Page 67 of Best Laid Plans

"You introduced me to The Art of War," she reminded me, stroking my face as if she was relearning its contours.

"Sugar, we're not at war." I took her hand and brought it to my mouth, kissed it.

"Détente?"

I laughed. "You know there are those who say détente just means cold war."

She screwed her nose. "Who said that?"

"Golda Meir."

It was so easy to fall into this kind of banter with her. We'd had this—and so much more, but this had been the basis of it all. Our love for learning, and sharing what we learned.

"Anson, can we just fuck and not talk about heavy things? I had a shit night. I haven't had decent sex since you, and I don't say that to give you a big head, but—"

"I haven't either, Sugar," I cut in, wanting to reciprocate, needing to.

She cocked an eyebrow as if in disbelief.

I had to laugh. That was the other thing. We made each other laugh.

"Not even Bailey."

She punched my shoulder. "I wasn't askin'."

"Sure, you were, Sugar," I teased and kissed her nose.

"One night of reprieve?" she whispered.

One night wouldn't be enough, I wanted to tell her. One night would just whet our appetites, and we'd want more and more and more. And I was okay with that. I'd get her addicted to me, and we'd have sex until this need died down. It would go away eventually, wouldn't it? No one could go through life feeling like this, like their heart was outside their body.

"Yes," I said hoarsely. I wanted more than a reprieve. I wanted my future with her back. So, what if she had done what she had? I'd let it go. It didn't matter. That was not who she was today. This woman was strong and beautiful, smart and loving.

I grabbed the hem of my t-shirt that she wore and took it off. "Fuck," I gasped. I couldn't look away. Cinnamon-brown breasts tipped with large, dark, succulent nipples made my mouth water. Her skin was smooth, almost golden in the pale lamplight. My blood pooled south, and my cock began to throb, demanding release.

"Your turn," she whispered.

I took my shirt off and, watching her, removed my pants, slid them and my boxers off.

"Your turn," I grinned.

She tentatively removed the drawstring shorts that she wore. She sat still, and I could feel that she was nervous. I glided my palms over the smooth curves of her thighs, and gently parted them.

I watched her as I cupped her and felt her heated slickness. She whimpered.

"So hot, so wet."

I ran my fingers along the crease between her thigh and her pussy. "Part your thighs, Sugar."

She flushed. God, she was cute. So, fucking adorable.

I pushed a finger inside her as we looked into one another's eyes. This was more than fucking. It was bonding. My body knew its mate, knew who she was. I ached for her. I should never have let her go, never should have let anger and fear cloud my judgment. I should have kept her with me. Spanked the hell out of her for not trusting me enough to ask me for money—but I should've kept her. By now we'd be married, maybe we'd even have a couple of children. We'd be happy. Truly happy. I knew that in my bones.

I found her sensitive clit, and she closed her eyes—I let her so I could watch her unobserved. She was beautiful. Perfect. Mine.

I took my time because there was no way I'd rush this. I wanted to feel, to savor, to let myself indulge in my Nova. Her pussy tightened, and she began to pant softly. Her eyes opened, and she looked at me lazily, aroused. Shivers ran through her as I felt her getting close.

"Yeah, Sugar, give it to me, baby." I was desperate to feel her orgasm and see, again, how beautiful she looked when she came. I wanted it back. I wanted my fucking life back. This time, I was going to keep her, come hell or high water. I would not let her go. Enough was enough. I loved her. The hell with integrity and honesty; they wouldn't keep me warm at night, they wouldn't hold my heart.

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