More Than I Could (55)

He looks … surprised. “Do you always squirt?”

“Huh?”

“You just squirted.”

I scramble off the ottoman and look at where I was lying. It’s soaked.

My cheeks heat. “I … I’m so embarrassed.”

He laughs and looks at me like I’m talking out of my head. “Embarrassed? Megan, that is the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

I just look at him. I can do that?

Before I have time to wrap my brain around what just happened or get my legs sturdy beneath me, Chase takes my hand.

“Let’s go,” he says.

“Let’s go? Where? Where are we going?” I look over my shoulder as we walk out of the room. “My clothes. The ottoman. The pizza …”

He tugs me toward the hallway. “We’ll clean up down here later.”

“But where are we going?”

“Condoms are in my room.”

Condoms?

He stops at the base of the stairs and turns to face me. His eyes are lit up—almost as bright as his smile.

“I warned you that I would want you all the time,” he says.

“So you still want me after you just saw that?”

He pulls me into him and looks down into my eyes. “I think I just opened a hell of a box of problems because I want you more right now than I’ve ever wanted you. And I’ve not slept since you got here.”

I flush. “Oh. Well, okay, then.”

“Will you let me inside you tonight?”

I run my fingertip over his lips and smile. “Only if you make me do that again.”

He laughs, grabbing my ass and picking me up. I wrap my legs around him, and he carries me, his mouth on mine, to the bedroom.

And to a number of orgasms I didn’t know were possible.





Chapter Twenty





Chase




So this is what this feels like.

Moonlight filters through the curtains that weren’t properly closed in my haste to return to bed. Megan was worried about the mess on the living room floor. She feared that if Kennedy came home unexpectedly, she would look at the pizza boxes and discarded clothing and think someone had broken in. So while Megan soaked in my bathroom after I thoroughly ravaged her, I disposed of my condom and cleaned up the mess downstairs.

“Do you think I should go to my room?” she asks, her voice sleepy. Her arm drapes across my bare chest as she snuggles into my side. “I mean, the answer is yes. I should. But do you want me to go now or wait a little longer?”

I stare at the ceiling and imagine watching her climb out of bed.

No. I don’t want you to go now—or later, for that matter. This is … nice.

I stroke her arm with my fingertips. “It’s not hurting anything for you to stay here.”

She smiles against me.

I don’t fight the grin that twitches along my lips, but I struggle with the lie I just told.

None of this is surprising to me. When Megan stepped out of her car, I knew she had the potential to cause me a lot of trouble. Hell, I might’ve known that when she was still a stranger giving me shit from the other side of a foggy window.

I want Megan in my bed. I want her lips wrapped around my cock again, my mouth exploring every piece of her body. I want to hear her laugh, watch her smile—come home from work, and see her in my kitchen with my daughter. And that’s all kinds of screwed up.

It’s a setup for pain. This is going to hurt—badly, I’m afraid.

And if I don’t play this right, it won’t just hurt me. It’ll hurt Kennedy too.

“What’s the matter?” she asks, yawning.

I pull her closer to me if that’s possible. “Nothing. Why?”

“You just tensed up.”

“Oh.” Did I? “My shoulder is still sore.”

“Want me to massage it again.”

I chuckle. “Only if you want to repeat what happened the last time you started rubbing me.”

She tucks her face against me and laughs. The sound pleases me—too much.

Chase, you’ve fucked up.

Megan slides a leg over mine. I rest my cheek against her head and appreciate the moment. It’s been too long since I’ve had a moment like this.

Have I ever had a moment like this? The question stirs something deep inside me.

“Can I be honest with you about something, Chase?”

“I hope you’re always honest with me.”

“Good.” She exhales as if she’s struggling to accept whatever she wants to say. “I feel a little guilty.”

I pull back, tipping her chin up so she’s looking at me. Her eyes are bright and vulnerable. My first instinct is to kiss her—to kiss away the vulnerability and show her I’m still here. But kissing isn’t what she needs. Not right now. She needs words and communication to work out whatever plagues her.

“What in the world do you have to feel guilty about?” I ask.

She smiles softly. “I knew when I offered to massage your shoulder that it probably wasn’t going to … end there.”

Fair enough. “Okay, well, if I’m being honest with you, I probably knew that too.” I wait for her to continue, to draw the line between her admission and her feelings of guilt. But her response doesn’t come. “I’m not following you, sweetheart.”