

So, I dressed quickly and left.

And we’ve been doing the same thing every night since. Adam turns up at the end of my shift, and then I follow him back to his bungalow where we go at it for a few hours. Then, he gets up and showers, and I leave.

There was one night when he didn’t turn up. My stomach churned, and I felt sick. I felt like I’d lost him all over again even though, in truth, I hadn’t really gotten him back.

So, I went to his bungalow and knocked on his door.

He didn’t answer, so I left.

And like the idiot I am, I cried myself to sleep that night, thinking about where he was and what he was doing—or whom he was doing.

I didn’t see Adam for two nights. It was a long weekend.

Then, on Sunday morning, I remembered him telling me that he only stayed at the hotel during the week.

I felt marginally better.

All day on Monday, I waited, feeling like I was holding my breath, and I didn’t exhale until I saw him standing there in the doorway, looking like the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.

Now, it’s been three more days of the same. I’m currently lying in his bed, staring at him, and he’s looking right back at me.

I haven’t left yet.

But I know I’ll have to go soon. I always go right after he gets up.

“Come to Malibu with me this weekend.”

I freeze. Is he…is he asking me to spend the weekend with him? In Malibu…where we met. Does this mean—

“Grady’s been asking to see you.”

Oh.

“Grady? You still talk to him?”

“Yeah. I surf with him every weekend. Max usually comes, too. Grady and I got close after ”—he looks away—“you left.”

A pain pierces my chest. I feel like I’m bleeding out.