Page 36 of Healing Hearts
It’s theimportantpart that worries me. For me it would be that no matter how we did it. Making myself vulnerable with him in any way is going to feel like free-falling off a cliff. But I don’t know what to do with my feelings if he also considers what we’re doing important, as more than a deal we’ve struck. It can meansomething, but nottoo much, and I have no idea how to walk that line. I’d rather stay away from that line than cross it, but I’m definitely less of a risk taker than Trent.
He leans against the counter and tugs me over so I’m standing between his legs, his hands resting gently on my hips. “You’re overthinking this. At some point,” he says, leaning in so his lips are close to my ear, “I will have you on that kitchen table, but it’ll be because you’ve had the guts to ask me, maybe even beg me, to do it.”
“Maybe you’ll hit the bullseye on the first try,” I whisper. That would be best for both of us, I think. Clean. Quick. No chance of more feelings seeping into our arrangement.
“That would be fate laughing in my face. Giving me an A+ for the first time on something I’d actually enjoy doing multiple times.” He gives my ass a light pat as he steps away and continues the dinner prep.
“We haven’t even done it once, so I don’t know how you can say that.” I pick up my wine and take a big drink for courage. “Maybe you’ll be glad to hit the target the first time.”
“You have been starring in multiple scenarios in my head for far, far too long. I get to admit that tonight. It’s one of the only days in the month I’m allowed to cop to sexual feelings aboutone of my very best friends, so I’m offloading that gem to you. You’re welcome.”
“Multiple scenarios?”
“Oh, yes. All over this house. In your backyard. All over my shop. Just…” He grins at me. “All over.”
Despite the flush across my skin, the way my thighs are tingling in anticipation, I refuse to let myself get carried away. He’s a flirt. Saying these sorts of things to women is probably his modus operandi. Any woman would be thrilled to hear that the man they’re about to have sex with can’t stop thinking about them. He’d know that. It’s part of his charm.
“I just don’t think we should lose sight ofwhywe’re doing this,” I say, but I’m not sure who I’m warning.
Trent doesn’t say anything in response, he just finishes prepping the food before sliding it into the oven. Then he sets a timer, tops up his wine, and he takes a sip while eyeing me from across the kitchen. It feels like an assessing gaze, but I’m not sure what he’s trying to decide.
My pulse climbs as the air grows thick around us. Part of me assumed, considering he’s making dinner, that we wouldn’t have sex until we went to bed, but the way he’s looking at me is not remotely PG. Why am I so turned on by a look?
“You all right over there?” he asks, as though he can read my mind.
Then as he moves around the kitchen, moves around me, his hands keep grazing parts of me—a hip, the small of my back, the curve of my ass while his lips make contact with my bare shoulder or my neck or my temple. Light touches that should mean nothing—he’s always been more affectionate than most—are loaded with anticipation.
My body is a lit fuse, and each point of contact carries the flame of desire closer to detonating.
And although I’ve also thought about having sex with Trent, a lot in the lead up to today, I haven’t let my mind run wild with fantasies. I tried to keep my thoughts mostly clinical, logistical. Now that he’s opened the door by admitting he’s had more salacious thoughts, I can’t stop thinking about all the ways and places we could have sex in the kitchen alone.
Between the touches and my out-of-control brain, I’m so turned on by the time we finish dinner that I don’t want to do anything but drag him upstairs.
After we slot the last dish into the dishwasher, Trent tugs me into his body, his hand going into my hair, and he angles his head, drawing me into a deep kiss.
And I can’t help the moan that escapes, the way I meet his kiss with the same pent-up desire. It’s been weeks since we last kissed, and I can’t believe how much I want this, how much nerves aren’t even a factor. If he stopped right now, changed his mind, I’d cry about more than the loss of a potential baby.
He lifts me onto the counter to stand between my legs, and he runs a rough palm from my ankle and up to my thigh. His fingers curve around to my inner thigh, but he doesn’t move them where I’m dying for them to explore—instead he kneads my flesh.
“Fuck, I love that I get to touch you like this,” he says. “You have no idea how much I’ve thought about it.”
Then he’s kissing me again before I can respond or even really process what he’s said. His hands are up the back of my dress, unsnapping my bra on their way to the nape of my neck, drawing me closer and tighter as he kisses me more. His thumb grazes my raised nipple, and I gasp at the contact.
He breaks the kiss to peer around the kitchen. “Are all the blinds closed?”
“I closed them all when I got home.”
“In case I came home and fucked you on the table?”
“I wasn’t sure how it would go,” I say, but I almost can’t concentrate because his hands have continued to explore my body while he’s been talking. He keeps coming close to where I really, really want them without actually getting there—skimming the edge of my panties with his fingertips but not fully engaging.
“I know exactly how it’s going to go,” he says, giving me a wicked grin before lifting me off the counter.
I wrap my legs around his waist and my arms around his neck as he carries us out of the kitchen. He stops in the hallway and grabs a bag and a couple towels before turning into the living room.
“Here?” I say, surprised.
“Definitely here,” he says, laying me on the wide couch. “One hundred percent here.”
