Page 111 of 13 Rules For Fantastic Phone Sex

“The sexy shoes can stay on,” he says with a laugh.

We tumble into the bedroom, where he picks me up and deposits me in a pile of down and blankets, then flings his clothes to the floor before crawling under the bedding with me and covering me with his sinful bare body. He toys with a strand of my hair, curling it before letting it go. I wrap an arm around his neck and gently tug his ebony locks as he shifts to nestle his body between my legs.

He’s warm and happy, and the shy way he looks away and back again sends me. “I love having your arms around me.”

Henry loves me up in a way that I didn’t know was possible. Deep, swoony kisses, sweet little pecks, drugging slides of his lips on mine that leave me dazed, with no time in between to think. He’s melting me into a puddle of satisfaction, gooey and needy, until I can’t speak or think. I can only delight in the bliss that is his touch.

Sweetness and devotion mingle with the lust and absolute longing in his gaze.

“Babes, you’ve got goose bumps. Come closer.” He’s gentle. He shifts onto his back, pulling me along so I can tuck into his hold, one arm slung around my shoulder, while he threads our fingers together where they rest on his belly.

“That’s better. Nice and warm.” My heart gives a happy little thump as he pushes my hair over my shoulder to keep it out of my face.

I drift off and stir to Henry making me the little spoon. He slides an arm under my neck and rests his hand on my hip. I’ve never been more fulfilled or peaceful.

His breath is warm against my neck as he brushes his lips over my nape, whispering, “You are beyond my wildest dreams, Kait.” I sigh, content in the cloudy space between sleep and awake. His hand is splayed across my belly, keeping me near. He says something that sounds a lot like love, but it’s muffled where his lips press into my shoulder.

I dream of him, but for the first time, reality is better than my fantasies.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

HENRY

“EVEN BETTER THAN THE REAL THING” — U2

The weekend passes in a flash of pleasure and comfort. Kait climbs into my lap every chance she gets, a welcome anchor because I feel light enough to float away. Aside from making ourselves decent enough for Jess to stop by on Saturday morning and grab her things, we’ve barely been more than three feet apart.

“Stay with me?” she said.

I whispered back, “Always,” with my lips against the top of her precious head so she couldn’t hear me. It’s too soon to declare undying love. First, we try, then maybe we trust, but…

My Kait is back. My Kait, the hilarious, ridiculous, and funny, silly, sweet, insane little love monkey with the sharp wit and the snarky tongue—did I mention hilarious?—is back. With a vengeance. She has roared back into my life, fueled with orgasms, caffeine, and a delivery of chocolate. The Kait who was giddy when we got to talk, the one who welcomes me into her life with open arms and says my name without hesitation, is here. With me.

I tickle her, and she squeals my name. I kiss her, and she sighs my name. I fuck her, and she moans my name. I am hers. She is mine. And at the risk of sounding like an idiot, we exceed all reasonable expectations.

We spend Sunday night at my place. I’m unwilling to be away from her, and we make the two-minute trek holding hands.

Our weekend comes to an abrupt end with the Monday morning sunrise. It’s crazy to think that on Friday morning, I went to the Other Bean to get coffee—let’s be honest here—to see Tiny.

“Babes?” I call when I come out of the master bath and she’s nowhere to be found. I have a moment of panic. It’s the first time we’ve been apart since I found her.

“I’m making breakfast,” she calls back.

Kait is radiant, glowing even. She’s in my kitchen, in my clothes, and I’ve never been so happy to be late for work. The wrapper for the last tiny Snickers from my secret stash is on the counter, and she’s turned up my sound system to levels approaching deafening, and it’s only 7:00 a.m. She’s lip-syncing the dirtiest parts of “Lunch” by Billie Eilish with a spatula microphone while she fusses with some eggs on the stove.

I lean against the kitchen island and take it all in. I found her either seconds or a lifetime ago on Friday night, and I’m transformed in the most intense and magical ways. I can take a deep breath again. Smiling doesn’t feel like a lie my face tells anymore.

My life flashes before my eyes, but I’m not dying.

This is my life.

My future is dancing around my kitchen in my favorite sleep shorts, two sizes too big and held up only by a drawstring and a U2 shirt that dwarfs her frame. I close my eyes and wish, again, for her life to be filled with happiness and joy. I throw my whole heart into that wish. Then I close in on her, one hand on her shoulder and the other around her waist, and we sway together while I kiss the top of her head and murmur, “A chuisle mo chroí.”

“Are you going to leave me here to do the walk of shame all by myself? You should have to do it with me.”

“There is no such thing as a walk of shame, Kaitypoo.”

She gives me the stink eye, which makes me want to use the name more often. “Besides, you should be strutting around like a superhero, given the quantity and quality of the sexual favors you provided this weekend. You rock my world, babes. Zero shame in your game.”