by Jen Morris
Still, I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t another thought nagging at me. Because if I’m not careful, I could lose the writing career I’ve only just started to build—the thing I’ve dreamed of my whole life, the thing I gave up on back home, the thing my parents have told me over and over is not going to happen. Since I’ve been writing, I’ve rediscovered my passion and it’s helped me find a sense of inner strength I didn’t know I had. And I can’t lose that now.
That thought scares me more than anything.
35
I don’t want to think about that now.
I push all thoughts of my writing from my head, tracing my fingertip through the patch of hair on Michael’s chest. The feel of his warm skin beside me, the smell of him filling my lungs… There’s a flutter between my legs as my eyes track up and down his body. Is it crazy that I want him again, so soon?
He shuffles up the bed slightly so he’s sitting back against the headboard, then reaches for me, and there’s a zing of anticipation down my center.
Maybe it’s not just me.
Feeling bold, I turn and swing one leg over him, straddling him. He slides his hands around my waist and onto my back, and I tilt my head down, pressing my mouth to his. His tongue is the most delicious thing I’ve ever had in my mouth. Well, so far.
We kiss leisurely, nibbling on each other, tasting each other, and it’s not long before I can feel his growing desire pressing against me. Inching back on his lap, I slip my hands inside his underwear, sighing in his ear when I feel how much he wants me again.
And this time, I’m going to do this my way. I climb off his lap, crawling down between his knees. His eyes darken as he watches me slide my hand around his hard length and moisten my lips. I’m aching to have him in my mouth, to taste him. Hell, I’ve imagined it enough times.
“Alex,” he says, his voice rough like sandpaper. “You don’t have to do that.”
I gaze up at him hungrily. “I know I don’t have to. I want to.” Then I lean forward and swipe my tongue over the tip of him, savoring his salty taste.
“Ohhh,” he growls, threading a hand into my hair. “Do you know how many times I’ve pictured you doing this?”
I giggle, heat blossoming low in my belly as I stroke my hand up and down, admiring the impressive shape and size of him.
“Especially after what you told me at New Year’s.”
“What?” I lift my hand off him and lean back. “What did I tell you at New Year’s?”
A low laugh rumbles from his chest. “That’s right, you don’t remember.” His eyes glitter as he reaches down and wraps a big hand around himself, stroking gently, his gaze still fixed on me. I let out a pant at the sight of it, feeling my thighs quiver.
“You told me you wanted to get down on your knees in front of me.” His mouth tips into a sexy grin. “You didn’t finish the sentence, but when you stared at my crotch and licked your lips, it was pretty obvious.”
“Oh God.” I raise a hand to my hot face, grimacing. “Did I really say that? Shit, and then I didn’t do it, did I? No wonder you were angry.”
He barks out a laugh. “That’s not why I was angry. I’m pretty sure you would have done it if I’d let you.”
I glance away in shame, but he reaches out and takes my chin, tilting my face back towards his.
“I was angry because I liked you and the next day you pushed me away. I just wanted to be with you.”
I smile, reaching forward to slide my hand around him again. His head drops back against the headboard and he groans on an exhale.
“Did that turn you on?” I murmur.
“What?”
“Me saying that to you, on New Year’s.”
“Uh, yes. Do you know how hard it was to walk away from you that night? It nearly killed me. As soon as I got home, I had no choice…” He shrugs, like it’s no big deal and he did this often. Well, apparently he did—and fuck. Heat shoots through me, burning intense at the meeting of my thighs.
“Maybe this will make up for it.”
I lean down, lowering my mouth over his thick length, and all the air rushes out of his lungs. He drops his hands to my head, but not to push me—just to feel me move up and down over him. I draw him into my mouth, one hand wrapped around the base, sliding my tongue up and down. I take my time, savoring everything: the taste of him, the shape and feel of him, the way he keeps breathing my name, the way I can tell he’s trying to hold back. And that little grunting, panting sound he’s making, the way he’s tugging on my hair—God, I want him again.
I stop, leaning back to glance up at him. And before I can do anything, he swings a leg over me, breathing hard as he tucks himself back into his underwear. He hauls me against him, crushing his lips to mine before pushing me up the bed, against the headboard.
“Your turn, dirty girl.”
I give a self-conscious giggle. “Dirty girl?”
“Mm-hm.” He leans over me, lowering his lips to my ear, rubbing his beard against my cheek. “The way you asked me to fuck you earlier? You’re nothing like the sweet girl I thought you were.”
Color floods my cheeks. “Well, I’m still—”
“Alex, I’m just teasing,” he says with a grin. “I loved it.” He lowers himself to his elbows in front of me, sliding his hands up my thighs. “But I want to taste you, now.”
“Oh.” I clamp my legs together. “No, not now.”
His brow furrows in confusion. “Are you serious? I didn’t expect you to be shy.”
“No, it’s not that.”
“You don’t like it?”
I snort. “God, no. It’s not that either. It’s just… can we wait until we’re back home and I’ve had a chance to, er, tidy up?”
“Oh.” He chuckles, moving to sit beside me at the headboard. “You know I don’t care.”
“I know. But I feel kind of self-conscious.”
His shoulders slump with disappointment. “Are you sure?”
I nod.
“Okay. But as soon as we’re home, you’re putting those legs over my shoulders.”
I give a grunt at the thought, skating my palm up his muscular thigh. He leans over to kiss me again, and I inch my hand closer to the bulge threatening the cotton of his boxer-briefs.
“But, um,” I say, feeling a bit uncertain, “can we—you know, are you still in the mood to…”
“What? Have sex again?”
I give him a little nod.
“Fuck yes.” He looks at me like I’m crazy. “Don’t ever ask me again. I can assure you, the answer will always be yes.”
I kick my underwear off, giggling, drunk on lust—on him. I wait as he rolls on a condom, then I climb onto his lap and ease him inside me again. We both moan at how good it feels.
“Alex,” he murmurs into my shoulder, his teeth nipping at my skin. “You know I’m crazy about you, right? I haven’t been crazy about anybody in a long time.”
Elation rolls through my chest in a wave, lifting my heart, making it float. I caress a thumb across his cheek and over his delicious beard. “I’m crazy about you too.”
“It’s not just sex. It’s… it’s us.” There’s the tiniest line on his forehead that makes him look vulnerable as he speaks. “I feel better when I’m around you. I want you around me all the time. I need to know—”
“I know.” I press a kiss to his brow, smoothing the line away. “I want to be with you, Michael. I want to be yours, I want you to be mine. More than I’ve ever wanted anything.”
He lets out a relieved breath. “Good,” he murmurs, tightening his grip on me. He takes my mouth, his tongue claiming mine as he presses himself up deep inside me.
This time it’s slower, like a smoldering fire on the brink of bursting into flames. We gaze at each other, moving together as I rock on his lap, relishing every sign of pleasure on the other’s face. Our mouths communicate wordlessly, our tongues merging as we both tip over the edge, clutching one another, becoming one.
; We sit there, holding each other close as our breathing returns to normal, and I realize something that makes my heart race more than anything we’ve done so far.
I’m not just crazy about him. I’m falling for him. Hard.
36
I wake to the feeling of a strong arm across my waist. It takes me a moment to remember where I am, and when I do, happiness bubbles through me.
I’m in Michael’s bed. In Michael’s bed.
Sweet Jesus, I have died and gone to heaven.
We’ve been snowed in at the cabin for five nights now, and each morning that I’ve woken up in this spot I’ve had to remind myself where I am—and that I’m not dreaming.
The past five days have been bliss. There’s no other word for it. Michael is so affectionate, so smitten, and I just feel cherished in a way I never have. And the sex—fuck. The sex is like nothing else; raw and dirty, sweet and tender. Everything I need it to be.
We’ve barely left the bedroom but when we have, I’ve been hard at work on my romance novel. After several days of Michael’s undivided attention, my lips bruised from his kiss, my skin worn smooth by the path of his hands, I let myself write the part I’d been hesitating on for so long. I wrote the happy ending.
It’s terrifying letting myself free-fall like this, back into that place where I’m daring to believe that I might get a happily ever after. But it’s also exhilarating. Because if I do… that will be everything.
I roll over to gaze at Michael, his head heavy against the pillow, his eyes still closed, the thick lashes dark against the creamy-white of his cheek. Before I can stop myself, I reach a hand up to that cheek, just wanting to touch him. His sleepy eyes flutter open and crease into his gorgeous smile.
“Good morning, beautiful.” In one swift move, his arm spins me and pulls me hard up against him, so we are spooning.
Oh God. I never want to leave this exact spot. I could die right here and I’d be happy.
I feel an unmistakable hardness pressing against my butt and I wiggle playfully against him. A sexy grunt comes from his mouth as he kisses along my shoulder, into my neck, over my earlobe. All the nerve endings in my body tingle and I twist around to face him. He gropes about on the nightstand for a condom before we give in again to the ache we have for each other, the ache that never seems to go away, no matter how many times we make love.
When we finally lie still, our limbs tangled in the sheets and our breathing heavy, our lust satiated for now, I gaze at the ceiling dreamily. I still cannot believe I’m here, in Michael’s arms.
After a while he says, “I think we can probably go home today.”
A knot forms in my stomach and I pull the sheets up to my armpits, anxious at the thought of going back to the city. Sure, I’m ready to leave the house, believe me, but I am a bit worried about what will happen with us back home. I’ve tried not to let my mind go there, but what if Justin does end up offering me the job? Then what will I do?
I force the thought from my head. I can’t think about all that. I don’t want to think about it.
Michael shifts onto his side and props his head up on his hand, gazing at me. “If it were up to me, we’d never leave,” he murmurs, reaching across and trailing his finger along my arm. “But I have to get back to Henry.”
I roll my head to the side and give Michael a tentative smile. Is he worried about going back to the city too? Is he worried about how our new relationship will hold up in the real world?
He scans my face. “You okay?”
Of course everything will be fine, I tell myself. The problem with my fantasy self is that it’s just as skilled at imagining disasters as it is the good stuff.
I lean over to kiss the tip of his nose. “I’m more than okay. Shall I make us some coffee?”
He nods, settling back against the pillows with a happy sigh.
I slip out of the covers and pull on my underwear, glancing around the room for my clothes. My eyes land on Michael’s hooded sweater and I reach for it, pulling it on. I bury my face in the fabric, inhaling the scent of his woodsy cologne and soap, feeling all snuggly.
“Hey,” he protests mildly, but when I turn to him, his mouth hooks into grin. “Shit, you look sexy. Come back here.”
I giggle. “In a minute. Let me get coffee.”
See? Everything will be fine.
Michael is quiet on the ride home. His hand is resting on my leg, and my own hand is up on the back of his neck, stroking his hair—it seems neither one of us wants to stop touching the other—but I can’t shake the feeling that he has something on his mind.
“You okay?” I ask, thinking back to the tense drive up here.
He glances at me, his mouth curving into a smile. “Yeah, beautiful. I am. I just—” He pauses, and apprehension pinches his brow. “I have to ask. What are you going to do about this column if you get offered it?”
Oh. Right.
I pull my hand away and turn to gaze out the window, watching the passing landscape. I’ve been trying not to think about this, because… I have no idea.
“What about your romance novel?” Michael tries again when I don’t answer. “Have you thought about what you’ll do with it when you finish it?”
“Not really.”
“I thought it was good.”
I blush, glancing at him from under my lashes.
“I don’t know the genre, so I can’t comment on that.” He shoots me a flirtatious grin. “But it certainly, uh, had the desired effect.”
“That’s only because you thought it was about you and me,” I say with a wry smile.
“It was about you and me.”
My blush deepens. He’s got me there.
“And I loved it.” He takes my hand and lifts it to his mouth, pressing a kiss to the back of it. “Why do you think I made you give me a copy?”
A laugh tickles my throat. Yesterday Michael said he wanted to read it properly, since I’d finished the draft. I was nervous but then I figured, what the hell? The cat’s out of the bag—he knows it’s about us—and just quietly, if he reads the whole thing, we might even get to act out some of my favorite scenes.
He grins. “I can’t wait to read it all.”
“Just… don’t show it to anyone, okay? It’s not polished yet, and—”
“Of course. It’s for my reading pleasure only.” He emphasizes the word “pleasure,” wiggling his eyebrows up and down, and I laugh again. “But seriously. Which do you enjoy writing more? The articles or the novel?”
“The novel,” I admit.
“Yeah?”
I nod. “It’s fun, and I have total control over how I write it.”
“If that’s what you love the most, maybe focus on that.”
“Well… I don’t know if I want to publish that.”
“Why not? There’s a huge market for it.”
That’s true. But it’s not really that. What would my parents say about me publishing a romance novel? It would just confirm their belief that I don’t live in the real world, spending so much time “dreaming of Prince Charming,” to use my mother’s words. I know Michael said I shouldn’t be ashamed of who I am, and I’m trying not to be, but I had never intended to share my romance novel with anyone. It was just a side-project to let off steam over Michael. And while the thought of publishing it does give me a thrill, I don’t want to give my parents more ammunition.
But if I got a paid writing job on a big platform like Bliss Edition, that’s a bit more respectable. I’d have the reputation of the whole organization behind me, and maybe they’d finally take my writing seriously.
“Do you want to write the other stuff?” Michael asks. His gaze slides over and when it meets mine, he can read the answer on my face. “Right. Well, there you go.”
I heave out a sigh. “Yeah, but it’s not that simple. I’m not like you. I don’t already have loads of things published. This could be my only chance.”
“No. This would be your first chance. You’re a good
writer and you’ll get plenty of opportunities. But maybe this whole single column…” he trails off and exhales, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel in thought. Eventually, he sighs. “If you write about something you don’t want to write about, Alex, it will show. Trust me, I know about this stuff.”
I contemplate his profile as he drives. “What do you mean?”
“You know that book of mine you criticized?”
“Three Months on the Appalachian Trail?”
He nods. “You know why that book got terrible reviews? Because it was crap. I didn’t spend three months on the Appalachian Trail.”
“Honestly, the things I said about your book weren’t true,” I protest, but he shakes his head.
“You might not have known it at the time, but they were.”
I cast my mind back to the moment in the bookstore when he got so irritated by my comments. No wonder he was so sensitive about it. But—once I’d read it—I truly did love it.
“So, what happened? You didn’t walk the trail?”
“I walked it for like a week then went back to my cabin. I didn’t enjoy it and I didn’t want to write the book. But I had to.”
“Why?”
“I’d already spent the advance, a lot of it on expensive hiking gear. I had this idea of who I could be; some sort of outdoors man. And I lasted one week.” He chuffs an ashamed laugh.
I look down at my hands. Maybe he’s right. I don’t want to sign up for something that I’ll end up hating and make a mess of it. And if I’m honest, I am not excited at the prospect of writing a column about the single life, not since spending the week with Michael. Because this past week I’ve felt happier than I have in ages. And by that, I mean years. It’s not only the sex—which, frankly, is so good I can hardly walk—it’s being with someone who just gets me, who laughs at my silliness and makes me laugh too. It’s being comfortable with someone and knowing they like you just as you are. Warts and all. How can I tell people I’d rather be single when I feel like this? I can’t.
