Page 100 of Mended Hearts

Praise and demand. Apparently that was the recipe for mind-blowing, earth-shattering, leg shaking orgasms. I came so hard my abs cramped. I convulsed around him, crying out as the orgasm shattered every nerve.

He rode me through it, then pressed a hand between my shoulder blades, grinding deep once, twice, before freezing with a guttural, “Fuuuuck.”

We collapsed in a sweaty heap, his face buried in my neck.

“So,” I panted, “that’swhat it’s like to get fucked by Oliver Hart.” No spanking the first time; he’d promised gentle, and I’d had no idea what the alternative was.Holy hell.

His laugh was ragged, satisfied, and impossibly bright. A woman could live off that sound.

“Yeah, baby.”

“You held out on me the first time.”

“Because you weren’tmineon Halloween.”

Jiminy. Fucking. Cricket.

I was toast—and I couldn’t even pretend to be mad about it.

* * *

Golden sunlight creptacross the bed, and every muscle ached as I rolled over, reaching for Ollie—only empty sheets greeted my fingertips. I blinked into the warmth, stomach pitching as I propped myself on one elbow.

Before I could sit up, cheerful whistling floated in. The door swung open, and Ollie danced inside to Van Morrison’sDays Like This.

His carefree grin made me beam almost as wide as last night’s rose-oil bath had. As if half a dozen orgasms weren’t enough to liquefy a woman, he’d pampered me with an Epsom-salt soak and a slow, oil-slick massage. What dumb bitch died and made me queen of Emerald Bay?

Still grooving, he balanced a huge breakfast tray on one palm.

“Hungry, Trouble?”

“Starving.” I tried to stifle the ear-to-ear grin threatening to split my face. “We must’ve burned a million calories, because I’m nauseously hungry.”

“Well, you’ve come to the right place.”

“Have I?” I scooted against the headboard, dragging the comforter with me. “Don't hold out on me.”

“Eggs benny and turkey bacon—you're gonna love it.” He edged closer, tray held high while he moon-walked around the foot of the bed.

“Asshole,” I laughed, cheeks aching as he broke into some head-bob-Egyptian strut. “Ollie!” I complained, stretching grabby hands toward him.

“Okay, okay.”

“Someone is looking outrageously smug,” I observed.

“Yes, well—Leighton Rhodes came on my cock last night. Forgive the swagger.”

I snorted, biting my lip as he presented the tray with a flourish. Thick hollandaise glossed two poached eggs, dusted with cayenne and tucked against a juicy tomato slice and two asparagus spears. Turkey bacon lined the side; orange wedges rimmed the plate. Two glasses of juice wore matching citrus crescents, and coffee steamed beside a silver creamer and a tiny bowl of sweeteners—topped with a single pink blossom.

But thesmell—was that butter in his hollandaise off?

Hot saliva flooded my mouth. Panic crawled up my throat. “Not good.” I bolted.

“Leigh?!” Glasses clinked behind me as I sprinted to the bathroom.

Knees cracked against tile right as my stomach heaved—nothing but bile. I barely caught a breath before another wave forced me over the mercifully polished porcelain throne. Ollie’s bare feet bracketed mine; he gathered my hair off my shoulders.

Fully naked.

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