The Other Man(47)

“Heath,” I tried to make my tone plaintive, but it came out breathy and pleading.  Even I couldn’t tell if I sounded more like I wanted him to pull out or stay inside.

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” he muttered, but he still didn’t pull out, instead jolting inside of me.

And, God, I was just as bad, still clenching around him, milking out every drop, not putting my foot down, not making him stop.

And then he said a thing that thrilled and terrified me, and I couldn’t have said which reaction was stronger.

“Do you want to have any more kids, or are you done for good?”

I’d never (not for one second) ever even considered this.  My boys were grown.  That was it.  I probably could have more.  I was in perfect health.  I’d just never thought of it.

And what the hell did it mean that he was asking me this?  I was scared to even contemplate it.  Scared to hope for any possibility.

“I’ve never thought about it,” I said honestly.  “Why do you ask?”

He shook his head, a short jerk of a motion, as though he was making himself stay quiet on the subject.

But it didn’t work.  Miracle of miracles, he couldn’t keep himself quiet.

He pressed his forehead to mine, still shamelessly inside of me, still pinning me to the wall.  “If somehow you did get pregnant, I just want you to know, and I understand and respect that it’s your choice, but if you were to wonder what I want, just know that I’d want you to keep it.  Us to keep it.  Even if the timing is horrible, and I’m off working.  Even if you don’t see me for a long time.  That’s what I would want.  No question.”

Holy shit.  I had no clue what to do with that.  Whether to be happy or horrified.

“Good to know,” I finally said.

Lame, I know.

I just never thought I’d get pregnant.

When he finally pulled out of me, he didn’t go far, sprawling right there on the floor, on his back.

He reached up, grabbed both of my hands, and pulled me to straddle him.

I knew what this was.  He was giving me something of himself.  Doing something that was uncommon for him.  Allowing himself to be vulnerable.  For me.

“Can I . . . ?”

He swallowed hard and nodded, putting my hands on his chest.  “Yes.  Touch me.  I need your touch.  It’s helping.  The more you do it, the better I feel.  Just . . . go slow.  Not too much at a time.”

A feeling of pure, unadulterated tenderness shook through me.

It was kind of sick, but I couldn’t even decide if this need I felt to soothe him, to mend him was maternal in nature.  Maternal, or else maybe that other intangible woman feeling we all have, the, oh this man is broken, let me fix him urge, because when I fix him, he’ll be mine.

Maybe it was an unwholesome combination of the two.  I honestly didn’t care.  He was covered on the outside by scars, but inside were the real wounds, the deep ones, and all that mattered was that I needed to help him heal every part that pained him.

I traced my fingers over the scars on his chest carefully, circling my hips on top of him, rubbing our spent sexes together until he stirred again, grew hard and huge again.  I was so slick and ready, so keyed to every inch of him that it took no effort at all, no guiding hand, no careful shifting.  I thrust my hips and sucked him back inside of me, where he belonged.  It was beautiful.

I stopped touching his chest when I took him in, knowing it would alarm him.  Too soon.

Instead, I grabbed both of his hands, cupping them over my aching breasts as I started to move.

He cursed.  He praised.  My stoic man even begged for it as I rode him hard.

I gave it my best, used every toned muscle in my body to rock his world.  This was where all of my hard work at the gym paid off, where I finally got to show him that he wasn’t the only one with some spectacular moves in bed.

And then it happened again.

I let him empty himself inside of me.  Again.

I guess at that point we were both just kind of thinking, ah well, damage is done, might as well enjoy the rest of the night like this.

Because, God, it was beyond divine.

He snaked a hand down between our sweaty bodies, gripping himself at the root, twisting his hand, rubbing against us both where we still joined.

“Jesus,” he muttered.  “Fucking bare inside of you.  I can’t take it.  You don’t even know.  We’re both going to be raw before I’m done with you this time.”

He wasn’t exaggerating.  By morning we were both sore and aching.

And the entire night, all the times he came, he never pulled out.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

He was back two nights later, as desperate and needy as the last time.

“I didn’t expect you back so soon,” I gasped when we came up for air.

It was strange with how little I still knew of him how much peace I had made with our situation.  Somehow, with him being mostly gone, I’d wrapped it all up and tied it with a nice pretty bow of justifications.

So many excuses that made our age difference, his lack of forthrightness, his random coming and going somehow okay in my mind.

I was good at talking myself into the most romantic explanations.