Chapter Six
Bailey lay on Nash’s bed, under Nash’s body, and tried to remember the last time she’d come that hard.
She couldn’t.
She also couldn’t remember the last time she’d been that mad at somebody who’d made her come that hard. Hate-fucking wasn’t her usual style—if she hated someone, why would she give them the privilege of fucking her?—so being mad and horny at the same time had been a new experience.
And okay, it was hard to argue with the results. And she wasn’t mad anymore, since the orgasm had drained the temper right out of her. Along with her energy and dignity, since she was still spread out under him like a spatchcocked turkey and felt no particular urgency to rectify the situation.
But that was no reason to let him off the hook.
“That,” she declared with as much authority as she could muster, “was a lousy thing to do.”
“Which part was lousy, exactly?” he mumbled into her neck, where he’d face planted after he’d shot her full of jizz. Which, now that he was soft inside her, was starting to dribble out. “The part where you came your brains out?”
“Don’t change the subject.” She wanted to wiggle and flex to increase the rate of ooze, but he’d know what she was doing.
He yawned, rubbing his jaw against her throat. “What was the subject, exactly?”
He hadn’t shaved the beard off yet, and the rough scrape of whiskers against sensitive skin made her want to purr. Trying to focus, she lifted her shoulder to nudge his head. “You fucking me like a Galapagos tortoise just to make a point.”
“You liked it.”
“I did not.”
“Did, too,” he argued and yawned again. “Your pussy is still twitching.”
He was right, dammit, but she didn’t have to admit it. “Don’t you fell asleep on me.”
“Ten minutes,” he mumbled. “Twenty, tops.”
“Forget it,” she told him and bucked her hips to drive the point home. His penis slipped out of her, followed by a warm flood of sticky, goopy jizz.
He chuckled and lifted his head to look at her with smug, sleepy eyes. “I wondered how long it would take you.”
“Shut up.” Ignoring the delightful ooze between her thighs—it had been so long since she’d felt comfortable enough with a lover to forego condoms, and she’d missed that slow, slick trickle—she narrowed her eyes at him. “Can you get off me?”
“I could,” he said easily. “I’m pretty comfortable, though.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not,” she said, lying without hesitation.
Having him nestled on top of her, her pussy dripping from him, was bringing on feelings like contentment and affection, and while most of that was no doubt due to the truly spectacular orgasm, a wise woman didn’t push her luck.
So she raised an eyebrow and tried to project annoyance through the post-orgasmic bliss. “Do you mind?”
“A little,” he said, the dimple popping in his cheek and his eyes twinkling, but he let go of her hands and eased off her to rest on his haunches between her knees.
His gaze traveled leisurely down her body, lingering on her breasts and belly before finally landing between her splayed thighs, and the lazy twinkle warmed.
He reached out a hand, swooped one finger through the fluid pooling between her labia, and lifted it between them. “Baby,” he drawled, “you’re a mess.”
“You’re the one who came like a firehose,” she reminded him and told herself it was impossible to want him again this soon.
“You’re welcome.” He turned his hand, watching his finger shimmer and drip in the light, then held it out. “Want?”
More than she wanted her next breath, but she shook her head.
“Huh. I guess some things do change.” Watching her, he lowered his hand to her stomach. She held her breath while he wiped his finger clean on her belly, letting it out slowly when his hand dropped away.
“Did you just paint your initials on my belly in come?”
He grinned and climbed off the bed. “Don’t worry, it’ll wash off.” He stretched, reaching his arms up, and let out a satisfied grunt. “God, I feel good.”
“So glad I could help,” she offered, annoyed. She wasn’t sure she could move yet without help, and she desperately missed the warmth and the weight of him.
That she’d been the one to tell him to get off was neither here nor there.
He lowered his arms, still grinning, and headed for the door. “Okay if I take a shower first?”
“Help yourself,” she told him, trying not to notice how delicious his penis looked, wet and glistening and bouncing gently against his thigh. It was flaccid, still thick but small enough she could fit the whole of it in her mouth, where she could play with it until he was ready to fuck her again.
Forget it, she told herself, and forced herself back to the conversation. “I’ll use the one upstairs.”
“Oh right, I forgot you added a bathroom up there.” He paused at the doorway to look at her. “You okay?”
Absolutely not. “Fine,” she answered and fixed a mildly curious expression on her face. “Why?”
“You haven’t moved,” he pointed out.
“Just making sure you have a nice big wet spot to sleep in,” she said sweetly, and listened to him laugh until the bathroom door shut behind him.
And since he’d be at last ten minutes in the shower, she decided to close her eyes, rub out another quick orgasm, and add to that wet spot.
When he got back to his room, she was gone.
He was disappointed, but not surprised. Even with her breath still shuddering and her heart still hammering from the orgasm, he’d felt her start to pull away. He’d wanted to linger, to snuggle into her warm, damp curves and savor her, and the connection forged by shared pleasure.
But the way she’d begun rebuilding her defenses with sarcasm and snark had made it clear she didn’t feel the same.
So he’d heeded her nudges, hidden his emotions behind a casual cheer, and, ignoring the picture she made sprawled out on his bed—her bra pulled down to expose her breasts, her legs spread to expose her pussy, her hair a tangled mess on his pillow with her face still flushed and eyes still heavy from orgasm—had taken himself off for a cold shower.
He’d shivered through the soaping, scrubbing and rinsing, then given himself a pep talk while he rubbed himself dry.
He’d nearly lost his head in there, seduced by the thrill of having Bailey naked and willing after so many years of longing and wishing, and he needed to remember that sex was only part of the goal.
A big part, he admitted, eyeing the wet spot on the sheets with satisfaction, but it wouldn’t do to forget the rest. He pulled a pair of boxers from the dresser and tugged them on, then pulled the sheets off the bed.
Resolving to deal with the laundry tomorrow, he tossed them at the hamper in the corner and pulled a set of clean sheets from the bottom dresser drawer.
He put them on, then scooped the duvet off the floor and spread it over the mattress before flopping down on the bed.
The pillowcase, which he hadn’t changed, smelled like her hair.
Unabashed, he turned his face to it. God, he’d missed her, missed her snark and her smirk and her laugh, missed the way the gold flecks in her eyes went bright when she was aroused, and her voice seemed to settle in the back of her throat when she was threatening him with bodily harm if he didn’t make her come already.
He nestled deeper into the pillow, breathing her in.
The eight years they’d been apart had wrought their changes, of course, but so much was the same.
She was still boldly, unapologetically sexual, brazenly demanding, fearlessly honest—at least when it came to sex.
But she was keeping her emotions behind a carefully constructed shield, and that was a change he hadn’t expected.
She’d never hidden her emotions before. Whatever she’d felt, she’d shown, no matter how messy or inconvenient or socially unacceptable.
He’d never had to guess how she felt, never had to read between the lines or interpret subtext—if Bailey said she didn’t care if he went out with his friends, she didn’t care.
If she said she liked her birthday gift, she liked it.
And if she was pissed at him, she told him precisely why, in explicit terms, along with exactly what she expected him to do to fix it.
Coming from a family where passive aggressive communication was the norm and reading between the lines and interpreting subtext were survival skills, it had been something of a culture shock. And once he’d gotten used to it, he’d loved it.
So to see her so closed off was a shock, and he wondered idly if the change was systemic, or just for his benefit.
His guess was the latter. She wasn’t entirely comfortable with him, despite her breezy manner. There was a wariness about her, like he was a stray cat she was petting, and she wasn’t sure if he was going to purr under her touch or try to scratch her eyes out.
Since he had the same sense of wariness about her, he could relate.
He turned his head to stare at the ceiling and wondered if he was making a mistake.
Trying to win back the love of his life by facilitating her fantasy gang bang was, well, unorthodox, to say the least. But it was the path that had been presented to him, and he was going to take it.
And if she saw it as a way for him to make amends for the wrong he’d done all those years ago, so much the better.
He glanced at the bedside clock. It was still early, still light out, and he could hear Bailey’s footsteps overhead in the converted attic bedroom.
He thought about getting dressed, going out to the living room and turning on a movie, just to see if she’d join him, then decided against it.
Better to lay low for the rest of the night, and keep her wondering.
So he reached for the book on the bedside table, a murder mystery he’d picked up in the London airport. Thumbing through the pages, he found where he’d left off, and with a last glance at the door he’d left ajar, plumped up the pillows and settled back against the headboard.
Deciding the next move had to be hers, he settled in to read.
* * * *
He woke up with her mouth on his balls.