Twenty-Seven. Never Tear Us Apart

TWENTY-SEVEN

Never Tear Us Apart

Maren

Joe is waiting, standing outside his truck in the pickup lane. It's freezing and I'm jet-lagged, but the moment I see his tousled blond hair sticking out from beneath a knit hat, I'm running. I drop the handle of my rolling suitcase with a clack against the pavement and he braces, reading my intention in time to catch me. I wrap myself around him like a koala bear and pepper his face with kisses before he captures my mouth in a deep, hot, wet kiss that sings all the way to where my core is pressed against his.

"Was that enough space?"

"Too much. Never again," I say breathlessly as his nose brushes my neck and sends little zings of electricity through me.

"Way too much," he agrees. "Next time I'm stowing away in your suitcase."

I slip to my feet, but not out of his arms, and look him in the eyes, feeling caught. "I won't do that again, Joe. Ever."

His eyes fill with emotion and his Adam's apple bobs before he shakes his head. "You don't have to say that. It's okay. I understand why you left and it's okay to need your space to think. You don't owe me any—"

"No," I tell him, shaking my head and standing on my toes to plant a soft kiss on his lips to keep him from saying what he's about to say. "It's not okay. I'm not saying I didn't need to do it because I did this time, but I don't ever need to do it again. I won't leave like that."

He nods, releasing a shaky breath. "Okay."

"You're a catch, too, Joe. You're my catch."

The corner of his delicious mouth quirks in amusement and his eyes take on a glittery quality. "Is that so?"

"It's very so."

"I come with extras," he reminds me as if I needed the reminder.

"I can't wait to see them. I missed them."

The quirk spreads into an all-out smile. "Okay, but I was kind of hoping to make a slight detour by the boathouse before letting everyone know you were back. We have some unfinished—"

I cut him off with my lips, curling my tongue in his mouth and slipping my hands into his back pockets, bucking against him.

He pulls back just enough to speak. "I'll take that as a yes."

This time, Joe leaves the picnic basket at home, and I practically pounce on him the moment he kicks the wooden door closed and tilts the latch to secure it. This isn't about taking our time. We've wasted enough already— I've wasted enough already. Five days? Bless past Maren's little insecure heart. She's dead to me. I climb him like a tree, tangling my hands in his overlong hair and wrapping my legs around his hips. Thankfully, he's up to the challenge, chuckling low as he grips the backs of my thighs, holding tight and pressing in and using my own weight against me in super-interesting ways. Ways that make me want to get my PhD in physics just so I can understand how it's possible this man has such a talent with simple friction. I'm convinced it's something he learned in the military. Whatever it is, it's made the name of every man before him leak straight out of my brain.

Thank all the stars he has mercy on my clit and lays me down on a pile of quilts, immediately getting to work on the too-many buttons of my shirt. I should have planned better. Worn a T-shirt. Or better yet, those tear-apart jogging suits that were popular when I was a kid.

There is something to be said for just how incredibly sexy it is to have your clothes peeled off your body by someone who looks like he might combust with every inch of skin revealed. It's not something I've given much thought to, happy to pull off my own clothes in the heat of the moment, but Joe is taking his time. Carefully unwrapping me like a gift. He undoes the button on my jeans, placing a kiss where the silver fastener used to be. Then he pulls on the zipper, following his torturous progress with his lips, his breath, his calloused fingertips. Heat blazes through me and I have to consciously work to keep my hips still.

He peels my jeans down my thighs, and I wriggle free in an effort to speed us along, until I'm left only in my bra and underwear. Impatient, I hook my waistband with my thumbs and lift, but he reaches out with his palm, laying it flat across the sensitive skin below my belly button and pressing gently.

He tsks lightly and his lips are curved upward as his eyes dance in the candlelight. "Not yet."

"Guh."

He laughs, crinkling his crystal-blue eyes, and starts to remove his own shirt, pulling it over his head in that super-attractive way that musses his hair, the way I figure all men were taught when the teachers separated the classes for the puberty talk in fifth grade. Girls got a stick of deodorant and the thickest sanitary napkin they'd ever see. Boys learned how to tug their shirt off in the hottest way possible.

I reach for his zipper, and he lets me. Thank god. It's not easy going. He's already straining against the denim, which of course only revs me up more. While I'm distracted, he performs some kind of magic that has my bra slipping down my shoulders, even though I swear he hasn't moved his hands, and suddenly his hot mouth is covering my nipple. His tongue is swirling and pulling and all coherent thought has left my brain. I am composed only of hot, spiraling, staticky molecules and vibrating particle sensations. Molten lava races through my veins and my breaths pant into the space between us. His fingers find my other breast, gently tweaking and cupping me, and even without the ability to think I'm climbing his lap and straddling him. I haven't managed to remove his jeans, but I've made enough progress that I can still slide myself against him. Up and down, circling my hips and inwardly congratulating myself when he gasps, his mouth releasing me, the cold air hitting the damp heat and causing me to shudder from head to toe.

His fingers grip my hips, pulling me against him as he lifts up and there's that delicious friction all over again. My thighs tremble and my insides clench as he drags against my most sensitive spot. He drops his forehead to my collarbone and I hold him against me as we rock.

With a sudden groan, his fingers slip into the waistband of my underwear and he swiftly pulls down. I take his hint and slide to the side, pulling them off the rest of the way and throwing them god knows where. He's hurriedly losing his pants and boxer briefs in one fell swoop and I grin at the first glimpse of loss of control I've seen from him.

The knowledge he's as desperate for this as I am fuels me impossibly higher.

He takes a deep breath, working to calm himself, and I take him in. All of him. He's beautifully built. Solid and thick, strong in a way that's beyond attractive. Not in the way that I can count his abs. In a way that I can count on him. Protective, thoughtful, aware, and dependable.

Head-over-ass in love. That's what this is.

He crawls over me and it's like I might lift from the blankets, his pull is that consuming. He doesn't check if I'm ready. He knows. His fingers drag from my knee, up my thigh, and press into my hip, asking for permission. I fall open and he takes me in one thrust, filling me completely. I arch against him, desperate to feel more, more, more. He works me slowly, dragging out and diving powerfully, never looking away from my eyes. I'm lost in his gaze, in the feeling of him covering me inside and out. The coiling that started with his mouth on my breast curls and tightens. I can barely move, barely contain it. My breaths turn to whimpers turn to reckless gasps and I'm undone.

I explode in flames and cries and he does, too, thrusting deep and holding there as I close around him and he pulses in me, as connected as two people could possibly be. My fingers press gouges into his skin, my mouth muffled in his tense shoulder. Eventually, his blue eyes flicker open, and his lips spread in a dazzling smile. I lick my lips, lowering my eyes from his powerful gaze to his stubbly chin. Where it's safe.

"I think…" I give myself a moment. The chance to check—to make sure it's not the orgasm speaking. But I know it's not.

I try again, shaking my head back and forth on the pillow. "I'm going to tell you something and I don't want you to feel like you have to say it back." I lift my eyes, searching his. Be brave, Maren Laughlin. For once in your life, be the one who leaps first. "I love you."

I swallow back the explanation on my tongue—the urge to fill the silence with caveats or a light-hearted joke, feeling my face heat and realizing with even more embarrassment that we're still connected. He's still inside of me and I couldn't have picked a worse time.

"Um," I say, not even knowing what words I'm looking for. "Like I said, you don't have to. I mean, maybe pretend I didn't say that. The last thing I want is to make you feel… like. I know you have a lot to consider and I'm not exactly who you probably—"

"Maren. Be quiet a second, will you?"

My mouth slams shut. His expression is unreadable, but his eyes feel gentle on me. Like they are caressing the planes of my face and memorizing them. Which is probably a good sign. Hopefully.

I open my mouth and he narrows his eyes and I close it again.

Finally, he speaks. "I have been in love with you since the first morning you showed up at my house and made Anders lunch. Maybe that doesn't sound romantic, but you need to believe me when I say it is. It's the most romantic thing I've ever experienced in my life. You paid attention. You noticed and you didn't wait for an invitation. You just came over and filled the hole I didn't even realize was there. For my kids, sure, but in me as well."

His face gets all blurry around the edges and my throat is too tight to speak, so I lift my head and press a kiss to his lips. A kiss he deepens, and we lose ourselves in each other all over again.