Total pages in book: 154
Estimated words: 148473 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 148473 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
In the studio, I work on painting a tiny image of a couple on a mirror while Gillian captures photos of me painting a pop art kiss. “You inspired me,” I tell her. “But really, I suppose my husband did since I started making them for him.”
“I bet he loves them,” she says, framing another shot.
With complete certainty I answer her. “Yes. He does.” I pause, thinking once more on the art, but also the meaning behind these mirrors. “I guess my lesson is that when you find someone worthy, you give a little piece of yourself each time—and hope they do the same.”
The words hang in the air along with a wish—that I’ll know that when I feel it. Someone loving me the way I love them.
I keep wondering if I will recognize it that weekend when he returns to town. I wonder if that’s what I feel on Friday night when I spritz on some perfume and rush downstairs after his text that he’ll be home in five minutes. After Max drops him off, I fling open the door to find him striding up the steps two at a time.
Like he’s rushing to me too.
His smile is crooked and his eyes are bright. My heart goes a little wild and this feels like more than friendship.
Still, I don’t trust my own compass. I don’t want to assume the way I feel is normal when it’s always been extra. When I’ve been extra. I want my own love lessons; I need them too. I want to know what all this means, and how it feels to be accepted for who I am. I don’t want to assume, even as he scoops me up into his arms and says, “I’ve fucking missed my wife.”
“Missed you too.”
After he kicks the door closed, we waste no time as he carries me to the living room and sets me on the couch. There, we grab each other, hands and fingers rushing to tear off clothes. He strips off my T-shirt and I hastily unbutton his shirt. “I hope the NHL never changes its travel suit rule but right now I wish it didn’t have one,” I say.
“Me too,” he mutters as I slide off my skirt.
Quickly, I unzip his slacks and free his cock. It’s hard and ready and hot. A quick slide of my palm down his shaft and he’s shuddering. He grabs my hand, squeezing me, squeezing him. “Do you have any idea how much I missed you?”
I shake my head. “No. How much?”
“So fucking much.”
I stroke; he breathes hard.
“Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?”
I shake my head again because I like this game too much. “How beautiful?”
He opens his eyes, his gaze searing. “So fucking hot. So fucking beautiful.”
I grip him harder, sliding my fingers over the head, spreading a drop of the liquid arousal.
He hisses through his teeth.
“Maeve, do you have any idea…” He just bites off the end of that sentence; maybe he was going to talk about sex? His cock throbs against me and he grits out a command, “Put me inside you fucking now.”
His demand makes me wild with desire, so I comply, then rise up and down on him while we both grunt in unison as he fills me up. We fuck, fast and frenzied.
My first orgasm hits me like a tsunami, but after it crashes over me, he adjusts us, putting me on my back, sliding between my thighs, and then he eases out slowly before thrusting back into me. He slows the pace, a long, lingering fuck that dangerously feels like making love. When I look into his eyes, I swear I feel like he’s falling for me.
I close my eyes as that thought hurdles into me. That’s the stuff I can’t let myself think about. That’s too much.
But when I open them again, it’s hard to believe anything else. Still, when we’re done, I have to ask because I have to know, “Was I too much?”
“Too much for what?” he asks incredulously.
“In the way I wanted you?”
He breathes out hard, his gaze more intense now. “That’s just not possible.”
I snort. Not attractive—not one bit—but I can’t help it as I swipe on blush and ask Asher to repeat himself. “Did you actually just say ‘better optics’?”
He nods, tugging on a Henley. Ever since I jokingly asked him at that coffee shop why Henleys, he’s never stopped wearing them when he’s not working out or dressed in a suit. He has other clothes—polos, pullovers—but every day it’s a Henley. Like it’s just for me.
Like the warm nuts he roasts at night. Like the dinners he cooks. The endless orgasms he gives me. Or really, the words of affirmation he showers on me, which I’m starting to realize might actually be my deepest love language. The one I need the most. The one he excels at.