35. 35
The Kind of Love We Make – Luke Combs
T he sheets cling to my lower back, soaked in sweat and tangled at my hips, but I don’t move. Not when she’s lying like this—one arm thrown over my stomach, one leg draped over mine, her cheek pressed to my chest. I swear I can still feel her around me.
My cock gives a half-twitch at the memory, even though we’re both wrecked.
It’s just after two-thirty, and we haven’t stopped touching each other since the first time I sank into her hours ago. Round one was all desperation—loud moans, tangled limbs, that first high crashing into us like a bloody freight train.
Then came round two on the couch. Slow but rough while she straddled me, hips grinding, hair sticking to her neck, begging me not to stop. She said it felt like I was splitting her in two. I nearly came right then.
By round three, she was on her stomach and I was behind her, one hand in her hair, the other gripping her hip like she might vanish if I let go.
And fuck, when I pulled out and watched her arousal drip down her thighs?
I’d have gone a fourth time right there if she hadn’t dropped to her knees in front of me and sucked me clean like she was starving.
Didn’t even ask. Just looked up at me with those wicked eyes, ripped the condom off, and wrapped her mouth around me like she’d done it a hundred times.
And I was gone.
Absolutely fucked.
No one’s ever done it like that. Soft tongue. Hollowed cheeks, taking me to the back of her throat without flinching. She kept going even after I warned her. Eyes locked on mine when I came. I’ve never moaned that loud in my life.
“Jesus,” she mutters now, lifting her head. Her hair’s a mess. Her cheeks flushed. Lips still kiss-bitten from where I worked them over. “I can’t believe I let you do that.”
I smirk, brushing a thumb over the edge of her jaw. “Do what, exactly?”
She narrows her eyes. “Eat me out on the kitchen bench while Sprinkles sat there watching.”
I grin. “She was not! She was sleeping . And I wiped the bench after.”
“You were so smug the entire time.”
“I wasn’t smug.” I stretch one arm behind my head, fully unashamed. “I was focused. Very committed to the task.”
She groans and drops her head back onto my chest. “You’re impossible.”
“Nah,” I murmur, dragging my fingertips lazily down her spine again. “You just like me too much. Admit it.”
Her fingers curl against my stomach. “You wish.”
“I’d say I believe you,” I say, lips curving, “but I did make you hum like a vibrator, so…”
She groans, burying her face in my chest. “Stop talking.”
I laugh, and the sound vibrates through both of us. She’s warm everywhere. Damp with sweat and still a little flushed. Her skin’s sticky against mine, but I couldn’t give less of a shit. I just want to keep her here a little longer. I want her close .
Silence settles again, but it’s the kind that doesn’t feel awkward. “How are you feelin’ this morning?” I ask. My voice is quieter now, not teasing anymore.
She shifts a little, her thigh still draped over mine. “Sore.”
“Sore’s good.” I nudge her gently. “But that’s not what I meant.”
She doesn’t answer at first, just chews the inside of her cheek, lashes lowered. I reach out, tip her chin up with two fingers, and wait until her eyes meet mine.
“Any regrets?”
“No. I just…” She pauses, and her brows crease slightly. “It’s a lot to process right now.”
“Well,” I say, trying to keep it light, “that didn’t sound convincing at all.”
Zoe huffs a breathy laugh and rolls onto her back beside me. “I’m not lying. I don’t regret it.”
“Good,” I say, rolling onto my side so I can study her properly. “So what is going on in that pretty head of yours then?”
She’s quiet for a second. “I need to talk to my mum.”
That one catches me off guard. I don’t know what to say to that. Not just because it’s fucked up—her own mum entertaining a chat with her ex like it’s no big deal—but because I can tell it’s not just about the call. It’s about him . Liam.
And now I’m lying next to her, wondering what he said. What else her mother said. If it rattled her. If she still feels like he’s got power over her, even from a distance. I lean in anyway, brushing her hair back behind her ear, then press a kiss to her neck. Just because I can.
Because I know it makes her breath stutter. Because I want to offer something solid, even if words don’t feel like enough right now.
“You’ve got time,” I murmur. “No rush.” She nods a little but doesn’t say anything.
I let it hang there for a moment longer, fingers tracing idle patterns across her hip.
Then, because I want to shift the weight in the room, or maybe because I want to see her smile again, I say, “By the way… the race is this weekend.”
That gets her attention.
She props herself up on one elbow, brows raised. “The motorbike one?”
“No, the sack race at The Loose Lasso. Thought I’d give it a go, maybe impress a few people with my stamina.”
She snorts. “You’re such an idiot.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
But she’s smiling now, and fuck, it’s a good look on her. Even with tired eyes and yesterday’s makeup smudged under her lashes.
“Wait,” she says, narrowing her eyes. “Is this the same race as last time?”
I stretch out on my back again, arms behind my head. “Similar. But this one’s bigger. There’s a cash prize. Sponsors.”
Her brow arches. “Look at you. Wattle Creek’s very own revhead heartthrob.”
“Been that for years,” I say casually. “I just keep the fan club small.”
“You’re unbelievable,” she laughs, shaking her head as she settles back beside me.
“Mm.” I smirk. “Still can’t stay away though, can you?”
She glances over at me, eyes narrowing with faux judgement. “Don’t get too cocky, Hotshot.”
I grin, shifting just enough for her to feel my hardening cock against her hip. “Bit late for that. Can’t help it when I wake up next to you lookin’ like this.”
Her breath catches, and yeah, I feel it—the way she stiffens just slightly, then melts right back into me like her body’s already made the decision her mouth hasn’t. Zoe hums softly, but her body shifts again, just slightly. And yeah, I notice. I always notice.
“You’re humming again,” I mutter, dragging my hand down the curve of her stomach.
“Don’t start,” she warns, but her voice is already trembling.
Too late.
I slide my hand between her thighs, parting them, and press two fingers right where she’s already wet and warm and perfect.
“Fuck, Michael—”
Her words die out as I rub slow circles over her clit, watching her lashes flutter and her mouth part around a breath she can’t quite catch. Her hips rock into my hand, and her fingers curl into the sheets like she’s seconds from breaking. She gasps when I press my fingers in deeper.
One minute she’s quiet, then she’s gasping. Gripping my arm. She comes around my fingers with a muffled cry as her whole body trembles.
“I’m surprised I could go again,” she whispers, voice frayed and breathless.
I kiss her temple. “Told you I’m good with my hands.”
Zoe rolls her eyes at that, trying to act annoyed, but she slumps against the mattress, completely undone, her chest rising and falling rapidly.
She shifts slightly, like she’s trying to roll away from me, tuck the mess of her hair into the pillow, and pretend she didn’t just come apart in my hands. Again.
“You’re not getting away from me yet,” I mumble into her hair.
“I’m exhausted,” she cries, even as she melts into me.
“Exactly,” I say, hooking my leg over hers. “Cuddle me.”
She laughs softly, the sound already fading as her eyes start to drift shut. I feel the exact moment her body goes slack, the moment her breathing deepens. And I stay like that, holding her, fighting sleep, and trying not to think about how badly I don’t want this to end.
Noises intrude on my sleep, and I blink into soft morning light filtering through the curtains. I stretch out my arms with a yawn and blindly reach out beside me. My hand pats over cool sheets where warm skin should be.
She’s not there.
Blinking through sleep, I sit up and scrub a hand down my face. Sprinkles is curled at the end of the bed, fluffy as hell, tail twitching like she’s eavesdropping.
I click my tongue. “Come ‘ere.”
She chirps over, and I scoop her up—heavier than last week, little menace—scratching behind her ears, but my attention snaps to the sound of a voice coming from the next room.
Zoe.
I freeze, one hand still resting on the cat’s back, her fur warm beneath my palm. Her voice is low, but tense. “No. I told you not to talk to him again,” she snaps. “How could you?”
Her tone stops me cold. It’s not like last night, all sass and fire and heat. This is clipped. Strained. Pissed off in a way I haven’t heard from her before. I hold still, cradling Sprinkles close, trying not to breathe too loudly.
“You don’t get to say that. What if something had happened? After everything I’ve told you—no, I don’t care. That’s not an excuse.”
My brows draw together. Then silence. For a moment too long. “As always. You believe him over me.”
There’s another pause, and when she speaks again, there’s finality in it. Cold steel. “Stop! I don’t want to hear it. I’m done. I don’t want to see you. You can tell Dad I’ll call him, but I need space.”
Sprinkles lets out a soft meow. I hush her gently, fingers curling tighter in her fur.
My jaw’s clenched now, something uncomfortable working its way into my chest. I wait until the silence stretches too long, then I set the cat down and make my way to her.
She’s standing near the kitchen, back half-turned, wearing nothing but an oversized T-shirt.
It hangs low, hugging her hips, her nipples pressing against the thin cotton. Her hair’s a mess, eyes red.
She startles when I walk in, and clears her throat. “Uh. Good morning.”
“Morning.” I close the distance between us, tilt her chin up, and kiss her gently.