Page 11 of If You Never Come Back
When he laces his fingers in mine, pressing them against the mattress, my breath catches. Yes. This is exactly how I want to come, his hands gripping me, face-to-face, our bodies molded together.
I’ve never, ever been one to climax the first time I’m with a guy. But tonight is different. Anything is possible with a well-endowed almost-stranger I feel instant chemistry with.
The friction from his pelvis rubbing against my most sensitive spot has me seeing stars already. “I’m close,” I whisper.
“Me too.”
Friction gives way to heat, which gives way to climax for the second time in one night. My body moves just the same. Thrashing, convulsing, shaking. Only this time it’s done while I’m wrapped around Wes. Sweet, solid, intoxicating Wes.
He grunts and tenses above me, then eases. We end with him on top of me, a perfect pile of sweat, skin, and breath.
It’s a struggle just to mumble with my brain coated in post-pleasure fog, my body a trembling mass. But somehow the words spill out. “Best. Valentine’s Day. Ever,” I gasp.
A throaty laugh and a kiss on my forehead are his replies. “You took the words right out of my mouth.”
Chapter Three
Gentle scratches on my shoulder wake me. It’s Wes’s stubble as he softly kisses me. I give a satisfied “Mmm,” then yawn.
I register his body spooned against me. So that must be why I feel so toasty. Most winter mornings I cocoon myself into my comforter like a human burrito. But this morning I don’t have to, with Wes’s skin on my skin creating the most delicious heat. What a delightful change of pace.
He kisses a trail along the side of my neck before hugging me from behind. I groan at his slow, steady pace. Already my heart is racing. The ease in which we wake up in each other’s arms is almost unnerving. How can I feel so comfortable with someone I met less than twenty-four hours ago?
Remy’s words from last night echo in my brain.
As long as your gut and your lady bits give you the green light, go with it.
“Good morning,” Wes says, his voice low and scratchy.
I spin around, offering my own greeting in the form of a sloppy, teasing kiss. My gut and my lady bits are still very, very into Wes.
“One sec,” he mutters between kisses before jetting off to the bathroom.
When he walks back out, he stops at the makeshift office space I have set up in the corner of my studio apartment. I fight the urge to cover my face with a pillow. He’s getting an up-close look at the cluttered mess I call my dream job.
I watch him as his gaze moves slowly across my workspace. Watercolors, colored pencils, and oil pastels scatter the surface. A pile of blank canvases rests on the floor. A trio of watercolor portraits I’ve been commissioned to do hang on the walls as they dry. He walks up to my easel in the corner, which houses my latest work: a watercolor cityscape at twilight. Hues of purple and blue splash across the center of the canvas. He squints, I assume at the hefty amount of white space bordering the image.
“It’s not done yet,” I croak.
The way he beams at me settles me instantly. “It’s gorgeous. Absolutely stunning.”
He crawls back into bed with me, moving so his back is against the headboard, then cuddles me against him. In this position, we have a head-on view of my art space.
“I didn’t know you also did portraits,” he says, pointing at the portrait sitting on my easel. “They’re breathtaking.”
I study the half-finished rendering of a client’s wife. An anniversary gift. I glance down at our arms laced together. It’s so natural, sitting like this.
“That’s sweet of you to say, thank you.” I let my head fall back against his shoulder. “They’re my favorite things to work on, next to watercolor cityscapes. I wish I could do them more often,but I only do portraits when people submit a request on my website for one, which is only every couple of months.”
Wes must have some sort of superhuman ability to set strangers at ease. I feel like I’m chatting with my best friend or family when I talk to him.
“You’re an incredibly talented artist.”
“Trying to be.”
He pats my hand. “Don’t talk yourself down. You’re brilliant, and it’s obvious. And given you’re building a business, you’re clearly kicking ass.”
“I have to work nights at my cousin’s bar to keep up with my bills. That’s hardly kicking ass.”
