Page 24 of Where the Wattles Bloom

Just because her libido had been dead and she hadn’t been able to climax all year, didn’t mean she was broken. It was the medication and, well, obviously, lack of Lachlan.

Wait …

Why was she suddenly thinking about not coming when her body was clearly on its way there? Or had been, anyway. But not now, apparently. The build-up was slowing. Things were … plateauing. The end goal was getting further and further out of her reach.

Sure, it felt good, but the promise of crescendo was fading fast.

No. Please god, no.

Rowena bit back a frustrated whimper, squeezing her eyes shut, determined to get it back. It was right there, dangling just out of reach. Like a pull cord, so close she could almost feel it with the tips of her fingers—all she had to do was reach a little further.

Lachlan was close, too. She could tell by the tremble of his shoulders beneath her palms, the desperate roughness of his panting as he puffed hot air on her neck, the crazed kinda edge to his groans. His hand near her head was fisted in the sheet, the knuckles white with the effort to hold off.

To wait for her to finish first.

But she wasn’t going to finish. Rowena knew that as sure as she knew the sun would rise in the east tomorrow. Given her recent history, it had probably been a tall order to begin with, but now she was so in her head about it.

Forget it.

No matter how good her body felt—and there was something inherently orgasmic about this kind of possession—it was like there was some kind of disconnect between her body and her brain.

Physical arousal alone was only half of the puzzle.

And she was damned if she was going to ask this one-anddone guy to help her figure it out. But for sure, unlike a lot of men, Lachlan McCabe, who was probably counting freaking sheep right now waiting for her, would notice if she didn’t come.

So, Rowena did what any self-respecting woman who wanted to avoid an embarrassing conversation about her dysfunctional body with a man who was never going to be between her thighs again would do in this situation.

She faked it.

Eight

Lachlan was feeling pretty damn pleased with himself when he made his way to the bathroom to ditch the condom. Not only had he been propositioned by a woman he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about since he’d met her, but they’d had spectacular sex.

Like, screaming his name, clutching his ass, clawing up his back spectacular. An orgasm for the books—even if he did say so himself. Considering it’d been a while, he’d not been rusty at all.

That’s when he noticed it and all his happy hormones disappeared in a puff.

Fuck.

The condom had broken. Actually, ruptured was probably a better descriptor. The latex had been blown wide open, with very little evidence within the condom that he’d come at all. Which meant …

Double fuck.

He tried to remember how old the condom was, something he hadn’t thought about prior to grabbing it out of his wallet. But now he remembered Reggie had put it in there the day his divorce became final with a humour me smile. So, it was at least four years old.

Triple fuck.

Quickly reconstructing the condom to check it was all there and not half inside of Rowena, he washed his hands and went to give her the bad news.

He walked back into the room, making a beeline for his pile of clothes because this seemed like a conversation best had clothed. Which was a pity, because Rowena lying there blissed out in the soft lamplight, her hair spread on the pillow, was a sight to behold.

Lachlan stepped into his underwear. ‘So … there’s a bit of a problem.’

Which pretty much rammed a pickaxe right through her bliss. Pulling the sheet up as she wriggled into a sitting position, she eyed him warily.

‘Okay.’

He picked up her shirt and cocked an eyebrow at her—she was probably going to want to be dressed, too. Rowena nodded and he tossed it in her direction. She ducked into it while he ducked into his, then he grabbed his jeans and stepped into them for good measure.