Page 101 of This Could Be Us

He brushes my clit again, sending a jolt through my legs and curling my toes in my boots.

“You know I want you inside,” I choke out.

Two big fingers plunge into me, and we gasp together when he breaches that most intimate place for the first time. He begins slow and steady, then becomes urgent and ruthless. He wrenches a second orgasm from me, this one accompanied by a scream that flees my body and climbs the walls of the shed. I almost clench my legs together to keep him when he withdraws from me. I search for the embarrassment, for the shame of coming all over his hand. Of screaming his name in the back of his 1964 vintage pickup truck. Of taking pleasure in the sweet, soft, rough, right places I find it.

But there’s no shame. No embarrassment when he looks at me and smiles, eyes searching my face.

“That was…” I sigh and rest my hand on his chest. “If I smoked, I’d have a cigarette.”

His rich, throaty laughter coaxes a chuckle from me too.

“You didn’t…” I falter, my amusement withering when I notice his erection. “We can—”

“Not necessary,” he assures me, his deep voice rumbling under my palm. “I’ll be fine.”

“But you—”

“We said ten minutes and it’s been thirty.” He drops a kiss to my forehead. “You need to get back to your girls and your sister.”

“Shit.” I cannon up and scramble off the truck bed. “How could I forget…”

His usual impassive expression doesn’t hide the smug satisfaction lurking beneath the strong planes of his face.

“Oh, God.” I laugh and point at him. “You’re so happy you made me forget.”

“Not happy, no.” He takes my hand and kisses the back of it. “But I don’t regret that. I don’t want you to feel guilty being here with me too long on Christmas Eve with your family waiting for you.”

“Thank you.” I step close, tip up on my toes, and kiss his cheek. At the last minute he turns to capture my lips with his, groaning when our tongues tangle. His hands slide down my back to cup my ass, lifting me closer. When I’m drowning in sensation and oblivious to time, rolling my hips into his hardness, he’s the one to pull away.

“You should go,” he says, strain laced in the words and on his face.

His hand rests possessively at my hip, and he slaps my ass lightly. It seems like such an un-Judah thing to do, it makes me laugh. It’s a happy, unfettered sound that floats around us in the cool night air. He takes my hand and walks me into the kitchen to grab my purse and then on to my car.

Has it only been a year that I’ve known him? It feels like our times together have been concentrated—so much has been poured into every interaction. We’ve learned and revealed so many things about each other. He’s a friend who, as much as I resist it, becomes more every day.

“Fly safe,” I tell him when we reach my car.

“Enjoy your sister,” he says, opening the door for me. “Thank you for thepasteles.”

“Make sure the boys get some.”

“They only eat about four things,” he laughs. “But I’ll try.”

Once I climb in, he presses one arm against the car over his head and leans in until our mouths align. He takes a slow, thorough kiss, and I give him everything he wants.

“Can I call you?” he asks.

It’s an innocent question, but it holds significance. We’re not meeting “by coincidence.” We’re not running into one another. Even if I wanted to reduce what happened tonight to merely a physical connection, there is an honesty in the way we touch each other, look at each other, that would call me a liar if I tried to pretend this was casual.

“You can call, yeah.” I brush my knuckles over his cheek, and my heart turns so tender it hurts. “Merry Christmas, Judah.”

He kisses my forehead and cups the back of my head gently. “Merry Christmas, sweetheart.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

SOLEDAD

We want to see Dad.”

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