Page 86 of Lessons in Forgiving
When Henry pushed into me, I didn’t know whether to focus on the euphoria offinallyor the way he couldn’t seem to keep himself upright or that unapologetic moan by my ear. If I should tell him to go faster or slower—because I wasn’t sure if I wanted to savor every moment of this round —or get to the next. If I only wanted him this way for the rest of my life or in a thousand other positions tonight.
I settled for not saying or thinking anything at all.
Just flowing with the rhythm of his hips against mine, the way our groans and moans mixed in the air, and the way he filled me so perfectly, snugly, that knot in my stomach tightened. All within a few minutes—no more than five—I was ready to come apart for him.
He muttered a “Thank God,” because with the pace he was holding, he couldn’t be very far from release himself. His hand slipped to my clit again.
I lost myself in the bliss of a perfect orgasm, and he twitched inside of me, groaning and cursing and praying, and before he pulled out, he kissed my forehead.
CHAPTER 34
NOW
I should regret last night. Technically, theoretically, I shouldn’t still think about the things Henry had done to me and wish he would again the second I’d woken up. To his brown hair tickling my nose, arm draped over my bare chest and a fuzzy feeling in my stomach.
And it should’ve been a big deal—sleeping with your ex-boyfriend, then waking up in the same bed.
It was!
I should feel nervous and confused and, honestly, a little frantic. I was not. My head was clear, my mind sharp, and maybe all I’d needed had been a good lay for the mist of fog around my brain to lift.
Because suddenly I knew what Eddie meant when he’d called the profileOkay.
I was still in Henry’s arms, cuddled against his chest when it dawned on me. When I replayed my editors feedback in my head and realized what had been missing.
All those things I hadn’t asked Henry because I knew what subjects he wouldn’t want to talk about. His parents, for one. And all the things I hadn’t brought up because I was his ex-girlfriend and perhaps asking about other girls and parties and whatever else successful college athletes might be up to in their free time, could be weird. Uncomfortable.
For him, probably even more so for me.
But another boundary between us had been crossed last night, when he’d groaned into my ear and told me how good I’d felt—something that had brought us closer to how things usedto be. Back when I would ask him what I’d wanted to ask and hadn’t worried about his reaction. When I hadn’t worried what it might do to our relationship at all.
And when my phone was recording our conversations, I wasn’t Henry’s ex-girlfriend. Or his friend. I was Paula Castillo, unjustifiably shunned college journalist, and if he didn’t want to talk about a topic, he could tell me after I’d asked about it.
Henry stirred behind me, almost like he could tell I’d been thinking about him. A low sound escaped his lips, and his breath tickled the back of my neck. “Are you up?” he mumbled into my hair, arms slung around my body to pull me closer. “Can we just stay like this forever, Paula?”
His voice, rough with sleep and right by my ear, did things to me. And all the clarity I’d gained in the past five minutes, about the profile and my writing, threatened to disappear just with the way he’d said my name.
But wasn’t that exactly what had gone wrong last year?
When I’d prioritized Henry, and that feeling in my stomach whenever I was around him, over and over again until it had eventually come back to bite me in the ass? When I hadn’t quadruple-checked my source—his friend—because he’d been tired, and I’d been tired, and I’d never been great at resisting Henry.
So I turned in his grip now, watched his green eyes focus in on me, and shook my head. “You don’t have any other plans for today?” I asked in return.
Henry thought for a moment, and I was almost certain it was weird for him to say, “No.”
Because remember? Henry Parker Pressley always had a plan. Followed by a plan for the plan.
My lips pulled into a grin at the disruption of normalcy before I made it more glaringly obvious. “I do,” I said, and laughed at the way his eyes widened mockingly. “For both of us.”
“Who would’ve thought,” he gasped, then kissed my bare shoulder to hide his smile. “What do you have in store for us, Paula Castillo?”
“You still owe me answers to three deeply personal questions.” From when he’d forced me onto the treadmill. “And there might’ve been a few I skipped before.”
“If this is what it’s like to be a full-time journalist,” I sighed as I leaned into the sun-lounger, squeezing my eyes shut against the first warm rays of the year. Despite our rushed departure last night, Henry had packed me a bikini. Red and tiny. “Sign me up.”
Henry, arms propped on the edge of the pool, snickered. “It’s not.” His clarification popped my momentary bubble of bliss. “Only when you’re interviewing people as popular, rich, and nice to be around as I am.”
“And humble” I added. “All four? That’s rare.”
