Page 73 of Until Then

Derrick carefully pulls away from me. As he goes, he takes in every inch of my body, though it’s not in a lustful way like before. Instead, it’s as though he’s checking me over to ensure that I’m okay. His attention lingers on my throat, like maybe, like me, he’s thinking about what it felt like to have his hand there.

He’s still inside me, still half hard. The urge to wiggle my hips, to bring that friction back, is strong, but I can’t stay in this position much longer. Being fucked on the bathroom counter is hot and all, but it’s not exactly comfortable.

Derrick pulls out of me slowly, and I whimper at the loss of him.

His eyes narrow in on that sensitive place between my thighs—aching from both the loss of him and what he just did to my body—then he’s sliding a hand up my leg.

“What are you?—”

His touch leaves me speechless. With two fingers, he gently pushes his semen back inside me.

The action is far hotter than I ever could have imagined, and I’m not sure I want to know what that says about me.

When his warm eyes meet mine, I search for any sign of regret there, but I find nothing.

Though the man can be so incredibly difficult to read.

His eyes still on mine, he slides the shower door open and reaches behind him to turn it on.

He waits for the water to warm, then he drags me inside with him.

“Just a shower,” he says. “Nothing more.”

It’s a lie. We both know it.

He doesn’t protest when I sink to my knees and take him into my mouth.

I don’t protest when he lifts me and puts my back against the wall, then settles his cock deep inside me once more.

Now that I’ve had him, I don’t know how I’ll ever live without this.

20

DERRICK

I had sex with Izzy.

I. Had. Sex. With. Izzy.

Sex with Izzy, I had.

Izzy and I had sex.

My brain takes the words and twists them, turns them, reorders them. Like eventually they’ll form a different outcome. But they won’t. I—we—crossed a line we can’t come back from. Frankly, I don’t want to.

It was an accident. At first, at least. The initial confrontation. There’s no way the sex could be categorized that way. I didn’t know she’d come back to the house, and God help me for needing some kind of relief. I was content to take it into my own hands, literally. I might see the way Izzy looks at me, but I never would’ve crossed that line. I just… couldn’t. Not until she crossed it for me.

I think of the way she looked on the counter—naked, with swollen lips and her face red from my beard.

“What are you thinking about?”

The sound of her voice jerks me out of my thoughts and back to the present. Where she sits on the kitchen island, legs dangling, she pops a grape into her mouth, waiting with an amused curl of her lips. Her hair is damp from the shower, her cheeks still flushed. My T-shirt dwarfs her small frame, the white fabric falling delicately off one shoulder. I can’t help myself when I step away from the stove and place a kiss there. That small intimacy feels even better than the sex. It’s not like I’m a monk. I’ve had hookups over the years. But notthis. Not with a woman I can cook for and kiss so casually and share my space with.

With a giggle, she glides her hand over my bare chest.

I go with total honesty. “I was thinking about you.”

“You’re not freaking out on me, are you?” She asks the question with a smile, but she can’t hide the flash of fear in her eyes.

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