Page 60 of The Autumn We Fell in Love

“I agree.” He strokes my cheek with a light thumb. I smell my musk on him and shiver in fresh delight.

This was so much.

And yet it wasn’t enough.

I need more. I need everything Laurent has to offer.

“Take me home?” My voice is thick with need.

The heaviness of arousal shines in his eyes once more. Mischief playing over his lips, Laurent stands and closes my door. He’s behind the steering wheel a second later, and one breath more sees us driving off into the night.

Laurent

Ifollow the GPS in Shira’s car back to her home, pushing the car as fast as it can safely take the curves in the road. It’s agony, smelling her musk on my hands, knowing her lips are ripe for kissing, and not being able to have her this very second. My cock screams inside my pants, demanding I give it everything it desires.

EverythingIdesire.

It’s an age until I’m pulling up outside her petite cottage that hearkens back to a time before wine country was, well, wine country. And at the same time, it’s like I’ve blinked my eyes and we’re here rather than in the town square.

Maybe I’m losing my mind.

Or maybe I’m finding it, through her. Beautiful, sweet, silly, smart Shira.

MyShira, until she decides otherwise.

As we emerge from the car, I take deep pulls of autumn’s crisp night air. I’m suddenly breathless, unsure of what to say, of how to begin.

Without a word, Shira moves to my side and folds my hand in hers. “Come on,” she says. “Come inside.”

Her voice is husky with arousal. It makes my hardness jump.

I bet Tonio and the other guys at work would elbow each other at this and tell me I’m whipped. I’d crack back quick. Yeah, I am whipped by an amazing woman, and proud of it.

I found someone who wants me for more than my stage routine, more than my pelvic thrusts and oil-slick abs. I’ll do anything to keep her. If that makes me whipped, then so be it — I’m so fucking whipped.

Shira leads me up a cobbled stone path to a door that even in the dim light I can see is an untraditional color. As she unlocks the front door and steps inside to flick the lights on, I see that it’s — I blink in surprise, then smile in appreciation — purple.

Sensing that I’ve paused on the threshold, Shira turns and sees me contemplating the colorful door. “It’s my favorite color,” she says, cheeks growing pink all over again.

God, I love it when she blushes.

I just don’t want her to feel so apologetic about everything.

“It’s fantastic,” I say, closing the front door. “Perfect for wine country.”

A playful smile skating over her lips, she wags a finger at me. “Nuh-uh, burgundy is perfect for wine country.”

I pop a single eyebrow. “So purple is . . . a rebellion?”

She grins and I want to devour the expression. “I don’t fit the expected norms. Why should my house?”

“Let’s see the rest of it,” I say, peering over her shoulder.

Her flush deepens, but this time I sense it’s from pleasure. I like this kind of blush. Quite a bit, in fact.

Shira beckons me from the foyer and leads me into a small but beautifully designed living room. In the center of the room beneath a petite chandelier that looks like it’s constructed of white-painted tree branches sits a wide periwinkle sofa covered with turquoise, white, and tan pillows. Two matching armchairs sit on either side of it, with a sturdy coffee table laden with books in the middle of them. On the other side of the coffee table are two vast periwinkle ottomans, big enough to comfortably seat a couple of Great Danes.

Behind the couch is a set of French doors. The opposite side of the room opens to a long kitchen. At the far end, there are sweeping countertops and brushed steel everything. Closer, there’s a red-pillowed bench inset against some windows. It faces a metallic table with two white chairs with crimson cushions pulled up to it — a picture-perfect eating nook.

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