Page 117 of The Lineman

But I wasn’t ready to say that.

So instead, I reached between us, wrapped my hand around him, and watched as his head tipped back, his breath hitching, his fingers digging into my shoulders.

“That answer your question?” I rasped.

Mike let out a shaky laugh. “Yeah. Yeah, I think it does.”

And then there was no more teasing.

His mouth crashed into mine, and everything turned desperate. His hands were everywhere, sliding over wet skin, gripping, kneading, stroking. The shower was too small, the space between us too tight, and yet it still wasn’t enough.

He lifted one of my legs, bracing it around his hip, and I shuddered as he rolled his hips forward, grinding against me, the friction sending sparks up my spine.

“Fuck, Mike.”

He bit his lip, his hands tightening on me. “Yeah?”

I nodded, breathless.

And then he reached between us, wrapped his fingers around both of us together, and my head hit the tile with a dull thud as my eyes slammed shut.

“Jesus—”

“Just let go,” he murmured, his voice wrecked, his breath coming fast. “I’ve got you.”

And I did.

I let myself feel it.

The heat, the weight of him against me, the steady, perfect rhythm of his hand. The way his lips pressed against my throat, murmuring my name like it meant something.

I wasn’t sure if I came first or if he did. It didn’t matter.

Chapter thirty-two

Mike

Elliotsaggedagainstthetile, his breath still coming in rough, uneven gasps, his forehead buried into my shoulder. I pressed a hand to his back, feeling the way he trembled slightly beneath my touch.

I reached past him to turn off the water, but I didn’t let go. Not yet.

He needed this.

Needed to be held, to be wanted without question.

And I needed it, too, needed him, more than I’d ever needed anyone.

I pressed a kiss to his shoulder. “Come on. Let’s get you dry before you pass out on me.”

He let out a lazy, exhausted hum, but he let me lead him out of the shower, let me wrap a towel around his shoulders before I grabbed another and started rubbing him down.

He huffed as I worked over his chest and arms. “I can dry myself, you know.”

“I know,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Humor me. I want to do this for you.”

He sighed, closing his eyes, and for the first time since I’d seen him that night, he looked fully relaxed.

That filled me with a warmth I may never fully understand. How could an utterly lazy lopsided grin and innocently closed eyes make my heart feel fuller than my stomach after a meal at Mrs. H’s house?

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