Page 123 of The Rebound
“I couldn’t stop thinking about you after,” I say, pressing my lips to his neck. “I think that’s why I was so mad at you. I wanted you and I couldn’t have you and I didn’t know what to do.”
His body moves under mine as he laughs. “You could have had me whenever you wanted,’ he says hoarsely. “Believe me, Abby, my resolve was hanging by a thread.”
“You didn’t like me,” I say, undoing the button of his jeans.
“I thought you were playing with me.”
“I wasn’t—”
“I know,” he says quickly, his expression softening. “I know. And it doesn’t matter anymore. None of that matters.”
No. All that matters is the here. The now. I undo the zipper of his jeans, reaching inside, but he barely gives me a few seconds before he sits up, rolling me under him again.
“Okay,” he pants. “You keep going like that and it’s going to be a short night.”
I stare up at him, feeling the first flicker of nerves. “It’s been a while for me.”
“We can go slow.”
“No.” I say the word so quickly he smirks.
“Just talk to me,” he says as his hands move down the side of my breasts, my ribs. “Tell me what’s good.” He reaches my underwear and I lift my hips, helping him as he pulls them down my thighs and my calves, gently over my shoes.
I watch, barely able to breathe as he kneels between my legs, propping one on each of his shoulders. Holding my gaze, he presses a kiss to one ankle and then the other before undoing the straps of my heels, tugging them off. They join the pile on the floor and he sits there for a moment, just looking at me.
Is he going to—
Oh my God.
I squeeze my eyes shut, tilting my chin to the ceiling as he dips down, keeping my legs wrapped around his head as he kisses me, worships me until every muscle in my body tightens and releases in a glorious rush.
But even then it’s not enough.
I scramble to sit up as he does, pulling him to me, impatient and needy and no longer caring that I am. I’m not as smooth as he is, so I yank at his jeans, helping him kick them off as I undo my bra. His briefs follow and a crinkle of foil and then there’s no more slyness. No more grazes. No more brushes or sweetness or anything light as he pushes into me with my name on his lips, his lips on my skin. My legs fall apart as our bodies find their rhythm and I let him know that it feels good. That it feels very, very good.
The pressure builds again, surprising me, but I let myself go, giving into it as he soon follows, clutching me to him as he unravels. Afterward, we stay like that, the sweat cooling on our skin, murmuring to each other between kisses until eventually, almost unwillingly, Luke pulls away to lie by my loose-limbed side.
I turn my head to look at him and he smiles when I do. The ache in my chest doesn’t go away and I wonder what I’ve done and how I’m just supposed to leave him. How I’m supposed to do anything when I’ve been falling in love with him ever since he picked me up on that cold March night and did his best to make me smile.
27
A morning in bed always seemed like a luxury to me. I used to try and squeeze as much as I could into the precious few hours before work, knowing I would be too tired at the end of the day to do much else. I ran. I cleaned. I booked early salon appointments and breakfasts with Jess. What I never did was sleep in. What I never did was wake next to a man and spend a lazy day doing nothing at all.
I was looking forward to my morning with Luke. My morning with nothing to do. So when I’m woken a little before seven by a loud hammering on the door downstairs, I am not impressed. I sit up as soon as it begins, my body used to the sound of an alarm, but only a sadist would have an alarm like this.
I glance at Luke, who blinks accusingly at me from where his head is buried in the pillow, as though I’m the one making the noise.
“I think someone’s at the door,” I say, and he groans.
“They’ll stop in a minute.”
“Does this happen a lot?”
“Sometimes people passing through think we’re open.”
“You should get a sign.”
“We have a sign.”
