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Suzie flinched. “Oh, honey,” she whispered. She wrapped her arm around my shoulder. “I’m going to kill Grant.”
“It’s better this way,” I said. And really, I believed it. “I would rather be alone and at peace with that, than be with someone I love and constantly looking over my shoulder, waiting for it all to go to hell.”
Suzie squinted at me in the darkening light. Her mouth quirked in a strange half-smile. “Oh, honey,” she said again, softly.
I rested my head against her shoulder. “Are you still my friend? Even though I broke up with your brother?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said back. “Oh, by the way, I ordered you a pizza. It should be here in five minutes. I figured you’ve brought me enough food in the last two months. It’s my turn.”
I slept in until noon on Saturday. I wasn’t normally a sleep-all-day kind of person, but being awake meant being miserable, unable to do anything but watch my breakup with Michael slide through my brain on repeat.
I gave myself permission to eat a pint of Ben and Jerry’s Half Baked and binge watchBridgerton, but somehow neither of those things was at all appealing. Instead, I settled for changing into the flannel I had stolen from Michael last week, no pants, and thick woolly socks, and curled up on the couch with a book.
The knock on the door startled me. It had to be Kate or Emma, because Suzie would be busy with her gaggle of kids. I felt too depressed to haul my ass off the couch, so I yelled, “Come in!”
But instead of Kate, Michael stepped inside, closing the door softly behind him. I stared at him in shock, unable to speak.
We studied each other. His gaze traveled up and down my body, taking in the flannel and my post-crying ugly face. If he had been crying, I couldn’t tell. Did men cry over breakups? Whether he had cried or not, he wore his heartbreak much better than me, which was brutally unfair. His hair was wild, like he had spent the last hour scrubbing his hands through it, but wild suited him.
“I’m glad you look like hell,” he said, confirming my suspicion that I did indeed look like hell. “I’m glad you’re miserable. I want you to feel—” He choked on the last word.
Well, he had that right, at least. I did feel. I felt pain, like my ribcage was two sizes too small for my heart and the squeezing pressure made it difficult to breathe. I felt need, deep and hungry in my belly. I needed to put my hands on him, needed him to put his hands on me. I needed to consume him.
I rolled onto my knees and held my arms up to him. He hauled me against him, crushing his mouth against mine with stunning ferocity. It hurt and oh, god, the pain felt so good. I couldn’t get enough. He tumbled me backward onto the couch and I let my knees fall open so he landed between them. I took advantage of the opportunity to wrap my legs tight around his thighs, locking him against me. Telling him with my body that if he tried to leave now, I was going to put up a fight.
Fortunately, he didn’t seem inclined to do that. My hands went to his belt. I needed him inside menow. He fisted my shirt—hisshirt—in his hands and arced his hips away from me, breaking the kiss. “No,” he gasped.
My heart folded in on itself like it was sucked into a black hole. Oh, god. “Please—”
“Not yet. I don’t want us to be over yet. We go slow.”
His thumb rubbed my temple and I nodded, understanding. This wasn’t makeup sex. This was goodbye sex. We were on the same page there.
He kissed me again, gentle this time, so sweet it made me ache. His tongue nudged against my lips, coaxing them open. I sucked his tongue lightly into my mouth, where it stroked lazily against my own. Needing to get closer, I slid my hands up and under his shirt. I would go slow, draw this out into forever if I could, but I needed to do that with skin-to-skin contact.
I rubbed my woolly-socked foot up and down his calf and he gave me more of his weight. His dick, hard and heavy, pressed right where I needed it most. The urge to tilt my hips to his was nearly overwhelming, but I held back, forcing myself to focus on the feel of his lips on mine, the taste of his mouth, the velvet steel of his muscled back under my fingertips.
His hand glided down my torso, tracing from my collar bone to my breast to the curve of my waist. Even through the thick flannel I could feel the heat scorching my skin. I lost his mouth as he bent to unbutton my shirt, starting from the bottom and working his way up, kissing each new inch of exposed skin as he went.
By the time he made it to my breast, I was panting, desperate for his mouth. Thank God I wasn’t wearing a bra—best decision I made today. But he took his time there, too, circling my nipple lightly with one finger before he rolled it with his thumb. I arched my back and whimpered. He nuzzled against me, his lips barely brushing my nipple. He made a low, hungry noise in his throat before giving me a deep, hard suck.
My back arched again and this time my hips drove up with it, rubbing myself against his dick. His hand instantly clamped down on my waist, pushing me away from the pressure I so badly needed, and his eyes went to mine.
“If I move my hand, are you going to be good?” he whispered.
I considered it.
“I don’t think I can be,” I said honestly.
He ducked his head, laughing. When he looked up again, his eyes were dark and melty. “Let me take the edge off.”
He shifted onto his side, his back against the couch, taking his weight off me. He traced the waistband of my underwear and then dipped straight inside. I bit my lower lip as his finger slipped between my slick folds and watched as his eyes went from warm to hot. He thrust a finger deep inside and I moaned.
“That’s it, kitten. Take a little more.” One finger became two. His thumb pressed my clit.
My hips rocked, my neck arched, and my eyes closed.
I was nearly there already. It wouldn’t take much longer.
