Page 127 of Broken Trails
I pause, chewing on the thought, needing to steer the topic away from marriage. “I’ve been thinking of selling everything,” I say after a moment. “The clothes, the bags, all the stuff I used to hide behind. Starting fresh. Proper fresh.”
Michael presses a hand to his chest like I’ve just delivered a fatal blow. “No. Not the gazillion handbags and heels.”
I roll my eyes. “How will I ever cope?”
“You won’t. You’ll be barefoot, lost in the wilderness, crying over a broken nail.”
We laugh quietly, and for the first time all night, I feel like I can breathe. Like maybe this is what I was chasing when I left everything behind. Not a clean break. Not silence.
Something real.
He grins at me. “You should give some of your stuff to the girls. I reckon they’d lose their minds.”
My head tilts as I consider it, and surprisingly, the idea sits well. I nod, smiling to myself. “Yeah. That’s a great idea.”
He nods, gaze never leaving mine. “You didn’t have to dress up for me, you know.”
“I didn’t do it for you,” I say, smoothing my dress over my thighs. Then I smile. “Okay… maybe a little.”
Michael leans forward, voice low. “You could’ve worn nothing and I’d still be obsessed.”
“You’re such a flirt.” I roll my eyes, but my pulse jumps. My stomach tightens. There’s a pause before I feel movement. His hand finds my leg under the table with infuriating slowness until his palm lands on my thigh like it belongs there. Which, apparently, my body agrees with.
Loudly. My breath catches as I snap my gaze to his. “Michael—”
He doesn’t answer. Just smirks, that cocky glint in his eyes, and lets his fingers drift higher, the rough pads of them brushing the inside of my leg. I shift instinctively, legs parting the slightest bit under the tablecloth. “This tablecloth’s long,” he murmurs. “No one’s gonna see.”
“You’re a menace,” I whisper, even as my legs open further on their own.
“And you’re wet already.” He finds my clit without hesitation, rubbing slow circles, just the right pressure. I bite my lip to stifle my moan, and he leans in to kiss my throat.
“Shh, freckles. You’re gonna need to stay quiet,” he rasps into my ear, and then he’s pushing my G-string aside. I barely register the fabric moving before two fingers slip inside me, filling me with such ease and confidence that my head tips back instinctively. My breath catches, the moan trapped in my chest.
I grip the edge of the table so hard my knuckles ache.
A waiter walks past. I freeze.
Michael doesn’t.
To anyone passing by, we look like a couple cuddled close in a booth. No one can see what’s happening beneath the table, but the idea that someone might, that someone could know whathe’s doing to me under white linen and candlelight—it makes my blood run hot. Makes my thighs tremble.
“Wanna feel you come without a sound,” he murmurs, fingers stroking deeper, curling ever so slightly. And God help me, I do too. I want it so badly my eyes sting.
The tension builds in one blinding wave. Fast. Relentless. My muscles clamp down around his fingers as the orgasm rips through me without warning. A silent quake. I bite into my bottom lip, smothering the cry rising in my throat as my entire body shudders beneath the table.
Michael doesn’t stop.
He rubs me through the aftershocks with a kind of reverence, until my legs shake and I sag into the booth, boneless and breathless. Then, with a maddening calm, he pulls his fingers from me and lifts them to his mouth.
And sucks them clean.
His eyes never leave mine as he does. My cheeks flush, and my heart pounds against my ribs.
He then leans back, lifts his beer to his lips, and sips it like it’s the most ordinary night of his life. And later, when I kiss him, I do it like he hung the fucking moon.
Because the idea that I just let him finger me in public is absurd. Reckless. Insane. But I don’t feel ashamed. I don’t feel small. I feel alive. I love the person I am when I’m around him—uninhibited, wild, wanted. Like maybe I haven’t lost myself at all. Maybe I’m just becoming someone new. Someone who doesn’t apologise for wanting more.
We showered together for the first time when we got home. I couldn’t tell you who reached for who first. What I do remember was the thick heat from the steam, the sharp bite of tiles against my skin, and the feeling of his hands on my hips as the water poured over us.
