“I just want to feel good,” I say, tossing the phone down. “I cried for so long. Then I just went numb. I want to feel something. Something good.”
“I can make you feel good,” he says, and I give him a little nod.
He steps inside and closes the door. “Okay, then, one rule,” he says.
“You do like rules.”
He smirks at me. “One rule—we just make each other feel good—only pleasure—no pain, no sadness, no going numb to get by. Our only rule—pleasure.”
He takes hold of my chin and tilts it up to look in my eyes. Moving my head down slightly, I pull his thumb into my mouth and suck—my eyes never leaving his—a promise of what’s to come. If that wasn’t a yes, I don’t know how else to tell him.
“Condom,” he whispers.
“I’ve got that covered,” I say. And since neither one of us has been with anyone in half a decade, I figure we’re safe.
He doesn’t waste a second, picking me up and slamming me against the wall. He doesn’t even bother removing my clothes. He just unbuckles and unzips, pushes my panties to the side and crashes into me. I can’t help it, I cry out. He catches my chin again and locks eyes with me. Then he slowly starts to slip in and out. I’d almost forgotten how good sex is. My body has clearly missed this. And he holds me there as we just go at it. It’s the hottest thing I’ve ever experienced. Our tongues battle, his hips thrusting into me, quick and hard. My hands claw at his back, gripping his shirt. And shit if I don’t feel myself about to combust already. Slowing down, he whispers another order, “Not yet. I don’t want you to finish yet.”
“Please,” I beg, knowing I sound greedy, but I really don’t care. It’s been so long since I’ve felt so good. My hands and legs are moving like I’m trying to crawl up this man. I don’t have any idea how he’s holding me. And I don’t want it to end, but I want to come so badly.
“Okay, baby. Give it to me. Don’t hold back,” he says, thrusting into me again.
I scream out his name, my nails clinging to his shirt, surprised by how quickly he got me there. Either this man is a god or my body was starving for sex. Maybe both? My eyes slowly open. His eyes are soft, searching, as his fingers run across my cheek, wiping away a tear. I just got fucked like nobody’s business, and I’m crying. Crying because he’s not Logan, crying because I didn’t even think about Logan once. Crying because Logan isn’t my only anymore.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “It’s just . . .”
“Shh!” he says tenderly. “I know. It’s the last piece of letting go.”
My chest constricts. God, he really does get it. I try smiling, to force my tears to stay inside, but he starts to slip out of me, and almost in a panic, I pull him back. “Don’t go.”
“Not with you crying,” he says.
Wiping my face, I clench around him. “I know what I want.”
“What do you want?”
“Pleasure,” I moan, tightening around him.
He pulls me around him, and I hug him tightly as he carries me into the bedroom. I feel him slipping away as he tries to lower me to the bed. He must feel my worry or maybe my nails clawing at him are a big ass clue, but either way, he stops. Great, now I’m officially a clinger!
When his dick slides out of me, I feel the tears starting again. What the hell is wrong with me? I mean, it’s a nice dick and the orgasm was mind-blowing, but not worth crying over. But I can’t help it. It’s emotional for me to make love to another man. It really does signify the end of something I only shared with Logan, and I better enjoy it, because what kind of man is going to come back for seconds after this kind of reaction? He hasn’t even gotten off yet.
And in my emotional mess, I missed him undressing me. And now he’s just staring down at me with those soulful eyes of his. Shit, my scar! His focus is right on the ragged edges of my belly. “The accident?” he asks. I just give him a nod. He doesn’t need more information than that, especially right now. I crawl under my covers, and he slides in beside me. The sheet starts to slip away, and I reach to grab it, then realize it’s Holt pulling it down my body. “I need to see you,” he says.
“Me, too,” I say, reaching for the bottom of his shirt. He lifts up slightly to help me. Oh, sweet Jesus, the boy is completely ripped—ab candy, pecalicious, and carrying some guns. Guess he got tired of me staring and drooling because he slipped off his own pants. And before I can even get a good look at his other package, he pulls me to him, hikes up my leg, and sinks deep back inside me.
We are on our sides, facing each other. To me, this has always been the most intimate sex position—eyes locked on each other, each with a hand free to explore the other person. And his is currently doing this thing with my nipple that’s making my head spin. “You like that?” he asks, lowering his head and pulling my breast into his mouth. He pulls back slightly, watching his dick move in and out of me. Why do men like to watch? “Do you know how fucking sexy you are?” His eyes lift to mine. “Look,” he says, his voice sounding like he’s giving me another one of his orders.
But this time I don’t disobey. He slows down, thrusting into me slowly, making sure I see and feel every single inch of him. Watching us move together, seeing us connected like that, does something to me. There’s a power in it. Meeting him thrust for thrust, my muscles pull him in deeper.
“Shit, that’s so good,” he groans.
Okay, now I feel really powerful. His hand smacks my ass—hard—forcing me closer to him. He slows again, his eyes lock on mine, and he places his finger on my lips. Keeping my eyes on his, I pull his finger into my mouth and suck. If he’s thinking about a blowjob right now, he’s going to have to wait. Don’t think I could do that with my moisture all over him—call me a prude if you must. He slips his finger out and slides it right between my booty cheeks.
I’m an anal virgin, so this is completely new for me. “Holt, I’ve never.”
“I need all of you, Annalyse,” he whispers, pushing into me.
He gives me no time to think about it. Thank God, because the only thing I can feel is—oh, my fucking—it’s amazing. My orgasm hits me, feeling like he pulled it out of me. My entire body clenches.
“Fuck, Anna . . .” He pulls me tight to him, clinging to me as his orgasm erupts.
And this time, there are no more tears. He lifts his head, kissing me gently, and smiles that real smile that hardly ever comes out. Instead of basking in the afterglow of multiple orgasms, anxiety shoots through me.
Without much more thought, I blurt out, “Am I a one and done?”
“Unless I counted wrong, you came twice,” he jokes, but it falls flat as a pancake. His head tilts, his fingers grazing my cheek. “Don’t sell yourself short. One, two, ten times? Would never be enough.”
Hand him my heart on a silver platter, I’m falling hard—but what do you expect when he says things like that? “So, are you going to stay?”
“If you’d like me to,” he says.
Wish he’d said he wanted to stay, but perhaps I’m just thinking too much. I tend to do that. I give him a little nod. “Okay, but I need to go to my house for a minute.”
I yawn out, “That’s fine,” and feel the bed lift as his weight moves out of it. I forgot how tired sex makes me. It’s good I’m tired. Can’t analyze what just happened—how I feel about it. But I can’t drift off to sleep; the bed feels cold all of a sudden—lonely. I pull the blankets up over me—a poor substitute for being wrapped in a man’s arms. Hopefully, Holt comes back soon, and hopefully he likes to cuddle.
“Hey, I’m back,” he whispers in my ear.
I pull the covers back. “Good, come to bed.”
He tilts my chin to him and asks, “Have you gotten up since I left?”
“No,” I whine. “I’m sleepy.”
He gives me a little grin. “You need to get up and pee.”
“I don’t have to pee.”
“Yes, you do.”
“No, I don’t.”
“All women need to pee after sex,” he says.
“Where’d you say you went to medical school?”
“Duke.”
“Well, I don’t know what they taught you at Duke, but . . .”
He scoops me up, walking towards the bathroom. “If you don’t pee, you’ll get a UTI.”
“What?” I ask.
“A urinary tract infection.”
“I know what a UTI is!”
He puts me down on the toilet. “Then pee.”
Did he just really order me to pee? He turns on the bathtub. “Hey?” I say. “That’s not fair.”
“What?” he says, acting so innocent. Did he just forget he had his finger up my ass? Innocent—not so much.
“Asshole,” I mumble. “You know running water makes everyone have to pee.”
And he laughs that beautiful laugh of his and says, “Come on. Let me wash you.”
“Wash me?”
He leans down close to my ear, his warm breath tickling me. “There’s more than one way for me to give you pleasure.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
HOLT
I should get dressed and get out, but I’d much rather lay here and watch her sleep. It’s obvious she’s not used to sharing a bed, stealing the covers all night long, her arms and legs spread out all over the place. If you’re a couple, you’ve got a side. Not Annalyse, she sleeps right down the middle. It’s fine with me. Her cold feet find my legs, and she moans my name.
She’s still asleep. It can’t be good for her to be dreaming about me. I figured if she was going to dream about any man, it would be her dead husband. Christ, I know deep in my gut that this isn’t good, but I’m grinning anyway. It’s got to be the endorphins from the mind-bending sex. I tried to convince myself for half the night that it wasn’t that good. That it was just because I haven’t had sex in so long. That theory went out the window when she woke up a few hours later, and we fucked all over again. Maybe the universe has turned my way and brought me a nympho, which would seem fair after all the shit in my life.
But I’ve got to remember that sex is all this is. Pleasure only! That’s what I said. That was my rule. So why the hell am I still laying in this bed?
*
ANNALYSE
“I’ve got rounds,” Holt whispers, gently kissing my neck. Keeping my eyes closed, I give him a little nod. I feel the bed sink down as he crawls on top of me. “Open your eyes.” And even though he whispers it, it sounds like an order. We need to work on his delivery. I hate opening my eyes first thing in the morning, but the view isn’t so bad today. He peers down at me; his hand goes to my cheek.
It’s hard to describe the way Holt looks at me when he’s like this. It’s not like he’s reading my mind, but reading my soul—gauging the darkness—the level of heat in the flames. I don’t have to give him any reassurance or a fake, polite smile; he just knows and smiles down at me. “Could you leave last night out of your blog?” he asks. No order, no rules—just a sweet, simple request.
“Sure,” I say, but he continues to stare down at me. “Is my hair doing that crazy thing where one side is flat and the other side is all goofy?”
That earns me a real smile, and his fingers comb through my hair. “No, you look . . .” His head shakes a little. “I didn’t think it would be so hard to leave you after last night.” Small talk Holt must still be sleeping, because this is real and big and scary. “It’s hard to describe,” he says, looking away, regretting that little bit of openness.
Mornings-after can be pretty awkward, at least that’s what I’ve heard. So I decide to lighten things back up. “It was cumtabulous.”
His head falls down next to mine, laughing. The sound is so beautiful, and it lasts. He doesn’t rein it back in this time. Hearing him laugh in my ear is as amazing as hearing his orgasm rip through him last night. “That’s perfect,” he says, getting a naughty glint in his eye. “I was going to say magical.”
“You weren’t supposed to read that one!”
He just chuckles. “I think after last night, you might want to amend that post. Because you most definitely have a magical pussy.”
Laughing, I smack his butt. “You and your wand better get to work.”
A quick kiss on the forehead, and he’s still chuckling as he leaves. Rolling over, I see a glass of water and a banana on the nightstand. It’s not exactly breakfast in bed, but I think it counts.
Normally after something big happens to me, I write about it or call Meg. Blogging is out of the question, and I’m not ready to share this with Meg yet. My eyes lift to the ceiling, and I turn to the person who was always there for me.
Good morning, Logan.
I hope to God you weren’t watching that last night. I wonder what you think of me this morning.
A deep ache starts in my chest. This happens every time I talk to Logan. It’s almost like he reaches in and squeezes my heart when I say something that pisses him off.
That’s unfair of me to say. I know you want me to be happy. I know you think I’ve mourned you too long.
The ache goes away.
I really wish you could talk back to me. Tell me I’m on the right path. Tell me I’m doing the right thing. Promise me I’m not going to get hurt again. For the first time since you died, I feel alive. I’ve traveled all over the world, ridden the world’s fastest coasters, stood on the tip of volcanoes, scuba dived in the Great Barrier Reef—the whole while feeling numb to all the beauty around me. But last night in my sister’s house in Little Rock, I woke up. It hurt a little to wake up—my body, my heart—sore from years lying dormant—waiting. God, what am I doing? For years, I’ve defined my life into two parts—before you and after you. And now, I feel a new part starting, and you aren’t a part of it. Is that okay?
Suddenly, I hear a dog barking in front of the house—really barking. I get up to make sure everything is alright. Throwing on some yoga pants and a t-shirt, I’m still pulling my hair up into a ponytail when I open up the front door. I can’t help but to start laughing. This brute of a dog is staring at the tree in my front yard, barking like a fool. Most of the leaves are off the tree; there’s nothing up there—no squirrels or birds. Nearest I can tell, he’s barking at the remaining leaves rattling in the wind.
“Sorry. I’m so sorry,” a woman calls out. I look up, seeing her rushing towards me. She’s probably not too much older than me, running down the street with one baby on her hip, pushing another in a stroller, a leash dangling from her shoulder. “He got off the leash. I’m so sorry.”
Grabbing the barking dog by his collar, I meet her on the street. “No trouble. I was awake.”
She struggles to try to get the leash back on the dog. “Would you mind?” she asks, holding out the baby on her hip. “His name is Samuel. Sam for short.”
“Hey, Sam,” I say, taking him in my arms. He’s one of those perfectly chubby little guys that just melt right into your side. “How old are you?”
“He’s thirteen months,” she says, finally getting the leash on, then pointing to the stroller. “This little guy is four months old. His name is Nicholas. Nic for short.”
“They are beautiful,” I say, adjusting the collar on Sam’s coat. “I’m Annalyse. I’m . . .”
“Meg’s sister, I know. I’m Rachel. I’ve been meaning to come introduce myself, but . . .” She waves her hand over the babies and dog.
I smile. “Your only two?”
“Oh God, yes!”
“Want me to help you back to your house?”
“That would be great,” she says as we start a slow stroll. “Nic has colic, and the only thing that makes him feel better is being outside, which means Sam has to come, too. And the dog scratches the door if we leave without him.”
“What’s the dog’s name?”
“Beast,” she says, laughing. “At least that’s what I call him when my husband’s not around. Officially, his name is Cooper Loverbull.”
“He’s adorable.”
“Think so. You and your husband are the last.”
“So you’ve got the gossip on everyone?” she asks, pointing to one house. “Carla and Judy will do anything for anybody.”
“Yes, I met them. They are the sweetest.”
She nods, pointing out another house. “They are. Doug’s sweet, too, though maybe a little too sweet.”
“Got that,” I say, waiting for her to get to Holt, but she doesn’t. Instead, a weird silence falls between us. “Anything else I should know about the neighborhood?” I ask.
We reach her front door, and she puts the dog inside and takes the baby from me. “I walk Nic up and down the street a lot,” she says. “I saw Holt leaving your house this morning.”
“Oh,” I say, feeling the heat rise to my cheeks. “Please . . .”
“Don’t worry. I won’t blab it to all the neighbors.”
“Did Holt see you?”
“Don’t think so. He’s a good guy, you know,” she says, kissing her babies. “Delivered both these guys.”
“Really? You don’t feel weird living down the street from your OBGYN?”
“His partner, Dr. Barbara, was supposed to deliver Sam, but I went into labor on a Sunday, and Holt was on call. I actually asked for another doctor because I thought the same thing—too weird. Then Sam’s heart rate just bottomed out. It’s dangerous because the lack of oxygen could cause brain damage. I swear, Holt had him out in under two minutes. He’s been my doctor ever since.”
“Wow.”
She looks down at her little guys. “Better try to get them to sleep.”
“Sure, it was nice meeting you,” I say. “And if you ever want company while you stroll, just knock on my door. Or send Cooper Loverbull to my tree, whatever works.”
She laughs. “I’ll take you up on it.”
*
I spend the day working on a freelance piece, cleaning up around the house, and trying not to obsess over what the hell I’m doing with my life. For the first time since I buried Logan, I have no plan—no city to travel to, no piece to write, no way to keep my mind busy.
The Reason for Me Page 6
