Page 126 of Beyond the Stroke

Fuck. I haven’t even touched her and I already know I’ll never be the same man after witnessing Summer find her release.

We lie there for a moment, Summer’s breathing evening out while I commit every sound of her climax to memory.

Her hand drops from her center and onto the bed between us. My restraint is at its breaking point. I can’t fucking help myself. I reach for it and press her fingers into my mouth. Sheturns to me, her eyes wide, watching as I swirl my tongue over her digits, sucking every drop of her off.

She tastes even sweeter than I imagined.

“Fuck, Summer, you taste like wildflowers and sweet tea.”

She lets out a puff of laughter, throwing her other arm across her forehead as she giggles. Like she’s exasperated while also turned on.

Now that I’ve tasted her, I’m thoroughly fucked.

With Summer still in a daze, I press a kiss to her palm, then roll off the bed. There’s only so much a man can take, so I head for the bathroom to shower. Ultimately, I know I’ll be fucking my hand with the taste of my wife still on my tongue.

As the hot water beats down on my back, I brace one hand on the tile and try to steady my breathing. My other hand is wrapped around my cock, my hips thrusting into my tight fist to the memory of Summer pleasuring herself.

It’s not a new occurrence but now that every fantasy I’ve ever had about her has been permanently upgraded by the real thing, I can’t help myself.

I watch my climax rinse down the drain, then finish my shower.

By the time I return to the room, Summer’s curled beneath the covers, her peaceful face telling me she’s already drifting off to sleep. I want to climb in beside her, pull her against me, hold her all night. But I know myself too well.

So, instead, I grab an extra blanket from the closet and crash on the couch.

There are lines I won’t cross, not while she’s still sorting out what this marriage means to her. And while she let me in tonight, she trusted me. I’m not about to rush her past that.

She deserves everything, including my patience and the space to want more because she’s ready, not because the moment got the better of us.

Even if sleeping out here with a hard-on and the taste of her still on my tongue is its own kind of torture.

Because she’s worth every second of the wait.

thirty-four

. . .

SUMMER

It’s been four days since Charleston. Four days since I touched myself in front of Rory, and he hasn’t brought it up. Not once.

He’s been polite. Respectful. His usual charming self.

It’s as if I didn’t fall apart under his voice, then watch him lick me off his fingers. And it’s driving me insane.

Every time he brushes past me in the kitchen, every time I hear him laugh with Whitney from the porch, or he splits his chocolate banana protein shake with me because I need fuel to paint, I feel it all over again.

I’ve thrown myself into painting. Kept myself busy with a few extra shifts at the café. Anything to keep from looking at him like he’s the answer to every problem I’ve ever had.

But tonight? Tonight, I have to put on a dress and walk into a country club ballroom for a swimming charity gala and pretend I’m not coming undone every time he looks at me.

Walking in to The Golden Lane Project gala, the scene is reminiscent of many I recall from my old life. An opulent venue with sparkling chandeliers hanging from high ceilings. A string quartet is playing in the background while waiters glide though the ballroom with trays of champagne.

A waiter stops beside me and I take the offered champagne. My head is clear again after my fun last night and I know I need to keep my wits about me, but it gives me something to do with my restless hands.

That’s when I see him.

Across the room, talking to a group of people, is Rory looking heartbreakingly handsome in a black suit.

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