Page 101 of Corkscrew You
Being a sore loser, of course, Nate decides to fight back. He shifts one hand off my hip and slides it between us, and now I’m athismercy. Now,Iwant the pace to accelerate, but he won’t do it, the monster. If I could open my eyes, I’m sure I’d see him laughing at me.
He takes me to the edge, synchronizing his touch with every glorious, controlled thrust, and to be honest, I no longer give a fig about Max eavesdropping.
And then, right when I’m about to see stars, he grabs both my hips again, lifts his fantastic rear off the bed and fills me harder, deeper, faster until I feel his heat as well as mine, and we explode together in a million points of light.
I surface first, to find I’m half lying on top of him. He has one arm flung over his face, which, sensing me stir, he raises. He blinks at me, his blue eyes cloudy, dazed.
“Second time tonight I’ve had to crawl back to consciousness,” he murmurs. “This episode was alotmore pleasurable.”
Now, I feel guilty. He needed rest, and I have not rested him one bit. I prop myself up so I can get a good look at his face.
“Are you OK?”
He gives me a quizzical smile. “We’ve just had mind-blowing sex, and you’re asking me if I’m OK?”
I see his point, but—
“The doctor said you had to take it easy. We were a little … energetic.”
“Shel, he also told me to reduce stress,” he says. “And judging by the fact every muscle of mine is now as relaxed as a wrung-out dishcloth, I’d say goal achieved.”
That may be true, but he needs more than temporary relief. All right, so it’s somewhat late in the play, but I resolve to be a more diligent caregiver.
I drop a quick kiss onto his forehead. “I’m going to let you sleep now.”
And I start to slide out of bed.
“Wait, no.” He catches my arm. “Sleep here.”
I elude his grip. He reallyisweak. “No can do, buddy. You needpropersleep. No booty calls in the small hours.”
I can see by his expression that I’ve judged it correctly. I retrieve my scattered clothes and re-clad my nakedness. Nate watches, half amused, half regretful.
“I love you,” he says. “Also, I can’t believe we just had sex in my childhood bedroom.”
Only now am I taking in the décor of the room. “You had an antique sewing table in your childhood bedroom?”
“Mom made a few changes,” he says, with a wry grin.
I also now spy a mountain of discarded pillows on the floor. Nate follows my gaze.
“Yeah, I don’t understand that, either,” he says. “But I’d say some country’s economy is now reliant on my mother’s pillow habit.”
Now decently attired again, I bend over him. The musky, sexy smell of him almost undoes my resolve, and so instead of the deep, long farewell kiss I had planned, I peck his cheek.
“Coward,” he accuses, accurately.
“Love you, too,” I say. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
I skip quickly out the door before lust hormones change my mind.
The hallway is dimly lit, and I begin to creep back to the guest bedroom, feeling a little like whoever that Greek guy was who laid a trail of string in the Minotaur’s labyrinth. I just have to go past the stairs and around the corner, and then I’m almost th—
Figgety-fig! It’s Nate’s figgingfather! What the fig is he doing up at this time of night?
“Are you lost?” He sounds remarkably mild, considering his rage of earlier.
“No, I was just … checking on Nate.”
