HANK
ABBY’S SKIN IS like silk beneath my hands, and those desperate little noises she makes when I get close to all that heat between her legs are going to be the end of me. I want more. I want the sound of my name breaking on her lips as I make her come. I want the feel of her body, tight and wet and taking me deep, embedded in my memory banks. And the look in her eyes when I’m buried inside her, I want that too, right there too.
Her nails bite into my shoulders.
“Please, Hank. Touch me.”
The hand I’ve been keeping on that tight leash comes loose, crossing all the lines I’ve been painstakingly adhering to… and with greedy abandon.
I groan, finding her panties damp to the touch.
So hot.
I pet her through the fabric, not wanting to give it up and yet desperate to get inside. She whimpers again and I break, sliding my fingers beneath the panel and into a playground of slick, plumped flesh.
“So wet for me, baby.”
If I’d said that to Abby ten years ago, she would have slammed her knees shut and run away. Been too embarrassed to talk to me for three days. But now, I can feel her response coating my fingers, in the shock of breath at my ear, and the way she tilts her hips into my touch, looking for more.
It’s that last bit that gets me the most. The needy plea of her body that has me needing to get inside of her more than I need my next breath.
I tighten my hold on her hair and pull her head back. Fuck, I like the things her breath tells me.
Her lips are swollen from my kiss already, parted and waiting for more. And when I take it, sliding my tongue past them again, thrusting in and out, slow and firm… I find her slick opening and sink my finger into all that snug, wet heat.
Christ.
She’s moaning around my tongue, gripping my shoulders like she’s never going to let go. And I don’t want her to. Her tight walls cling and clench with every slow thrust I give her, her breath already coming in short bursts.
I’m going to have what I want soon.
“Hank,” she gasps, as I twist and stroke inside her, rocking my palm against the sweet spot between her legs. “I want— I need— Oh God— Please—”
Abby’s eyes are hazed with need, her hands between us as she tugs and pulls at my shirt and belt, opens my fly, and reaches—
“Abby!” I growl the second her sweet fingers curl around me. I lean into her fist, reveling in this fantasy come to life.
Because hell yes, there have been a lot of fantasies about this woman, and the novelty of having her fist wrapped around my shaft instead of mine as this one plays out—un-fucking-believable.
“Panties,” I order, rolling on the rubber I carry in my wallet.
She kicks out of them and I catch a glimpse of purple and orange stripes that get me impossibly harder. I want to eat her through those panties, but another time, because tonight, what’s driving me is base and primal.
I’m notched at her opening, the hot pulse of her sex against the head of my cock.
Our eyes meet and she whispers, “Just this once.”
I smile. “Not a chance, beautiful.”
My name is on her lips as I part her slick flesh, feeding her inch after inch until I feel the flutter of her tensing and releasing in response to my body stretching hers.
So good.
I want to hammer into her, but it’s been so long and she’s so tight. And more than that chest-thumping need to claim, I need to make her come.
Only that’s not all of it. What I really need is to make her come better than she can remember coming before. I want to set the gold standard for sex and be the guy behind every wistful sigh and faraway stare for the rest of her life. And I want it to be because of tonight.
So instead of pounding hard and fast, I slide back, savoring the way her body resists letting me go, how her lips part and she gasps my name again.
I pull out nearly to the tip and then rock my hips forward. Pushing into that wet, slick friction, I fill her as slowly and completely as her body will let me before retreating to do it again.
Her hands are at my shoulders, her hold on my open shirt tightening with every thrust of my hips. I need more. She needs more.
I press her harder into the door, taking her knee from my hip and opening her wider as I bottom out.
Eyes flashing to mine, her breath stops.
How did I forget? She loves that push beyond what I should give her. I rock again, nudging deeper at the barrier of her body, and that’s it, her climax is breaking all around me. Her inner walls pulsing and gripping.
She cries out my name and I know she’s going to regret it if she thinks her neighbors have heard her, so I cover her cries with my kiss, devouring every one.
Making them mine.
And then from some deeper, more primal place: She’s mine.
The tension gathering low in my spine concentrates and then it’s big-bang time and I’m riding the wave in a hot, pumping rush.
When it’s over, I give myself to the count of ten to hold her. To press my forehead against hers and feel the wash of her breath against my neck and jaw. To just be.
“Hank?”
“One second, baby. Let me handle the condom.”
She nods and when I get back from the bathroom, she’s straightened her dress but is still standing at the door. Her hands clutched together in a nervous hold that makes me ache after what we just shared.
“I was serious about what I said. Just this once.”
“I know.” And then before she gets any ideas, I wrap my arms around her and carry her into her bedroom. “I was serious too. Not a chance.”
Her eyes are wide and I marvel at how impossibly blue they are. At how much they reveal when she’s not actively trying to shut me out. And hell, even when she is.
Smoothing her hands over my shoulders, she asks, “But… you’re just talking about tonight, right?”
I lay her back on her bed and brace above her. “We can start there.”
ABBY
I WAKE SUNDAY morning to the tender ache of my kiss-worn lips, my breasts, and most of all, my sex. It’s definitely not terrible. The sheets are cool around me, but smell faintly of Hank’s cologne and I press my nose into them, wanting as much of it as I can get.
He wanted to stay, but I knew better than to let him.
He’s changed in some ways, but not the ways I’d need him to for us to have a chance. And honestly, I wouldn’t want him to. He’s doing too much good with the life he has.
Knock, knock, knock.
I close my eyes, take one more hit of my Hank-laced sheets and sigh.
Crawling out of bed, I throw on my robe.
“Coming, Helen!” I tiptoe over my dress and the boring bra I wore last night. Not the splashy orange number with the lace trim I got to appease Helen for the reunion.
I’m going to have to invest in more lingerie.
I stop midstep, giving myself a mental shake, because no. I’m not going to buy new lingerie. What happened with Hank isn’t going to happen again. No matter what he keeps saying.
Before closing my bedroom door on the cornucopia of dirty evidence from our night before, I scan the floor by the door where my panties are supposed to be… but aren’t.
My eyes bug.
He wouldn’t have. Only even as I think it, I realize that Hank isn’t exactly behaving the way I’d predict. For as well as I think I know him, in some ways I don’t know him at all.
Like his dirty mouth.
My belly gets a little fluttery just from thinking about the things he said to me last night. Wondering what more he would’ve said if I’d let him stay when he asked.
Helen knocks again, this time more insistent, and her muffled voice filters through the door.
“Abigail, for goodness’ sake, my arms are full and I’m going to drop—”
I pull the door open and she expels a put-upon breath before breezing in wearing an applique sweatshirt and leg
gings with Betty Boop all over them. She circles around to the couch and begins laying out the bounty she’s brought with her. A Tupperware of cookie dough, Chunky Monkey ice cream, and an assortment of magazines ranging from GQ to Muscle & Fitness and Flex.
“I figured after your night out with Wilson”—she says his name like it leaves a bad taste in her mouth—“you’ll need a little pick-me-up, and some incentive not to give up on penis altogether. I picked these up at the Mobil station off Main Street last night and—”
Her words cut off abruptly and I look up from where I’ve started making a fresh pot of coffee in the kitchen. “What?”
Mouth hanging open, aghast, she fumbles up from the couch. “What did you do?”
There’s confusion in her eyes as she closes in, looking me over from head to toe.
She knows.
“Wilson?” She looks like she’s going to be sick, and I laugh to myself, wondering how in the world someone as well-liked and decent as Wilson could have made such an epically bad impression on Helen.
I have a moment of guilt thinking about last night in the car and how things will be different between us now. But that’s something I can worry about tomorrow. Now, I need to put Helen’s mind to rest.
“Settle down, Helen, it’s not what you think. At least, it’s not Wilson.”
She heaves a sigh of relief, pressing her hand against her chest as she leans back into the refrigerator like it’s the only thing keeping her up. She’s adorable.
I know it’s time to tell her about Hank, but I give her a minute to get herself together. And maybe a minute for myself to try and figure out just exactly what to say. I don’t want to get her hopes up, but more than that… I’m not exactly sure how we left things.
I mean I know how I tried to leave them. With a heartfelt thank you for an amazing night, and nothing more. But Hank wouldn’t have it. And every time I told him I was serious, he’d find some new and creative way to turn my brain to mush and tell me he was serious too. Serious about taking me to dinner tonight… in Paris.
No.
Serious about wanting to know what it would be like to wake up with me in his arms.
No.
Serious about giving us another chance.
God, my heart hurts.
A set of rhinestone-tipped fingers snaps in front of my eyes, yanking me back to the now, and the eager smile suddenly spread across Helen’s face.
“Hank?”
I nod, smiling as she pulls me in for a hug that practically suffocates me.
“Abby, that boy sure looks good on you.”
Maybe it’s not cool, but I tell Helen what happened with Hank. I try to keep things classy, the details at a minimum, but she’s just so persuasive that, in the end, I tell her everything.
“Forgive me for being confused, but you let him into your body and you still won’t let him take you to dinner?” Helen asks from where she’s sprawled in her corner of the couch, three-quarters of the pint of ice cream gone and the men’s magazines left untouched.
“It’s not that simple.” If she’d been here—and thank God she wasn’t—she’d have understood the kind of full-body meltdown that took place last night.
She points her spoon at me. “It’s exactly that simple. You care for him. Don’t deny it.”
She doesn’t understand. “Of course I care for him. But Helen, how long do you think he’s going to be around?”
“He’s twenty-eight, dear. Statistics would suggest quite a while.”
I sigh, taking the ice cream from Helen’s grasp, and to her credit, she only resists for a second before giving it up. “I don’t mean on this earth, Helen. I mean in Chicago. He’s always leaving.”
She purses her lips and throws up a hand. “So go with him. Certainly not every trip, at least not until he puts a ring on it.” My mouth gapes, but she isn’t done. “And even then, I know how you love teaching. But maybe in the summers and over breaks. Is he coming to Thanksgiving at your mother’s? Do you want a summer wedding or maybe a New Year’s Eve affair? You’ve waited long enough, and any wild-oat sowing he’s—”
“Helen!” I slap my hand over her lips and shake my head. “Not another word.”
Scowling at me, she sticks her tongue against my palm, and I jerk away, laughing and disgusted.
“Hank is not coming to my mother’s on Thursday, we aren’t getting married, and I’m not just talking about business trips. I’m talking about Chicago. He’s hardly here as it is, and he’s already planning to change his base of operations in the next months. He’s always leaving.”
Helen’s shoulders sag. “And you can’t be the one watching him go.”
It’s more than that. I can’t be the one waiting for him to come back.
HANK
“WHOA, YOU’RE TELLING me Abby still won’t agree to a date?” Jack grins from his corner of my oversized sectional, a half-eaten slice of sausage and mushroom pizza dangling precariously from his fingers.
“Not yet.” It’s Friday night, two weeks since I’ve been in her bed, held her, kissed her, or seen that gorgeous smile light up, and I’m going out of my mind.
“But you’re talking to her? I mean she didn’t tell you to stop calling her or anything, because if she does, tech god or not, you gotta leave her alone.”
I shoot him a dirty look. “You think I don’t know that?” Christ.
Hands up, he shakes his head. “Just checking.”
“We talk a lot. And she likes it.” Staying on the phone laughing and talking with me for hours. So long as I don’t suggest a date. Or a trip to Venice. Really anything that suggests more than two friends sharing a little harmless conversation.
Mostly harmless. I did get her to tell me about her panties on Wednesday—pink with little green polka dots and cotton. So sexy. But asking her to take a picture of them for me was obviously going too far. Live and learn.
I know more about her now, about the years that have passed and how she’s filled them. I know about the boyfriends, Eric, Larry, and Mark—all decent guys by her account, just not the right guys, thank fuck. I know about her dad’s stroke and it kills me to think about her waiting so long to have a real dad and then losing him that quickly. I know about her students and her landlord and, of course, Helen.
I know that talking to her is as easy as it was ten years ago and hanging up is even harder because she’s still not ready to give us another chance.
“See, this is good.” Jack reaches for another slice. “I told you, you needed a hobby outside of work and now you’ve got one: getting the schoolteacher to agree to a date.”
“Glad you’re entertained, dickhead.”
He grins. “Oh, I am. Have you seen yourself lately? You look almost human.”
“Ha-ha.” Thing is, he’s not entirely wrong. I feel different.
Greg walks in from the kitchen, three longnecks hooked in his fingers. He hands them out and sprawls in the other corner of the couch, looking amused as hell.
“So let me get this straight. You bust up her date, get her into bed for a night—”
“Half a night, man. She didn’t let him stay. Security’s got him dragging in here at three a.m., and you should see the ear-to-ear smile on his face.” Jack wipes his hand on a paper towel and goes for his phone. “Hold on. I think I might have it.”
There’s no way.
Ping!
Greg’s brows shoot to his roots and then he’s looking at me and shaking his head.
“Dude. You are whipped.”
“Please.” He’s probably right, because I’m already thinking about hacking into Jack’s phone for that footage.
Shoving his phone back in his pocket, Greg takes a long swallow. “So what’s the reason she’s saying no again? It’s not the guy from the date, right?”
My mind flashes to fucking Wilson and the kiss he tried to take because of me. I want to drag my own ass outside to kick it for pushing a point that should have been left alone. Thing is, I’
m where I am today because I’ve got a knack for recognizing what people want… even before they recognize it themselves. It was only a matter of time with him.
“It wasn’t a date and it’s not him. She doesn’t think we fit in each other’s lives.”
“She right?”
When I look at Jack, he’s serious, and it eats at me that I can’t answer the way I want to. Tell him, Hell no, she’s not. But the truth is, I don’t know how we fit in each other’s lives because I haven’t had the chance to test it out. What I do know is that I want to try.
I walk over to the floor-to-ceiling glass slider. If Abby were here, I’d open it up to the night. Crank the fireplace and wrap her in the comforter from my bed like we used to do when we went out to the lagoon back in high school.
I can remember how heated it would be beneath that heavy blanket compared to the chill air outside. I remember the feel of her hips moving beneath my hands. Her breath, warm and sweet, on my face.
This is why I spent ten years working overtime not to let myself have a single free minute to think about her. Because I knew once I started, I wouldn’t be able to stop.
In the reflection of the glass, Greg opens his mouth and puts half a slice down in one bite. Damn.
He finishes chewing and points his beer at me. “What I can’t believe is that you’re supposed to be this internationally recognized genius guy and you can’t figure out what it’s going to take to get a girl you dated for four years to let you buy her dinner. You say she hasn’t changed, right? So think about what she likes, what she wants, and give it to her. I mean, Jesus, man. Use your brain.”
That’s the problem. I know exactly what Abby wants. I remember promising her she could have it. That I’d give it to her.
Even now I can feel her cheek against my chest, my heart pounding as I painted the picture of the future I thought would be ours. I wasn’t talking about alternate power sources or making clean water a reality for those who don’t have it… I was telling her about the house we’d buy on Sixth Avenue a few blocks between my parents’ house and hers. The one with the red door and little covered porch just big enough for a couple of chairs side by side. I was telling her about how we’d be the kids’ favorite English and science teachers at Bearings High, and how I’d meet her in her classroom at the end of the day and kiss her longer than I should when the halls were empty. I was putting my class ring on her finger and promising I was going to marry her the minute I thought her dad wouldn’t pound the crap out of me for asking too soon. That it was going to be me and her. Forever.