Page 52 of Late to Love

But I don’t want to. I want more. I don’t want this to stop. My body barrels forward without care as I draw up onto my elbows, the orgasm blooming from deep inside me. I shake with the release, crying out.

Anthony groans with his own release, losing his rhythm before slamming into me and stilling, his cock twitching as his fingers press divots into my hips. “So good,” he pants, then bends and places the sweetest of kisses on me, peppering them from one shoulder to the other.

I hum in response, unable to do more than revel in the post-orgasmic bliss.

“So fucking perfect,” he rasps, then pulls out. “The prettiest picture, you bent over with my cum trickling down your leg.” He delivers a light smack on my ass, then says, “Stay there. I’ll be right back.”

My legs shake with the effort of staying upright, but in moments, he’s back with a wet washcloth, cleaning me gently. The care and attention of it surprises me, even though I should have expected it.

When he’s finished, he puts the washcloth in the hamper and we set the fitted sheet back to rights, then we climb into the bed and he tucks me to him, little spoon to big spoon. He kisses my shoulder and whispers, “Go to sleep,” and my eyes prick with unwelcome emotion. I’ve never been cuddled like this. Never felt the heaviness of an arm settle on top of me as someone drifts into sleep. Never had someone who could both command me and care for me.

I stay awake long into the night, reveling in the way our bodies fit against each other, the sound of his breathing, and the feel of simply being wanted. Eventually, I drift off to sleep, and when I wake up in the morning, I find he’s gone.

Chapter19

Anthony

WHEN DARCY SHOWS up on Saturday, I’m already waiting for her. Her surprise is evident, and I can’t decide if I’m insulted by it, or simply happy that I’m the first one who’s ever given her the attention and care she deserves. She’s mentioned only one guy before, Jason, and it sounds like he was a douche.

She skids to a halt in the doorway, a thermos in one hand and her tote filled to the brim with who knows what. With a pointed glance at the table that’s seemed to get worse for wear this past month, she asks, “What’s all this?”

“This is breakfast before you start working,” I answer simply. Then I pull the chair out and gesture for her to have a seat.

The smile she gives me, pure and delighted, stabs into my heart with something I don’t want to investigate. “You made me breakfast?”

“I’m helping you today, too. For a few hours, at least.” I push her chair in, then head to the kitchen.

“How do you know I haven’t eaten already?” she calls out.

I snort. The woman never eats in the morning, even though it’s clear she needs it. She’s always happier, her focus and efforts better, when she does.

When I set the plate in front of her, she gasps. “You…made waffles?” Then she giggles. “And you put a strawberry and blueberry smiley face on mine?”

“What’s the point of waffles if you can’t make a face with them?”

Her answering laugh is brighter than the sunshine streaming through the windows. “I’m almost sad to ruin this masterpiece, Anthony, but I love fruit. And waffles.”

I cut my own up and watch as she takes her first bite. The moan she gives is enough to make me want to throw her over my shoulder and have my way with her. Forget the work that has to be done today. She’s closed her eyes, the fork held in the air as though she can’t be bothered to move it while she’s so focused on the bite, and there’s a bit of syrup on the side of her mouth that is positively sinful.

Finally, she swallows and opens her eyes, pinning me with those bright aqua blues as she licks the syrup off. “I can’t believe any of this.”

I chew my forkful before asking, “Believe what?”

She gestures with her hand. “All of this. You cooked me breakfast. You made waffles. With a cute little smiley face on it. And bacon. You madebacon.” She shoves half a piece in her mouth and it’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. “You, Anthony Hall, are sweet.”

I bristle. “I am no such thing.”

She cackles at my reaction. “Oh, you most definitely are. And no one knows it but me.” Her eyes soften as she reaches for the coffee I’ve made exactly how she likes it. “Thank you.”

My face warms, and I clear my throat. “You’re welcome. It’s what anyone would do.”

“Not even close,” she murmurs. And then, as if she’s aware of how uncomfortable all of this has made me, she changes gears. “So, you’re helping me this morning?”

I nod, beyond grateful. “How much longer do you think you have?”

She looks past me, assessing the loft. “Probably one more week or so. We’re close. I’ve got all the paint, and I’m waiting for some things to come in that I’ve ordered to replace the tragedy that is your current furniture?—”

“Hey!” I object.

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