Page 137 of Let It Breathe
“Oh, God, Clay—I’m so close.”
He thrust deeper, no longer afraid of hurting her. She screamed, and Clay gripped her waist, his fingers pressing into the soft flesh.
“Yes!” she screamed, and slammed against him.
Everything exploded then, the light behind his eyes, the throbbing in his eardrums, something deep inside Reese.
“I love you,” he murmured against her hair. “I’ve always loved you.”
Chapter 22
Reese woke up blinking beneath a thin sheet of sunlight blazing through her half-open blinds. She grabbed her phone to check the time, startled to realize it was after eight a.m.
She hadn’t slept that late in years.
She patted the mattress beside her, hating the twinge of disappointment she felt at discovering Clay wasn’t there. Sitting up, she swung her legs out of bed just as Clay swept through the doorway wearing a pair of boxer shorts and carrying a breakfast tray.
“Not so fast.” He set the tray on the nightstand, picked up her legs, and lifted them back into bed. Then he crawled in beside her and grabbed the tray.
Reese reached for a cup of coffee. “Breakfast in bed?”
“We already used the kitchen for bedroom activities.” He grinned as he pulled the sheets up around them. “Might as well use the bedroom for eating.”
“Very wise,” she said and bit into a piece of toast.
“I am wise. That’s why we’re going to argue now.”
She raised an eyebrow. “That’s your idea of post-coital romance?”
“No, breakfast is my idea of post-coital romance.” He bit the corner off his own piece of toast. “The arguing is foreplay for more romance.”
She swallowed a mouthful of coffee, studying Clay over the rim of her mug. He looked awfully cheerful, which made sense considering how many things they’d done last night to give each other reasons to smile.
But now it was daylight, and uncertainty trickled through her consciousness like it always did.
“You have doubts,” Clay said, apparently reading her mind as he spooned eggs onto a plate and grabbed a fork. “So I’m going to shoot them down one by one. Start anywhere you like.”
Reese shook her head, smiling in spite of herself. “This is all part of your new ‘say what you mean, even if it’s rude’ agenda?”
“Pretty much.”
“Fine. I run a vineyard. I live at a vineyard. You are a former alcoholic.”
“No, I am an alcoholic,” he pointed out. “I’ll always be an alcoholic. I just happen to be in recovery.”
“That’s not helping your cause.”
“Yes, it is, because I recognize it.” Clay scooped up a helping of eggs. “You know how many drunks can’t do that?”
She opened her mouth to argue, but Clay shoved in a forkful of eggs.
“Chew,” he ordered. “Here’s the thing, Reese—I know myself better than I ever did when I was a drunk. I know what my triggers are and how to avoid them. I know what I can and can’t handle, and I know I can handle being at a vineyard. What I can’t handle is being at this vineyard with you always worrying that I’m going to dive headfirst into a barrel of Chardonnay.” He gave a dramatic shudder. “I always hated Chardonnay.”
“I love Chardonnay.”
“Perfect. More for you. See how well this is working out?”
“You’re asking me to trust you,” she said flatly.
