What He Left Behind(36)

God, I know this probably isn’t something you approve of, but please don’t let Steve in here tonight.

Then I take a deep breath, glance up at Michael one more time, and go down on him.

The second my lips touch his cock, Michael gasps and tenses. I give him a little more—sliding my lips along the shaft, occasionally teasing him with the tip of my tongue—until he releases his breath. Once he’s breathing again, I steady his cock with one hand and start on the head. I run my tongue around it, exploring every ridge and contour just like I did the very, very first time, and I’m rewarded with a whispered, “Holy shit.”

His fingers rake through my hair again. I take him deeper into my mouth, just enough to nudge my gag reflex, and he swears again. The sounds he makes are driving me wild—the little hitches in his breath. The murmured curses. The low, strained groans. Everything he does drives me on, especially the way he keeps his hand in my hair, sometimes running his fingers through it, sometimes grasping it enough to hurt—whatever he does, I’m in heaven.

Michael thrusts up into my mouth. His cock is thicker and harder, his breathing faster, and I give him everything—stroking, twisting, licking, deep-throating now and again.

“Oh God.” He sounds like he’s on the verge of sobbing. “Oh God, Josh…” He f*cks my mouth, gripping my hair tighter and gasping for breath, and then he groans, and semen floods my mouth. I swallow, and he keeps coming, and I swallow again, and he keeps coming until he collapses back onto the bed. “Holy f*ck.” He exhales, his entire body going limp.

I push myself up on a trembling arm, licking my lips as I move up to join him, and just like I did the first time we ever did this, Michael grabs me, drags me down to him and kisses me. He grips my hair so tight it stings, and he takes the breath right out of me. God, yes—this is the Michael I remember.

We finally come up for air. I touch my forehead to his. We both pant, and shake, and I almost cry because there’s no demons here now. They’ll be back, I’m sure, but for a moment, he’s exactly the way I’ve missed him—trembling with the aftershocks of an orgasm, holding on to me, breathing against me, with no sign of everything that’s haunted him all this time.

Welcome back, Michael. We’ll make it the rest of the way. I promise.

My arms are about to shake out from under me, so I kiss him once more before I sink onto the bed beside him.

“I haven’t told you this in a long time,” he slurs, “but your mouth is un-f*cking-real.”

“Good. Always happy to please.”

He laughs breathlessly. I do too, and I’m even more out of breath than he is. I’m still hard, still turned on, relieved beyond words that his f*cking demons are MIA for the moment.

But I’m exhausted too. That was the hardest-won blowjob I’ve ever experienced. Jesus Christ.

Michael feels around, finds my hand between us and grasps it tight. “I honestly never thought I could enjoy a blowjob again.”

“That would have been a f*cking crime.” I turn on my side, nuzzle his neck, kiss his collarbone. “All you have to do is ask, and I’ll do it again. Any time you want.”

He turns his head, finds my lips and kisses me softly. “You’re the best.”

Anything for you, Michael. Anything.

He draws back and meets my eyes. “There’s still one problem, though.”

My stomach lurches into my throat. “What? What’s wrong?”

Michael grins, and he nudges me onto my back. As he starts unbuttoning my jeans, he murmurs, “You haven’t come yet.”





Chapter Eleven


I can barely focus at work, and it’s not because of Michael this time.

All I can think about is the sex I had with Ian last night.

It was the first time we’d made love in over a week, which jarred me—I didn’t realize until we were in bed just how long it had been. That can’t continue. Even while I’m sleeping with Michael, I can’t neglect my husband.

But that’s not the worst part. It’s chewing on my conscience and making me feel like a terrible spouse, but the sex itself was weird.

Ian has never shied away from my touch. He’s never recoiled. A shudder from him has always been one of arousal, and a sharp inhalation is a sign he’s about to come, not one of impending panic.

Then why…

I blow out a breath, staring at the computer monitor even though I’ve forgotten what the hell the spreadsheet I’m working on is for. All the words and numbers are gibberish.

I need coffee. Lots and lots of coffee.

I grab my empty cup and leave my desk for the break room down the hall. As I walk, my body reminds me that Ian wasn’t shying away or freaking out last night—he was rough just like he always is, and he didn’t let up until we’d both gotten off. All the panicking and recoiling was in my mind, not in my bed with my husband.

In the break room, I pour myself some coffee and take a careful sip. I’ve known from the beginning that things with Michael could potentially cause issues with Ian, and I’ve tried to be vigilant about that, but this wasn’t what I expected.

It’s not jealousy. It isn’t Michael or Ian. It’s…me. Specifically, my confidence.

The sexual minefield wasn’t supposed to take this much out of me, but it has. As Michael gets bolder and we take things a little further each time, my nerves are fraying. I never know when a touch will ignite some memory in him, or when something we’ve done a dozen times will make him panic.