Page 34 of Sterling Heat

Awkwardness floats between us. It’s difficult to think about her hooking something up to her body and doing what comes naturally to any woman after having a baby. The immature side of me is thinking about the swell of her breasts again and the fact I’ll never know if her nipples are large and dusty or tight and rosy, or some other combination.

“Why don’t you . . . do what you need to do.” I swallow, pointing toward her room. “And I’ll make you dinner.”

“You’re too good to me, Sebastian. But thank you.”

Enough with the gratitude already. But I don’t argue with her. I simply shake my head before she heads to her room.

Twenty minutes later, she reappears. Dinner is almost ready, and I offer her a glass of wine.

“I probably shouldn’t.”

“Right.” The baby. I bought the bottle for Enya without thinking.

“I hope I don’t disturb you during the night. I need to wake up every three hours and express.”

“Express?” I reach for low bowls to serve the pasta in.

“I feel weird saying pump around you.”

Spinning with the bowls in hand, I say. “I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable about anything with me. I know this isn’t conventional but—”

“Hardly conventional,” she interjects.

“But we agreed to be friends. I’m . . . comfortable with you here. Do what you need to do.”

A light flush of pink races over her skin and her eyelids lower while she bites that damn lip. The one I want to suck on and run my tongue over.

“I’m comfortable with you, too.” She slowly lifts her head. Warmth fills those dark eyes and my heart thumps once. Twice.

“I trust you.” The statement is said like she can’t believe it herself, but it’s the third time she’s said it to me. I want to believe her. I want to be trustworthy. I want her to find comfort in me.

We stare at one another for a long minute before the timer goes off for the garlic bread.

“Anyway,” I say, reaching for the oven. “I remember you said you need to wake up every three hours. That’s brutal.”

“I need to work on my supply . . . for Adara.”

“Ah.” I nod while lifting the baking sheet with the bread and setting it on the stove. “I’m a heavy sleeper so I doubt you’ll disturb me.”

Only, hours later, her alarm goes off after I’ve been tossing and turning in bed, knowing someone else is sleeping in my place. Someone beautiful and surprisingly funny, and so fucking appreciative of everything I do for her, when I don’t think anyone’s ever been thankful for anything I’ve done.

The soft hum of a pulsing machine beats through the quiet, and God forgive me, but for half a second, I imagine it’s something else.

Visions of Enya using a little handheld device, pleasuring herself with something thick and long, enters my head, and I cannot fight the desire to grip my dick. Lying flat on my back, with the rhythmic sound in the background, I stare up at the ceiling. With my imagination running wild, I picture Enya’s almond-brown hair spread over a pillow. Her head tipped back. Her mouth slightly open. Her breath heavy and clipped. And her hands between her thighs, toying with a vibrator at her clit. Maybe it’s one of those bunny-eared ones, that hits a sensitive nub and enters her at the same time, and now I’m thinking about her pussy and how sweet it might be.

She’s all sugar. A perfect layer of buttercream frosting over lemony moist cake.

My mouth waters. My fist moves faster. Then the base of my spine tweaks and my balls tighten. I come, digging my teeth into my lower lip and holding back the cry of her name.

Enya. Sweet fucking Enya.

With a heavy sigh, I drape my other arm over my face, closing my eyes, ashamed of myself.

But not that ashamed.

Only once has guilt truly consumed me. That was ten years ago in a dark room, with the stench of heroin, and a coward quivering in a corner of an abandoned farmhouse.

The memory pulls me from my momentary pleasure, and I roll off my bed, swiping a dirty tee from my hamper to clean off my hand before heading to the bathroom to wash up the rest of me.