Google it, if you don’t believe me.
Most women crave feelings with intercourse—they might not even be able to get off without it.
But Delores Warren isn’t most women. She screwed my brains out the first time we went out. Without knowing me well enough to feel anything, except lust. And it was awesome. For both of us. In fact, she seemed to have preferred it that way.
Like I said . . . lust is easy.
But the night after Rosaline invaded my apartment, something changes. Shifts.
I don’t just want Dee to come hard, I want to please her. I want her to feel happy, cherished—in or outside the bedroom. And I want to be the reason she feels that way.
She sighs in her sleep, and the sound awakens me. She’s on her stomach, the blanket only covering to her waist, exposing the flawless expanse of her back. I watch her face and wonder what she’s dreaming. Her features are relaxed, smooth—making her appear vulnerable and young.
And an ardent protectiveness fills my chest, clenching at my heart. My hand touches her first, softly trailing up her spine. Followed by my lips. My tongue. I taste the sweet saltiness of her skin, from her backbone to her neck.
“Matthew.” She sighs. And I know she’s awake too.
She rolls over onto her back, her alert eyes finding mine in the darkness. I push the blanket away, and her thighs open for me. Welcoming me.
I move onto her, chests pressing, thighs aligning, her hips cradling. And when I kiss her lips, it’s so much more than just a kiss. Different than the others we’ve shared.
I want her to know what I feel. I want to show her—with every caress, every stroke—what she’s come to mean to me. And more than anything . . . I want to know I mean the same to her. I want to feel it from her.
I slide into her fully. Her gloriously tight wetness stretches, yields, then clutches at me as I pull back for another thrust. My mouth hovers above hers, our breaths blend, our pants mingle.
It’s f**king splendid.
She touches my face, and I kiss her chin, her cheek, her hair, her ear, showering her with my newfound feeling. Our movements are tender . . . not gentle or calm per se, but . . . meaningful.
Her hips rise up to meet mine, fusing us deeper. I swallow the sob that falls from her lips as she comes before me. I plunge into her, unrelenting, through her orgasm, until I follow with an earth-shattering one of my own.
Her legs wrap around me, keeping me magnificently imprisoned in her embracing heat. We kiss as we come down, nibbling and biting at each other’s lips. I turn my face into her neck, resting my head against her clavicle, breathing in her scent. Her hands skim my arms and settle on my shoulder blades.
A few minutes later, I reluctantly pull out. Dee’s arms tighten around me, so I don’t move off of her. We fall asleep in that same position—with my body serving as her heavy blanket, and hers my supple pillow.
Over the days and nights that follow, Delores and I literally spend every night together. She finally opens up and tells me all about her ex-boyfriends. There weren’t as many as you’re probably thinking, but the ones she had were some real winners.
There was the first prick, of course—the kid who knocked her up, then kicked her to the curb.
Douche bag number two turned out to be older than he’d first said. Like . . . ten years older. And married. With a kid.
The ass**le after that—this would be during Delores’s college years—stole her bank account information, cleaned the frigging thing out, and took off for Vegas. The dickhead left her a note explaining he had a rampant gambling addiction that he’d been able to keep hidden from Dee for the months they were together.
And finally—there’s the last gash. The motherfucker who hit her.
Delores said it only happened once, but once is way too many times for me. She wouldn’t give me his name, but I swear on everything that is holy if I ever learn it? I’ll track the f**ker down, go to his place, and break every bone in the hand that touched her.
Then I’ll break the other one, just to be sure he won’t forget.
Oh—and then there’s the story of her parents. Delores said her mother and father hooked up hot and heavy, swearing it was instant but lasting love. Until her mom got pregnant. Then her father turned into a ghost and disappeared . . . never to be heard from again.
Now that I know the details about Dee’s losing streak, everything makes so much more sense. Why she was so nervous in the beginning, even though she liked me—because she liked me.
It’s a wonder she even trusts me now. After her history, I wouldn’t have been shocked if she threw in the towel and went full-out lesbian.
But—as cool as that would be—I’m really glad she didn’t.
The night before Thanksgiving is officially the biggest bar night on the calendar. Every year after the Day-Before-Thanksgiving Office Party, Drew, Jack, and I hit the clubs and party until the sun comes up. It’s a great time. As traditional as turkey, stuffing, and cranberry sauce.
Although, can I just say, I never got the cranberry sauce thing. Even homemade, it’s f**king nasty.
Anyway, this year I invite Dee along for the ride—the office party and the after-festivities. I haven’t hung out with the guys in more than two weeks. It happens that way sometimes. When a kid gets a new shiny toy for Christmas, the last thing he wants to do is let his friends play with it. He hordes it, hibernates with it, keeps it to himself, maybe even sleeps with it under his pillow. Then, after a week or two—he’ll let someone else have a turn.