Chapter Thirteen
One Week Later
Natalie
LEXI: So I went past the house and the renovations look like they’re almost done.
LEXI: And there’s a big billboard announcing a grand opening. It’s right off the highway. Premium real estate!
LEXI: How many blow jobs did it cost you? Asking for a friend.
NATALIE: Good morning, Lexi. :)
LEXI: Ooh, a smiley face. Someone’s happy.
NATALIE: Someone is!
LEXI: Spare me the revolting details of your sordid relationship.
NATALIE: You just asked me about blow jobs.
LEXI: I was trying to make polite conversation.
NATALIE: With blow jobs?!
LEXI: Well, I thought it might be too much to bring up a rusty trombone before breakfast.
NATALIE: I’m . . . not even going to ask.
NATALIE: How’s the business?
LEXI: I’m not saying it’s bad . . .
LEXI: But I am saying if you know of someone that would like yoga lessons, I have a pretty open schedule.
NATALIE: Maybe you should try being a little more friendly? I’m pretty sure you’ve scared away most of the locals.
LEXI: You flatterer!
LEXI: For real, though, I do have a potential client-slash-investor coming over later today to get a tour of the studio.
NATALIE: Yay!!!
LEXI: So catch me up. How are things with Clay?
NATALIE: Dreamy. :) Is it possible to have a perfect week? I feel like I’ve had one.
LEXI: Ew gross. So many emotions.
NATALIE: I can’t help it. We’re disgustingly sappy together.
LEXI: So what did you do during this sappy week?
NATALIE: Well, we’ve been staying in the hotel. One day we did some touristy stuff downtown and we did some shopping. And just regular dating stuff. It’s been nice.
LEXI: Have you seen any ghosts?
NATALIE: No?
LEXI: You should tell him you want to ghost hunt.
NATALIE: Except I don’t? I’d rather go to dinner and a movie with him.
LEXI: You’re such a pleb. I’m surprised you’re not with him right now.
LEXI: Or . . . are you?
NATALIE: No, he’s got a day full of meetings today. Some of them are PBO and some are IC.
LEXI: PBO? IC?
NATALIE: PBO = Price Brothers Oil. Board meetings.
NATALIE: IC = IntelligentCamo. The start-up he’s trying to get going. He wants it to be affordable for military types and hunters. He’s got a whole plan mapped out. It’s really interesting!
LEXI: Yaaaawn.
NATALIE: Okay okay. I know I’m gushing.
LEXI: Has he apologized for abandoning you those three days?
NATALIE: I . . . told you yesterday? He apologized already.
LEXI: Yes but I think he should apologize daily. Grovel daily, even!
LEXI: This might be why I’m single, though.
NATALIE: Speaking of, any word from Knox?
LEXI: Who?
NATALIE: Uh, Knox? One of Clay’s brothers? You two seemed like you hit it off last week at the tubing party.
LEXI: Eh.
NATALIE: Oh. Guess not. He not your type?
LEXI: You could say that.
NATALIE: What . . . is your type?
LEXI: Byronically ironic?
LEXI: Ironically byronic?
NATALIE: I wish you’d be serious for once!
LEXI: Never!
NATALIE: Well, I wish you’d hit it off with Knox. It’d be fun to double-date or something. Clay and I had dinner with Ivy and Boone the other night. I really like them both! Ivy’s so sweet. She wants Clay to look for a house and she wants my input on it. And Boone’s really nice too—very protective of his wife.
LEXI: Did you not meet Boone before? Back when you and Clay were dating?
NATALIE: No, he was working at the rig with his dad at that point.
LEXI: Mmhmm. So tell me more about the house shopping.
LEXI: Ooh ooh! Wait! Tell them Clay wants to live in a yurt.
NATALIE: A what??
LEXI: A yurt! Google it. I’ll wait.
NATALIE: I don’t think
NATALIE: I’m getting another text from my dad’s nurse. TTYL
LEXI: L8R
* * *
ALICE: Ms. Weston, I wanted to let you know that your father’s had several very lucid days in a row, and he’s been asking about you. It seems he misses you quite a bit. Do you think you will have time to stop by and visit him in the next few days? I know Mr. Price is keeping you busy, but I assured your father I would ask.
NATALIE: Mr. Price will be out of town tomorrow. I’ll come by for lunch. Should I call right now and talk to Dad?
ALICE: He says it’s not necessary. He’s about to lie down for a nap. He says he’s looking forward to seeing you tomorrow.
* * *
I’m feeling a little out of sorts as the sedan pulls into the new parking lot at the Chap Weston Museum.
In a way, I don’t want to come back. That’s terrible to think, but I can’t help it. I’ve been so happy with Clay this last week, I don’t want it to end. I don’t want anything to interfere with my bubble of contentment. I realize as the car pulls in that while I’ve been going about the day-to-day of life, I haven’t exactly been happy here with Dad.
And then I feel guilty for thinking such things. It’s been less than two weeks since Clay came back into my life. Surely it’ll take longer for us to fall back in love again, won’t it?
Except I’m pretty sure I’m already there all over again. Maybe I never stopped.
Of course, I’m not going to tell Clay that. He’ll think I’m crazy. I’m going to sit on it for a while longer, until I’m absolutely sure about how I feel—and that he feels the same way, too.
I just don’t know how my dad is going to fit into this picture. Right now everything works out, of course, but I can’t expect Clay to continue to shuck out money for three nurses permanently, nor can I expect my dad to be happy if I’m gone with Clay almost all of the time. We’re in a weird holding pattern, all three of us. I’m terrified that the future’s going to change things.
Focus on the present, I remind myself. Enjoy what you have now. Don’t worry about what tomorrow’s going to bring.
So I close my eyes and think about Clay, holding my phone tight in my hands. He’s out visiting one of the potential dig sites with his brothers. It seems Boone is a dowser—whatever that is—and so they like to go in person for a lot of the site visits. Clay wanted me to go with him because he won’t be getting home until late, and he didn’t want to abandon me. I declined, even though I secretly wanted to go with him. Dad’s asking for me, and I feel obligated to go and spend time with him.
And here I am.
I open my eyes again and gaze out at the newly renovated parking lot. I have to admit that I didn’t realize how shabby the house and the grounds were until now. The parking lot I knew was lumpy and bumpy and full of potholes, and now it’s smooth pavement, with neatly delineated parking spaces for customers. The hedges surrounding the parking lot have been neatly trimmed, and the garden area near the fountain has been given a facelift. Instead of a few scraggly cactuses and native Texas plants, there’s blooming flowers, a pergola, and riots of color from brand new bushes. The lawns are trimmed and greener than I’ve ever seen them, and there’s even a gardener planting more flowers along the walkway to the inside of the museum.
The driver parks the car and comes around to my side, opening the door. “I’ll wait out here for you, Ms. Weston. Take as much time as you need.”
I nod. “Thank you.” I slide my phone into my pocket and gaze at the house, my stomach in knots. There’s a few workers scattered outside the house, two of them on ladders and replacing a window on the second floor. There’s a new sign for the museum with a charming logo and a picture of my dad back in his younger, more famous days. Even though I approved all of the changes, I’m still surprised to see the new opening for the gift shop, along with the fresh paint and the brand new roof. Everything looks brand new. Amazing what can be done in just two short weeks. It’s almost like I’m not needed here.
Wishful thinking, I’m sure.
I open the front door and things look less finished inside. The museum pieces are all covered with dust cloths, stacked along the walls, and the carpets have been pulled up. Men are working feverishly—and surprisingly quietly—on the flooring. There’s very little hammering, and everyone talks in hushed voices. I’m sure it’s all for my father’s sake, and I wonder if he appreciates the lengths the contractors are going to in order to accommodate him.
Probably not. My dad rarely thinks of anyone but himself.
I squelch the selfish thought.
Mr. Slocum waves at me as I make my way further inside, but I point at the stairs. “I’m just visiting my father,” I assure him. “Carry on.” I hurry up—even the stairs don’t creak anymore!—and turn down the hall toward my father’s room. Before I get there, I can hear music from Little Tiki Princess playing in the background.
I knock on the door, biting my lip. I wonder what Dad I’m going to get today—the one that doesn’t know where he is, the one that’s living in the past, or the one that’s coherent and has all his thoughts?
“Who is it?” My dad’s voice sounds strong, with just a hint of wobble due to age.
“It’s me, Natalie.”
“Come in.”
I open the door, a beaming smile on my face. “Hi, Dad!”
The look I get in return is less than enthusiastic. “So you finally remembered that I exist, eh?”
Seems like the dad I’m going to get today is dramatic but coherent. All right, then. I shut the door behind me, keeping the smile pinned on my face. “Of course I remembered you.”
“Hmph.”
I ignore my dad’s grouchiness and sit down in the empty chair across from his bed. He’s sitting up, and I’m happy to see his sheets look fresh and crisp. The curtains have been drawn back on the big bay windows in his room, letting in the sunlight, and across from his bed on the wall, Little Tiki Princess plays on the big-screen TV. That’s not surprising, given that my dad loves to watch himself in his old movies. I do like how tidy his shelves are, and how everything’s been kept neat. It seems as if his nurses have been tidying his things, which is good. Dad gets in moods where he pulls everything out, looking for one particular item, and makes a huge mess. He’s like a little kid in that you have to watch him constantly. “It’s been a busy week and I haven’t been able to steal away much,” I tell him as I reach over and hit “Pause” on the remote. “I told you about my new job, didn’t I? It’s the one that lets me afford to get you all these great nurses.”
“You told me about the new job, but I don’t see why it’s necessary,” he tells me petulantly. He plucks at the sheets tucked at his waist. “I’d much rather you be downstairs so I can call for you at any time. You should quit this job. It’s not necessary.”
“Of course it’s necessary,” I tell him, clasping my hands in my lap and sitting with my back upright, just like he always chided me to do when I was younger.
“No, it’s not. We’re fine on money.”
“We’re not fine on money. There isn’t any money. That’s the problem, Dad.”
“Nonsense.” He waves a long-fingered hand. “Who told you we were broke? The accountant? It’s his job to be cheap. He’ll always tell you there’s none left, and then he always magically finds more.”
“No,” I say firmly. I’ve gone down this path with him before. “You always magically found more because you’d open up a credit card or write a check that the accountants didn’t know about. There’s no money left, Dad.”
“You’re wrong. And if we’re so broke, why did you hire all these men to come and fix up the place? I hear them hammering all day long.”
My lies are starting to catch up to me. Well, they’re not lies exactly. They’re more like “glaring omissions of truth.” “I told you that we got an investor in the museum. He wants the place looking good for the grand reopening. Don’t you remember?”
Dad frowns and then gives a slow shake of his head. “I guess I don’t. My memory isn’t what it used to be.”
That small, sad statement makes me want to cry. “It’s all right.” I reach out and take his hand in mine, clasping it warmly. “Tell me about your nurses. How do you like them? You look good! They must be taking good care of you.”
“If you mean do they bother me every minute of the day, the answer is yes.” He gives me a look I’ve come to associate with Chap Weston, the actor (and not Chap Weston my dad). “But they’re all very pretty and they love my stories.”
“I hope you’re not harassing the nurses, Dad.”
“I just like looking. I can look, can’t I?”
I smile. “You can.”
“But the nurses aren’t the same as having you here.” He squeezes my hand and gives me a sad look. “It’s not the same as having my daughter around. You should tell your boss that you need time to be with your father.”
“It’s just a temporary job,” I tell him, my heart squeezing painfully. It might be temporary but that doesn’t mean I want it to be.
“Yes, but I’m old, Natalie. Who knows how much longer I’m going to be around? Shouldn’t we be spending that time together? Instead of you just casting me off to some nurses?”
And there’s the guilt trip. Combined with the sad gaze he’s sending in my direction, it works. I feel so guilty. I should be spending more time with him, and he is right, he won’t be around forever. But spending time with Clay is so nice and it makes me feel so free and happy . . .
I bite back my sigh. “I’ll see what I can do.”
* * *
My mood’s ruined by the time I leave. Even though my dad’s in a chatty mood and he stays in the present the entire time, he likes to lay the guilt on thick, over and over again, until I’m about ready to scream in frustration. It doesn’t help that I already feel guilty, too. He’s not subtle. He doesn’t have to be—everything he says is the truth and confirms my own guilty thoughts. Should I be staying away so much and entrusting strangers—albeit well-trained, competent strangers—to take care of my dad? They don’t know him like I do. They’ll never care for him as much as a daughter would.
And to make matters worse, he thinks I’m away because I’m being someone’s assistant.
I didn’t have the heart to tell him that there’s not much assisting going on. That it’s all a ruse so Clay could get my attention.
I also haven’t told Dad that my new boss is Clay Price. He’d really lose it at that point.
The weight of all the secrets and my guilt weighs heavy on me during the car ride back to the hotel. I need a sign from the universe. Something that will tell me that I’m on the right path, and that I’m doing the right thing by being with Clay.
Unfortunately, the universe doesn’t give me any signs. What it does give me are two car wrecks that I pass by on the interstate.
I hope those aren’t my “sign.” I pretend they’re not.
When I get back to the room, Clay’s still not back yet. He won’t be for a few more hours. But while he’s been gone, he had the hotel staff deliver a dozen roses and put a box of chocolates on the end of the bed, along with a little note for me.
Nat,
Miss you already. Home soon.
CP
Of course, that just makes me feel worse. He’s so thoughtful. And it’s only a day trip—to think that he did all this just so I’d feel special while he’s gone for a few hours. I sniffle as I pick up the box of chocolates and then crawl into bed, feeling like the worst daughter—and worst assistant—ever. Eating the whole box of them doesn’t help, either. It just makes me feel worse, because now I’m sick to my stomach as well as feeling guilty. I change into my pajamas and lie in the bed, moping and worrying over what to do.
Clay gets home a short time later, and I click off the reality TV show I’m watching as the door opens. He bounds into the room, as if he can’t stand being without me for another moment, eyes gleaming. He doesn’t pause at the edge of the bed but just flings himself into it next to me, fully dressed, work boots and all.
I give a little squeal as a cloud of dust comes up from his clothes. “Clay! You’re filthy!”
“Mmm, yes I am.” He pulls me down under him and begins to nibble on my neck. “I thought so many filthy things about you today. I’m surprised your ears weren’t burnin’, babe.”
I sputter at the amount of loose dirt that comes off his clothing. “Did you get caught in a sandstorm?”
“Naw. It’s just windy and flat out there. Visited the new rig site and then went ’n’ said hello to Seth. He wasn’t none too pleased about bein’ back on the job, but Boone n’ Gage were givin’ him hell about skippin’ out on work, so he went back out. Knox and I showed up to jaw with him a little.” He nips at my neck. “You don’t like a big, smelly redneck as your man, baby?”
I do, actually. The problem is that I like it far too much. I want to make a sassy retort, but I think of my father’s disapproving face and tears come to my eyes.
“Nat?” Clay lifts his head and looks at me, worried. “What’s wrong?”
I sniff and try to fight back tears, because I don’t want to tell him. “Nothing.”
His eyes darken. “What did your father say to you?”
“Am I that obvious?”
He sits up, shaking his head. As he does, he grabs the front of my pajama top and begins to slowly unbutton it. “I just think that all week, every time we’ve been apart, you smiled when you saw me. Now today, you visit your dad, and when I see you, you’re about ready to cry. So it don’t take a genius to figure out that he’s the cause.”
“What are you doing?” I ask as he continues to unbutton my clothes.
“Gettin’ you undressed for our shower. Don’t change the subject. What’d he say to you?”
He’s too good at interpreting me. I bite back my sigh and let him continue unbuttoning my shirt. “He doesn’t like the nurses being there as much as he likes his daughter waiting on him.”
Clay snorts. He finishes unbuttoning my top and pushes it to the sides, exposing my breasts and stomach. He gazes down at them with pure pleasure on his face, then glances back up at me. “Continue.”
“He says that since I’m his daughter and he doesn’t have much time left in this world, I should be spending my time with him.” I make a little squeal of protest as Clay buries his face between my breasts. He’s growing his beard out again—at my suggestion—and right now the stubble is raspy and hard. “I thought we were going to shower!”
“We are. Eventually.” He kisses the tip of one breast. “But I plan on fuckin’ you in the shower and I don’t wanna be talking about your dad at that point.” One hand cups my breast and he rubs his thumb over the tip. “‘Sides, these distract me.”
I shift under his touch, thrusting my breast into his hand. “Then we don’t talk about my dad anymore. It’s just a guilt trip. I just hate that it works so well. He’s right, you know—”
“What, that he’s old? Well, yeah. But that don’t mean you gotta give your life up for him. The only reason he’s bringin’ this shit up is because he’s just tryin’ whatever it’ll take to bring you back to his side and make you take up nursin’ him again. Am I wrong?”
I think for a moment, and then shake my head. I know he’s not. In my heart, I know he’s right.
“I get reports from the nurses, too, you know.” He lazily licks a trail between my breasts.
“You do?” I’m so surprised I sit up on my elbows and nearly knock him backward.
“I do,” he says, putting a finger on my shoulder and lowering me back to the bed. “You wanna know what they tell me?” At my nod, he continues. “He’s manipulative. He’s good-natured and sweet if it gets him what he wants. If it doesn’t, he pitches a fit. He uses guilt. And he’s a great actor.”
All of this sounds terribly unflattering and almost mean. “He’s old, and he’s sick—”
“He is. Don’t mean he’s not a bastard. The girls like him well enough. But they also deal with enough patients just like him to see through the bullshit. Your dad’s healthier than he lets on. He just likes you takin’ care of him.”
“But—”
“I ain’t makin’ light of the fact that he’s got dementia. But he’s got more good days than bad. Alice says it’s good that he’s around different people. Stimulates the mind. He just prefers a situation—and people—he can control. That’s why he wants you back.”
I’m a little hurt by Clay’s statement. “I’m also his daughter and he loves me.”
“He does, I’m sure.” Clay cups my other breast and lowers his mouth to it. “But I’m also sure he’s usin’ you, and now that you’ve got a bit of freedom, he’s poutin.” He gives it a distracting lick. “He’s just tryin’ to pull us apart again.”
I don’t know if that’s true, because he doesn’t know Clay’s involved. But I do think he’s right about a lot of it. My dad can be a user, and he can turn on the acting charm to get what he wants. It shouldn’t surprise me that he can just as easily turn on the guilt trip. “All right. No more about my father.”
“Amen.” He nips at my nipple, sending a shiver through my body. “Now to get you naked and in the shower.”
I lift my hips and shimmy out of my pajama bottoms. “You have a one-track mind.”
“When it comes to you? Very much so.” He watches me undress with hungry eyes, his grin growing wider. “Can’t wait to get my mouth on that sweet pussy again.”
His words make me blush. “Well, maybe I want to get my mouth on you.”
“Gonna be hard to do if I’m fully dressed,” he teases.
“Oooh, a challenge.” I grab at the front of his shirt and tug.
It’s like a dare. For the next few moments, both of us rip at his clothing, determined to get him naked as quickly as possible. His jeans pool at his legs, and then he nearly rolls off the bed trying to wrestle his boots off. My giggles only make him move faster, and then it seems he’s about to fling himself over the side when suddenly, one boot goes flying free, then the other.
He grins at me, fully naked, and smacks my rump with the flat of his hand. “Why are you not in the shower already?”
“I was waiting for a slowpoke,” I tell him, climbing off the oversized hotel bed.
“I’ll give you a slow poke,” he mock-growls.
“Oooh, a threat,” I say in my sassiest voice, and swing my hips with a little extra oomph as I head toward the lush bathroom. The shower’s like something out of a dream, with multiple heads and the prettiest tile I’ve ever seen caged in by glass. I love using it, because it makes me feel like a princess.
Tonight, though, I want to wash my man.
I turn on the water, running a hand under the spray until the temperature is just right. Then, instead of stepping in, I gesture that Clay should go first. “I’m going to rub that dirt off of you.”
“I like the sound of this.” He steps in and I can’t help but pause to admire the gorgeousness of his form as he lifts his hands and drags his fingers through his short hair. I love how big his shoulders are, how broad and tanned by the sun. But funnily enough, I think I love his white butt even more. Even though there’s a crazy tan line, his ass is tight and firm and high, and it just makes me want to bite it so badly every time I see it.
Never thought I’d be the type to daydream about getting my teeth on a man’s buns, but I guess I am.
I grab a bottle of the travel-sized shower gel and squirt a palmful on my hand. “I’m sure it’ll be more effective if I use a washcloth, but what’s the fun in that?”
“No fun at all,” he says, and his voice has dropped to a lower, huskier note that makes me shiver all over.
I press my soapy hand to his chest and then begin to slowly rub as he stands in the shower spray, blocking it from hitting me. There’s a ton of soap in one spot, so I use both hands in small circles to spread the wealth. Plus, it gives me a chance to touch him. I glide my fingers over his pectorals, making sudsy whorls in his chest hair and dragging deliberately over his nipples. I go further down, soaping up his abdomen, and I love how rock-hard the muscles are here, and how defined his obliques are. “You have the most incredible body,” I tell him softly. “Every time I see it, I just want to touch you.”
“Funny, I feel that way about you,” he tells me, sliding a wet hand up and down my arm and then cupping one of my breasts. “Love how pretty and sexy you are, Nat. You’re so perfect, so soft. I wanna push you down on the floor here and get my mouth on your pussy—”
“Not yet,” I tell him, gasping at his intense words. “I get to wash you first, remember?”
He makes an impatient sound in his throat. “Then hurry so I can touch you.”
Hurry? That just makes me want to take even more time. I deliberately go slower, tracing over every muscle and outlining it before moving on. I get to his tan line. Lower would mean I get to touch his straining cock . . . and then I’m pretty sure things would escalate pretty fast from there. I change routes, instead, moving to his arms and soaping them up.
Clay groans. “Tease.”
He’s right. I love teasing him. I love being playful with him. I feel like I’ve had to be so serious, so focused for so long that there’s been no time for play. With him, I can be as silly and light and carefree as I want to be.
And I’m definitely feeling frisky at the moment. I lightly drag my nails down his arm, then slide down to my knees and begin to soap up one big thigh. He makes a sound in his throat that sounds pained, and his hand goes to my hair, knotting his fingers in it as if he wants to hold me in place. Oh yes. I might be a tease, but he enjoys it just as much as I do.
I’m getting wet with my own excitement at touching him. I can feel the slick heat between my legs growing, and I shift back and forth, squirming in place as I run my hands up and down his strong thigh. “Think you’re clean yet?”
“I can think of one spot you haven’t hit yet.” His hand tightens in my hair, and I get even wetter.
But I want more than that. “Show me,” I tell him, breathless. I know exactly what he’s referring to, but I want him to drag me there, just because the mental image of him doing that makes me crazy with need.
So he does. He uses the hand buried in my hair to steer me ever closer to his cock, until my mouth’s practically brushing against the head of it. It’s flushed with the blood racing through his arousal, and the head is tipped with several droplets of pre-cum. I stick my tongue out and catch the first drop on the tip of it.
The breath hisses from his lungs. “Take me in your mouth, baby.”
Oh, I planned on it. I continue to just use the tip of my tongue, though, dragging it over the head of his cock in tiny little circles.
“Fuck, I love your mouth,” he tells me between panting breaths. “Only thing I love more than your tongue are your lips.”
I swallow back my giggle. “Is that a hint?”
“You can do what you like with me and you know that,” Clay murmurs. “I’m at your mercy.”
The thought gives me a giddy rush of power. Here, on my knees, I’m the one in charge of this man and his pleasure. I can do what I want with him . . . Lucky for him, I want to drive him crazy with lust.
But first, I want to play a bit more. I lean in and give the head of his cock a smacking, puckered, girlish kiss. “There. All done.”
His groan of frustration is like sweet music, and I can’t help the laughter that erupts from me.
“You’re the cruelest woman to ever touch me.”
“I’m the only woman to ever touch you.”
“That, too. Still the cruelest.”
But I feel a fierce sense of possessive pleasure in the realization that he’s all mine. No matter what happened between us in the past, he didn’t move on. He waited for me. Maybe we’re meant to be together after all, and this won’t be just a quick thing between us. We have a history, him and I.
I slide a hand underneath his cock and cup his sac. I haven’t had much of an opportunity to play with this part of him, and I have to admit, it’s pretty foreign to me. I’m not exactly sure how to work it, so I decide to go the safe route and caress it while I work his cock with my mouth.
“Look at you,” he grits out, as if it’s difficult to speak. “So pretty with my cock in your mouth. Love seein’ that.” A low groan escapes him. “God, you’re good at this. A fuckin’ natural.”
Excited by how turned on he is, I work even harder, rubbing and caressing his sac as I suck on his cock. I take him as far into my throat as I can, using my other hand to guide him as I drag his length back and forth over my tongue. He shifts his weight forward, almost thrusting into my mouth, and his hand grows tight on my hair once more.
“No,” he murmurs after a moment. “I want to be inside you when I come. Stand up, baby.”
I release him with one last sad lick, then get to my feet. He cups my face and pulls me close in a fierce kiss, then cups my ass with his hands, squeezing tight. “Wait here. I’ll get the condom.”
“Should I think about getting on the pill?”
“Nah,” he says. “Won’t do any good. Wait here.”
Weirdly enough, my feelings are hurt. The pill won’t do any good? Is that because it takes a month to kick in? And . . . we’ll be done by then? Pain stabs through me at the thought. I don’t want to be done. I don’t ever want Clay to leave me again. I don’t know how I’m going to cope—
Stop it, I tell myself, closing my eyes and leaning into the shower spray. You promised yourself you’d live in the moment, remember? You weren’t going to worry about tomorrow.
Easier said than done, of course.
But then Clay returns, condom on, and gives me another fierce kiss, and I’m swept up in the passion of the moment. He wants me. I can feel the hard length of him pushing against my stomach as we kiss. There’s no question he wants me. Maybe the attraction can grow into something deeper again.
If not, then I’ll deal with that when that day gets here. Until then, I know what I’ve bought into. It’s a contract, nothing more, and I can enjoy it just as much as him.
I wrap my arms around his neck and return his kiss with a fierce intensity of my own. He grips my hips, holding me tight against him. “Turn around,” he whispers after a moment. “Put your hands on the wall and present that pretty ass to me.”
I shiver at his delicious words and do just as he says.
A moment later, his hands go on my hips and he thrusts into me, hard and sharp. I suck in a breath, shocked at how good it feels, how full. I’m always amazed by that first push into me, no matter how many times we have sex. It’s like my body forgets just how incredible it is to be filled by him.
His hands go tight on my hips, and I know this isn’t going to be a lengthy session of lovemaking. We’re both too keyed up for that. I brace my hands as he thrusts into me again, as hard as the first time. Then again. Over and over, he rocks into me with possessive determination, until my fingers are curling against the tiles and I’m crying out his name. The slow, elusive orgasm I’ve come to think of as the “belly” orgasm begins to build, and I whimper, “I’m close” to let Clay know that he needs to keep moving just like that.
But he doesn’t—he pushes into me deep and his other hand goes to my pussy. His fingers spread my folds and in the next moment, he’s rubbing against my clit, and thrusts into me once more.
I shatter.
He doesn’t stop, and it feels as if my climax builds on another. With every circling touch of his fingers around my clit, every thrust, it feels like I’m coming anew, and I sob as the orgasms fly into one another. Clay comes a moment later, his hand finally moving away from my clit, and he tangles his fingers in the curls covering my mound, as if claiming it for himself, and buries his face against my neck.
“Nat,” he breathes, and I wait for words of love. I wait for him to tell me that he loves me, so I can tell him how I feel.
But he just presses a kiss to my shoulder, and I realize I’m going to have to keep waiting.