But then his leg pressed against mine under the covers—warm, the soft slide of his leg hair against my thigh—and with a tiny laugh he reached around me, pulling me so that I was resting my head on his chest.
“We don’t have to be weird,” he whispered.
I nodded, sliding my hand up over his stomach, feeling it tighten under my touch. “Okay.”
“Thank you again for what you did today.”
I could hear his heart beating against my ear, could feel his chest rise and fall with each inhale. “You’re welcome.” Hesitating, I added quietly, “I guess that’s what I was trying to say earlier. It was fun. It was easy.”
He laughed, and the sound was a rumbling echo against me. “It was.”
Jensen’s palm slid up and down my arm, from shoulder to elbow, and we watched the film together. Somehow I knew neither of us was paying much attention.
I liked the smell of his deodorant, the smell of his soap, but I liked even more the faint smell of his sweat beneath it all. His warmth was unreal: limbs long and solid, skin so soft and firm. I closed my eyes, pressing my face into his neck. Carefully, I slid one leg over his, scooting closer and cuddling into him. It meant that the heat between my legs was pressed against his thigh.
He held his breath—somehow making the room fall into a heavy, anticipatory silence—while maintaining the rhythm of his palm up and down my arm.
He finally let out a long, controlled exhale.
Was he hard? Was that it? Was it that my leg was so close to his cock, and my breasts were pressed to his ribs, and my mouth was only an inch from the tanned skin of his chest?
I was so keyed up, so desperate for relief and contact and him that I closed my eyes and just focused on breathing. Breathing in, breathing out. But each breath pulled more of him into my head, and the gentle sweep of his hand over me just told me how much care he would put into loving me, and it became nearly too much; I had to filter out everything but the feel of air coming into my lungs and being expelled.
I welcomed that drowsy relief, the knowledge that my body was unwinding, turning off. A tiny part of me had worried that I would be awake all night, continually aware of the fit, sexual man beside me. But it faded away to the rhythm of his hand up and down my arm.
I woke up aroused, flushed with the memory of a mouth working its way down my neck, warm hands sliding beneath the cotton of my camisole. I ached between my legs in a way I hadn’t in an eternity, needing relief.
But it wasn’t a memory.
Jensen was there, curled on his side and pressed against me from behind, his mouth moving from my ear down my neck.
I made a quiet noise of surprise, pressing back into him and feeling his cock—hard and ready against my backside. At the contact, he groaned, grinding against me in a slow, pressing rhythm.
“Hey,” I whispered.
He scraped his teeth along the side of my neck and I nearly cried out at the sensation. “Hey.”
It was dark in the room. The television was off, the lights extinguished. On instinct I looked over to the clock. It was nearly three in the morning.
I reached a hand back, sliding my fingers into his hair to hold his face against where he was pulling the strap of my shirt aside to nibble at my shoulder.
“I woke you,” he said, and then sucked at my neck. “I’m sorry.”
Then he paused. “No. I’m not sorry.”
Turning in his arms, I thought I knew what his kiss would feel like—he’d kissed me earlier, after all—but I could not have predicted the hunger of it, the demand of his mouth, his hands sliding up my top, the way he rolled over onto me. His mouth pulled at mine, lips teasing until I opened for him, letting him inside. I’d never been so aware of the feel of someone’s tongue against mine, the tiny flicks, the nibbling of his teeth on my lips, the way his moans would vibrate against my kiss. My arms went around his shoulders, hands slid into his hair, and he was there, rocking between my legs, finding that spot where he would be inside me if it weren’t for these ruddy clothes. I could feel him, hard and urgent, could feel the tip of him sliding across the point between my legs that set me on fire, the place where I was warmest, wanting him.
Jensen bent, sliding my shirt up over my breasts and ducking so that he could lick them, fill his hands with them, before returning to me with renewed energy but no words. He wasn’t a talker, but there was something about the tiny grunts in his breaths, the sharp inhales and shaking exhales, that had me listening acutely, clawing at him, begging him silently to undress me fully and slide inside.
But I didn’t need that. I was swollen and desperate for it, feeling my body respond to the rhythm he set, the hard press of him just where I wanted it, and when I arched into him, rocking, working my body in tandem with his, he let out a hissed “Yes. Fuck. Yes.”
My shirt was off—and it was hot in here, wasn’t it? Because there was a fine sheen of sweat to my skin, and to his, and it sent him gliding over me, in that pressing delicious slide that feels so good it nearly hurts. Each point of contact between us carried an electric current, a delicious stab of warmth, and I wanted nothing more than to be bare—everywhere.
But again—I didn’t need it. My body, hijacked by that building ache inside, reminded me I needed only what Jensen was already doing, and more, and more of it, with his mouth on mine and his little sounds resonating inside my head like a hammer on a drum.
He knew exactly how to move against me, focused on where he had to press rhythmically. God, the truth of that made me nearly cry out: the simple reality of him. Even the idea of him with other women—lost to the demands of his body, figuring it out—thrilled me. So focused, too greedy for pleasure.
How did I get here? How did I earn his attention, his desire? It boggled, it really did.
He sped up, breathlessly close, and the reality that he’d been as amped up as I had, that he was ready to go off like a bomb, pushed me past that point of a mind split in two by sensation and realization to one that could process only the feel of my orgasm approaching. I grew a bit wild, gripping his backside, pulling him harder against me, warning him in a whisper—
I’m close
I’m going to come—
With renewed focus he ground into me, his own breath coming out fast and hot on my neck until I felt like I was twisting away from the pleasure of it, nearly overwhelmed with the force of my orgasm as it splintered through me, flushed and frantic.
He followed with a relieved shout, his pleasure spilling, wet on my navel, his mouth pressed to my neck, teeth bared.
Oh God, and in the moment that followed it was so quiet in the room but for the gasping of our inhales, the forceful push of our exhales. Jensen stilled, braced over me, and then slowly rose onto his elbows.
In the dark, my eyes had adjusted somewhat, and although it was nearly black outside, there was the slight bleed of light from the alarm clock and spilling in from the hall through the crack beneath the door. I could tell he was staring down at me, gauging. But that was the extent of it. What I didn’t know was whether he was frowning or serene in relief.
His hand came up to the side of my face, sweeping away a damp strand of hair. “I meant to take it slower.”
I shrugged beneath him, relieved immeasurably by the sweetness in his voice. “At least we didn’t get naked.”
“More of a technicality,” he whispered, bending to kiss me. “I’m covered in you. You’re covered in me.”
I’m covered in you.
I closed my eyes, sliding my hands around his hips and forward, between our bodies, to feel the warm spill of his orgasm on my stomach, and then lower, to where he pressed—still half hard—between my legs.
“We’re a mess,” I said.
He laughed, a bit growly. “Want to shower?”
“Then we’ll really be naked.” I mean, not that it really mattered anymore. But . . . maybe it did, even just a little. To hold something back here meant that there was something more to come between u
s, something we wanted to save that for, and the thought gave me a tiny, heady burst of happiness. “You first. Then me.”
“Or we could sleep like this,” he said into my neck, laughing. “Because I’m really fucking tired now.”
“Yes. Or we could sleep.” I turned my head to him and he turned his face to mine, kissing me slow and warm, tongue lazily stroking.
“This’ll make it easier to pretend tomorrow.”
As soon as he said it, he stiffened. I couldn’t deny that the timing was a little off—referencing the ex-wife just moments after we dry fucked our way to orgasm. But I knew what he meant, too. It was still a comment about us, just more real somehow. The truth was, I was British, he was American. I lived in London, he lived in Boston. And his ex-wife was two doors down the hall. Given how fascinated she’d been with Jensen tonight, and how hard it had been for her to tear her guilt-stained eyes from his face, I wondered, too, whether she was up, listening for evidence of what we’d just done.
In the darkness it was somehow easier to ask him about it. “How was it for you today? Really?”
He rolled off me but pulled me with him, turning me onto my side so we faced each other and curling a palm around my hip. Jensen: the gentle, cuddling lover. “It wasn’t actually that bad,” he said, and then leaned forward, kissing me. “Which was unexpected. I think having you there helped. I think having Ziggs and Will be angry on my behalf helped.”
I nodded. “Yeah. I agree.”
“And I think it helped that she’s married to a guy who seems sort of boring,” he whispered, as if he was a bit ashamed to admit it so baldly. “I shoulder some of the blame for our breakup, of course. But it makes me wonder if . . . maybe I wasn’t the problem after all.”
“So we’ll keep up the facade?” I asked.
Jensen coughed quietly and shrugged against me. “I don’t really see any point in telling her either way. I haven’t seen her since the day we signed the divorce papers. We no longer have any friends in common. At this point, telling her it was a joke would probably only hurt her feelings.”
“I love that you don’t want to hurt her feelings, after everything.”
He went quiet for a few even breaths. “She ended things so terribly, with such appalling immaturity. But she wasn’t trying to be awful.”
“She just is,” I said, repressing a little laugh.
“She was young,” he said by way of explanation. “Though I don’t remember her being quite so . . .”
“Dull?” I asked.
He coughed out an incredulous sound that I’d put it so plainly at last. “Well . . . yeah.”
“No one is interesting at nineteen.”
“Some people are,” he argued.
“I wasn’t. I was obsessed with lip gloss and sex. There wasn’t a lot more going on upstairs.”
He shook his head, hand sliding up from my hip to my waist. “You studied math.”
“Anyone can study math,” I told him. “It’s just something to do. Having an aptitude for math doesn’t make you inherently more interesting. It just makes you good with numbers, which, in my experience, often translates to bad with people.”
“You aren’t bad with people.”
I let this sentence hang between us, wondering if it would strike him as funny, or surprising, or wonderful, given our start on the plane.
After a beat, he grinned at me in the darkness. “Well, unless you’re slamming champagne and belching on planes.”
TEN
Jensen
I was startled awake by a scratching sound to my right, and pushed up onto an elbow.
The blankets fell away from my body, sliding down my hips, and Pippa’s eyes flickered from my face, and down, and back to my face again. Her cheeks flushed, and I was pretty sure I knew why.
I’d kicked off my shorts sometime after our . . . exchange in bed.
She was seeing me naked for the first time in the light of the morning after.
“You’re up,” I said, my voice still heavy with sleep. As my vision cleared, I realized she was dressed in leggings and a T-shirt, her hair knotted in a messy bun. She was crouched by the bed, tying a pair of brightly colored sneakers. “You’re dressed.”
For the first time on this vacation, I didn’t want to bolt from bed. I wanted her warmth with me, under the covers.
“Yeah, sorry,” she whispered. “I tried not to wake you.”
“Where are you going?” Unease slid through me. She was just going to leave?
After a small hesitation, she said, “I’m off to yoga with Becky.”
I sat up fully, squinting at her. “You know you don’t actually have to do that, right?”
“I know,” she said, nodding. “But I did say I would meet her.”
She looked back down to her shoe, but I knew there was more there. “And?” I asked.
“Aaand,” she said, drawing the word out, “I just wanted a moment to think. You’re the first man I’ve woken up next to other than Mark . . . in a long time.”
Sliding my legs over the side of the bed and pulling the sheet across my lap, I bent, resting my elbows on my thighs and studying her. “Okay.”
“I liked it,” she assured me quietly, looking up at me. “Just doing something I don’t usually do and taking a moment to pace myself.”
I reached forward, taking her hand in mine. It was cold, as if she’d washed her hands under the tap before coming over to put her shoes on.
She chewed her lip, eyes scanning my face. “On a scale of sloth to Woody Allen, what level of freaking out are you?”
Laughing, I said, “I am somewhere between sloth and old lazy dog.”
“Oh.” This seemed to surprise her. “Okay. I can handle that.”
My chest grew tight. “Look. Let’s make a deal.”
She shifted to her knees, scooting closer. “All right.”
“Let’s just have fun,” I said, staring at our hands. She was pale and smooth against my tanned skin. Tendons and veins wove together along the back of her hand—she was so strong. “We have a week and a half left together,” I said. “You live in London, I’m in Boston. So far, this trip has been . . .”
“Crazy,” she said, smiling up at me. “Good. Different.”
“All of that,” I agreed, nodding. “So let’s just make a deal that we’re partners in this. I want to make your holiday perfect.”
“I want to make yours perfect, too.” She leaned forward, kissing the inside of my wrist.
“And if you decide you just want to be a single woman on a trip . . .” I began.
“I’ll tell you. And same,” she added quickly. She pressed the back of my hand to her cheek. “I like this plan.”
“So are you sure you wouldn’t rather get back in bed?” I pulled her forward between my legs.
But she resisted, even though she took a few seconds to look at my chest, my stomach, my hips. “I should . . . yoga.”
I exhaled slowly. “Right. Where are you meeting?”
“We’ve opted to skip the steam thing, and are yoga-ing it up in the backyard.”
“Have you ever done yoga before?”
She shook her head. “Not once in my life. But it’s bending and putting your legs in the air. How hard can it be?”
I laughed.
“For what it’s worth, Becky is trying,” she said quietly, her expression straightening. “And it’s easier for me, your wife, to respond to it than it is for you.”
“Are you protecting me?” I asked, grinning at her.
“Maybe.”
My quiet laugh broke free. “Who would have pegged you as the wise peacekeeper?”
She stretched, kissing my chin. “See you at breakfast.”
I pulled on my jeans and a sweater, heading downstairs to grab a cup of coffee from the pot near reception before padding out to the back porch. There was a thick layer of fog hovering over the grass, and it was chilly out, but it was beautiful. Stark greens seemed to explode from behind
the thick clouds—in the grass, the trees, the hills in the distance. Just down the broad back steps and to the left of the house a bit, on the flat, smooth lawn, Becky and Pippa stretched out on yoga mats I assumed Becky brought along for her and Cam to use.
I sipped my coffee, watching them.
Pippa’s general fitness had to be due to genetics and her constant energy and motion rather than a natural proclivity for athletics. Even stretching, she looked unsure of herself and wiggly, dancing and talking.
The screen door creaked behind me, and Ziggy came to sit on the step at my side, her hands cupped around a steaming mug.
“What on earth is she doing?” she asked, voice still scratchy.
“Yoga.”
“That’s yoga?”
“Pippa’s version of it, at least.”
“Wow. And with Becky? She should have told her to get bent.”
I nodded, smiling over the top of my mug. “Apparently she’s true to her word.”
Becky straightened, instructing Pippa on something I couldn’t hear, and then I watched as Pippa bent to touch her toes and stiffly lifted one of her legs behind her. She was about one-eighth as flexible as Becky.
She looked ridiculous.
She was amazing.
Ziggs snorted. “She’s flipping awesome. She looks like little Annabel doing yoga.”
Becky mimicked what Pippa had done, and then transitioned it into a complicated version of Downward Dog that nearly sent Pippa to the ground.
“I think Becky is onto her,” I said, shaking my head as Pippa collapsed onto the mat in a pile of giggles.
“Onto her how?”
“Pippa said she was really into this fictional British Steam Yoga.”
My sister’s eyes narrowed as she studied them more seriously. “The weird thing is,” she said, “I don’t even worry about Pippa being able to take care of herself out there.”
“Becky isn’t exactly a predator,” I noted dryly. “And they’re not sword fighting. It’s yoga.”
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