In the sheath of glowing heat that envelops us, I anticipate a hard fall into a feral kiss. His hands bite into my backside, and his hungry breaths spin around mine. But he doesn’t attack my mouth, seemingly fighting an internal war. A war that eventually ends with him backing me out of the stairwell and leading me to my bedroom.
My pulse kicks up, and my legs wobble. Is he going to fuck me against the wall? Bend me over the bed? Take me on top of the dresser?
He does none of those things as he tucks me beneath the covers. He digs for the sheet beneath the blanket, which has been kicked to the foot of the bed. I help him, but it gives me pause. The bedspread is so tangled up… This isn’t how I left it two days ago.
“You slept in my bed.” I stare at the sheets, glad they’ve been washed since last time Trace slept here.
“It used to be our bed.”
“But I wasn’t here.”
“Your scent is.” He pats the pillow and pulls the bedding over me. “It’s one of the countless layers that will always be a part of you. When we’re wrinkled and toothless and fucking like arthritic animals, you’ll still smell like you.”
I burst into laughter and sink onto the mattress, clinging to the thread that connects us. “I never stopped missing you.”
“I’ll never stop loving you.” Switching off the light, he leans down and gives me a lingering kiss. “Sleep well, my beautiful girl.”
When he slips out of my room, I’m not sure I’ll sleep at all. It hurts to watch him walk away, and he’s only going downstairs.
There’s no way I could watch him walk away forever.
The next morning, I wake with the sunlight from the window warming my face. My muscles feel rejuvenated, and my mind is clear. By some miracle, I conked out quickly last night and slept straight through.
I climb out of bed and head to the bathroom, cringing at the raucous noise thumping from the basement. Cole’s already hard at work, lifting weights and blaring his punk rock music. A grin lifts my cheeks as I picture him lip syncing and banging his head with belligerent intensity.
After emptying my bladder and brushing my teeth, I find freshly-brewed coffee waiting for me in the kitchen. I prepare a cup, sipping and sighing and feeling sweetly spoiled.
To return the favor, I blend up a protein shake for him and carry the chocolaty, foamy concoction to the basement. The loud, insistent music leads the way, contaminating my ears with violent lyrics.
My blood heats in anticipation of watching his ripped physique flex through his workout. With the music drowning out my footsteps, maybe I can spy on him for a while, observe him in all his unguarded, sweat-dripping, muscle-shredding glory.
I step off the last step, round the corner, and stumble to a gasping stop.
On the far side of the basement, he grips the edge of his workbench, an arm braced on the edge to support the weight of his upper body. His other hand isn’t pumping iron. The dumbbells lie at his feet, forgotten, as he pumps the hard, swollen jut of his erection instead.
My hand flies to my mouth, muffling my squeak, and the protein shake starts to slip from my fingers. I tighten my grip, saving it from crashing to the floor.
I should go. Turn around and sneak upstairs before he sees me. But the erotic sight paralyzes me in place, tingling my skin and accelerating my breaths.
The thrashing music swallows his noises, but I know he’s grunting. His mouth is open, and the ridges in his glistening torso contract and bunch with the rapid pace of his stroking hand. The upper curve of his ass flexes above the workout shorts, which hang precariously around his thighs.
And his cock… Holy hell, it looks longer, thicker than I remember, jerking in the fist of his hand. My mouth waters with the need to wrap my lips around him, to lap at the salty glans, and devour him whole.
He hasn’t noticed me, his head turned slightly away, as he focuses on the framed photo on the workbench.
I unlock my legs and take a few steps closer, squinting at the object of his attention.
It’s a picture of me in the dance studio, stretching during one of my warm-ups. He’s jacking off to that?
My chest clamps and swells as conflicting emotions barrel through me. Guilt pinches the hardest. He’s thinking only of me while my heart is torn in two. But I also feel relief and gratefulness and…arousal.
There isn’t a warm-blooded woman on the planet who wouldn’t be turned on by this. He’s so damn virile and beautifully built, from the right-angled outline of his mitered shoulders to the V-cut contour of his abs and hips. His physique is a chiseled masterpiece of sexuality and manhood.
Desire throbs between my legs, dampening my flesh. I wet my lips and inch forward another step.
“Danni.” The profile of his mouth forms the word, his voice inaudible beneath the roaring music.
I freeze, suddenly nervous and a little ashamed for spying on him. He doesn’t look at me, but he knows I’m here, ogling him like a pervert.
The hand on his cock slows, stopping to cup the tight sac beneath. Then he slowly moves his head and meets my eyes.
He doesn’t speak, but he doesn’t have to. It’s all there in the taut muscles of his face—longing, frustration, and a hunger so potent it turns his jawline to stone.
I should head out and leave him to it, but everything inside me rages against that idea. I want to give him a hand, maybe two, and bring him over the edge, panting, shaking, and blissfully replete.
His eyes harden, and he lifts his chin toward the stereo that sits against the wall. I move toward it and power it off, blanketing the basement in silence.
When I pivot back to him, his shorts are pulled into place, his palms flat against the surface of the workbench as he leans into his arms.
“I didn’t mean to…” I shift my weight, tongue-tied and flushed. “I brought you a protein shake.” I set it beside the stereo.
He nods and closes his eyes, breathing heavily through his nose.
The damp basement air thrashes with awkwardness. This isn’t us. We fight, yell, bitch, and call each other out on our fuck-ups. But we’re never awkward together.
My attention falls to the bottle of lube on the workbench beside his hand. My no sex rule exists for a reason, but that doesn’t mean I can’t give a little. Without over-analyzing it, I stride toward him, snatch the lube, and climb onto the futon, kneeling at the center.
“Come here,” I say to his back.
“Not a good idea, baby.”
“I trust you.”
His shoulders heave with an unwieldy breath before he straightens, turns to face me, and narrows his eyes at the lube in my hand. “What are you—?”
“Take off your shorts.” I lean to the side and glance at his feet. “And your shoes and socks. Then lie down on your back.” I pat the mattress.
With a hand on his hip, he grips the back of his neck and stares at his tented shorts, at his sneakers, at the floor, all while hissing through his clenched teeth.
“Please?” I blink doe eyes at him.
“Fucking killing me here.” He drags both hands down his face, groaning. Then he toes off the shoes and kicks them out of the way as he prowls toward me. “You’re playing with fire, you crazy woman.”
“I can handle you.”
“I don’t know about that.” His posture is so stiff he looks uncomfortable as he lowers onto the edge of the mattress.
He removes his socks, grips the waistband of his shorts, and stares at his lap. Hesitating. I pop the cap on the lube, and the noise seems to pull him out of his head. In one fluid motion, he shoves off the shorts and rolls to stretch over six feet of golden naked brawn beside me on his back.
My attention instantly falls on the black snake inked in terrifyingly beautiful detail around his powerful thigh. The rest of his tattoos were removed in a single surgery. I don’t know how or where or anything else about it, since he refuses to disclose the specifics.
“The things I want to do to you…” He clasps his hands behind his head and stares up at me with hooded eyes. “I want to violate every tight little hole in your body until you forget he ever—”
“Enough of that.” I cover his mouth with my hand until his face slackens. Then I run my fingers through his hair. “Relax. Can you do that for me?”