Page 14 of Loving at 40

“Why am I on the couch with you?” Caution mixes with confusion in her voice, and on reflex, my fingers squeeze the fleshy part behind her upper thigh.

“You passed out on me.”

“I did?” Her brows lift.

Maybe not exactly on me, which would have been pleasurable. However, we’d been mid conversation. Then again, we weren’t talking. We were just sitting beside one another, each with our own thoughts. Being near Jenna was comforting, quiet, and peaceful without any bickering, attempts at jealousy, or blatant lies. I was so tired of pretending—pretending I cared during my last mission when I hadn’t. Guilt was what I felt, according to my therapy sessions.

Attempting to move Jenna last night, she’d slid to her side, and I decided to adjust her position on the couch. As uncomfortable as the cushions might be, the old sofa offered her more room than a twin bed shared with her kid. I could have carried her to my bed, but then I knew I’d want to crawl in next to her, which I couldn’t do. I had every intention of leaving her alone on the couch.

Then she reached for my tee, holding the thin material like I was her personal life preserver, and she was floating out to sea. She tugged at me with strength I wouldn’t have expected from a sleeping body, and I gave in to the temptation to be close to her. I just wanted to hold her. Or maybe I wanted her to hold me. Folding to my side, I curled her into my chest and clung to her like my own lifesaving buoy.

Her palm eventually flattened over my racing heart, and her body sank into the mold of mine, melding her curves against my planes.

She fit. I liked the fit.

“Passed out in the middle of speaking, ’Locks,” I clarify.

Her eyes widen. “What did I say?” Her own groggy tone does nothing to settle the raging hard-on in my jeans, standing at attention and begging to salute her. I should get myself under control, but I can’t pass on this opportunity to mess with her a little bit.

“You told me your darkest secret,” I tease, and her eyes narrow.

“Really?” she says in a smoky morning voice. “And what would that be?”

“You don’t know your own deepest thought?” Leaning away only an inch, I give us distance I don’t want because all I want is to close my lips over hers and see if she tastes as sweet as she smells. Something fruity and fresh tickles my nose. I want to savor the fragrance, wear it on my tongue, and lick it off my fingers.

“Enlighten me,” she quietly suggests as the corners of those lush lips curve upward.

“You want me.” Bold, direct, and highly unlikely, I’ve planted a seed. Do I want her to want me?

“Hardly.” She snorts. Her cute nose wrinkles, and I can’t help myself. I lean forward and kiss the tip. This causes her to pull back, but there’s nowhere to go. She’s trapped between my large body and the cushion behind her. We’re snug with two long bodies on this old couch, but as I’ve said, I like the fit.

“Yeah. Who’d want a strapping man, ripe with desire to please you and give you what you need.” Why am I flirting with her? However, her leg hitches higher against my hip, and my fingers dig deeper into her upper thigh. She’s flirting with trouble, and that trouble is me.

“Strapping man? Are we living in the 1800s? You sound like Gaston.” She’s teasing me, dropping her voice as she lowers her gaze to my mouth.

“Should I know what that is?”

“He’s not a what. He’s a who in Disney’s Beauty and the Beast, and he’s more a beast than the Beast.”

“If any of that made sense to me, you might have crushed my ego.”

“It’s so big, I doubt it’d hurt.” Her mouth curls into a delicious smile.

I softly chuckle. She has no idea how much she could hurt me, but I don’t hint at it.

You don’t deserve to be loved. I chase away the damning thought.

Instead, I hold up a thick hand and pinch my forefinger and thumb together in a teasing gesture. “Maybe just a wee bit.”

Jenna huffs again, and I brush back the hairs slipping over her cheek. Watching the motion of my fingers sliding through those silky locks around her ear, I catch another whiff of her fruity scent, and my mouth waters for a sip of her, which is strange because I don’t kiss, not on the mouth anyway.

A moment passes before she speaks. “And what is it you think I need? How could you please me?”

Direct and to the point again, I’d say she’s in need of getting laid. However, I won’t project my own desires on her.

“I’d start by kissing you.” Still flirting with her, I drop my voice as quiet as I can with such a deep tenor. Her eyes widen, and her lips part just the slightest bit. My mouth salivates. My heart gallops. What is this crazy sensation? I don’t kiss lips, but I want to kiss hers. I want to savor her.

“And you think your kiss would please me?” She swallows, and my fingers glide down the column of her throat and under her chin.