Page 66 of Blocked Score

Scarlett turns toward me in the bed, pressing her face into the crook of my neck as she’s wracked by tremors of her own climax.

When I come down, I’m too spent to talk. Too spent to think.

All I can do is kick off my sticky pants and shove them out of the bed with my feet. I pull Scarlett close, press my nose back against her hair, and hook my arm around her waist.

This time, I say fuck it, and instead of just resting the back of my hand against her breast, I reach up under her shirt and palm it in my hand.

We might regret this in the morning. But right now, it’s better than any dream.

33

SCARLETT

Mellow satisfaction hangs on every limb while I slowly wake up. It’s like I’ve had the best, most restful sleep of my life.

There’s a warm, firm, solid pressure against my back. I don’t know what it is, my brain is still foggy and only just stepped out of sleep, but I don’t care. It feels too good for me to care. Warmth is radiating from whatever it is, enveloping my body with comfort.

There’s something under my shirt. A gentle, supportive pressure right against …

Then the memories flood back, switching my brain fully awake.

It’s Lane’s hand under my shirt, cupping my boob. It’s Lane pressed against my back, making me the little spoon against his massive body.

And his finger was inside me last night, working me to an orgasm that made me see stars.

My eyes snap open.

Lane’s breaths are still shallow and rhythmic. He’s still asleep.

Shit. What the hell was I thinking last night? Shamelessly grinding my ass against his cock and then downright begging him to finger me?

I wasn’t thinking, that’s what happened.

When I woke up in the middle of the night and felt myself pressed against Lane, felt the lines of his hard muscles against my back, felt the pressure of his hard cock against my ass … I lost control. My brain short-circuited, and my better judgment was utterly swamped by the raw, throbbing need between my legs.

What’s Lane going to think when he wakes up? Is he going to take last night as an invitation to enter into some kind of roommates with benefits deal?

I know I couldn’t do that without becoming attached again. And I know attachment isn’t what he wants. I found that out for sure eighteen months ago.

I feel Lane stir to life behind me. His body rustles, and his breathing shrugs out of its even rhythm. He clears his throat, rolls his neck …

And squeezes.

He gives my tit a quick, firm squeeze. Electricity shoots through me, fire curling between my legs. My breath gets trapped in my throat, and for a long moment, I’m frozen.

Then, like he suddenly realizes what he’s doing, he draws back his hand quickly. The lack of his touch is like a sprinkle of cold water, even though I know that Lane Larsen touching my boob is the last thing in the world I need.

It might feel good now, but it’s fatally dangerous for the organ beatingbehindmy chest.

Lane rolls away from me, sitting up. He makes rumbly, throaty groans as he cracks his neck. I’d love to keep lying here and appreciate them, but I think it’s best if we rip this Band-Aid off as soon as possible.

I sit up next to him. He turns to me, and my brain scrambles. His eyes are ringed with a sleepy look, his hair all tousled and matted, a dreamy drowsiness softening the hard angles of his face.

“Morning,” he says. The crooked grin he slants at me has my heart leaping to my throat and weighing down my tongue.

I recover and remember what I just told myself. Band-Aid. Rip. Fast.

“About what happened last night,” I blurt out.

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