“I most certainly did not.” He drags my shorts down my legs.
Sitting up, I push his shorts and boxers down his thighs. Voice breathless, I say, “This is all your fault.”
“How do you figure?” he muses as he grabs the hem of my tank top and yanks it over my head.
“Six years ago”—he unclasps my bra—“your obsession with me started.” He snickers. “Then you had to go and make me fall in love with you.”
“You messaged me first, Fish.” He shucks his shorts and boxers off the rest of the way, an arrogant tilt angling his head.
Desire pools between my thighs as he sweeps my panties down and off. “Yeah, because I missed you.”
After rolling on a condom, he crawls up the bed until I’m caged beneath him, although he holds a space between our bodies that is not conducive to touching, feeling or tasting. “Is that all?”
“No.” I reach for him but he grabs my wrist and pins it above my head. Smiling, I try with the other hand and he does the same.
His knees spread my thighs wide. “No?”
Now only inches above me, his hardest part hovers so close, yet so far from where I need to feel him. I bite my lip. “I thought you were hot,” I confess.
“Hmmm. So, you could say thatyourobsession withmestarted six years ago.” He lowers his hips just enough to tease me and I hum at the contact.
I squirm, rapidly moving into needy territory as I sputter, “It was mutual, old man.”
“I’m not sorry,” he breathes against my lips.
“Me neither.”
He makes love to me, one hand clasped tightly to mine the whole time. Whispered promises of tomorrow and forever land on wet mouths and feverish skin and in tangles of hair. He tells me I’m beautiful, that he’s the luckiest man in the world, that he’ll miss me…so much.
He tells me he loves me.
I tell him I love him, too.
And when he commutes with me to work the next morning, rolling suitcase in tow, he stands outside Saks and wraps me in his arms one last time, promising me, “Four months is gonna fly by so fast.”
With another kiss that he guarantees won’t be our last, he hails a cab and heads to the airport.
Chapter Fifty-Four
I’M HOME, BABY
Connor
August
Me
What are you wearing?
Gretchen
Clothes.
I’m not sexting you from work.
Me
Clothes can be hot. Are they hot?
