CHAPTER 25
After the roller coaster of tonight, Willa should’ve been exhausted. Between the late hour and all the work she’d been putting in, then the shock of the skunk and her crying jag, by rights she should have been completely unconscious, in a fetal ball in Hudson’s bed. But since she’d gotten out of the shower and swum into his oversize T-shirt and sweatpants, she’d felt wired. Stretched out in Hudson’s bed, under a thin blanket and cool sheets, she felt like there were currents of static electricity dancing over her skin.
Hudson was in the hall bathroom, the one she’d just left steamy, having his own shower to eradicate any lingering skunk smell. She hunkered down, and his usual scent surrounded her, like a combination of sexy-as-hell satin and reassuring weighted blanket. It still didn’t make her sleepy. If anything, it did the opposite.
What, exactly, are you planning to do here?
They’d already both admitted they were attracted to each other. She knew that he was being careful with her, like she was the thinnest, most delicate crystal, and she didn’t think she wanted that. Then again, he’d also implied that he wanted more than sex with her ... and she wasn’t sure how she felt about that either.
The thought of sex itself was already daunting, after all this time. Trying to dust off that old knowledge and somehow get retrained as a sexual being at nearly fifty was daunting, especially with a guy four years younger who seemed more practiced.
She knew one thing: she might be rusty at sex and she wasn’t sure about relationships, but there was something magic about being with him in the witching hour, when the island was so quiet that it seemed unreal.
She might not be sure what, but something was going to happen tonight.
The man in question stepped in, giving his hair a quick rub with a small towel. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, just a pair of what looked like basketball shorts. Her mouth actually watered . He was the most delectable thing she’d ever seen. Her heart somehow, impossibly, sped up, like she’d increased the incline on an already fast treadmill.
“Sorry,” he said, catching her staring at his chest. “Did you want me to put on a shirt?”
It wasn’t like the cover of Men’s Health or anything, or any of those TikTok thirst traps, but his chest was nicely defined, with a smattering of hair. There were random and sundry scars and a few bruises. She got a better look at the tattoos she’d never let herself linger on: tools, some kind of plants. They probably meant something. She wondered what. Maybe he’d tell her.
She’d ask him later, she thought, as her body heated and she felt herself go greedy.
Much later.
She realized he was still looking at her expectantly, and she still hadn’t answered. “Whatever—” Her voice cracked, and she cleared her throat. “Whatever makes you feel comfortable.”
His grin was downright devilish.
Oh, God. She was not going to survive this, she thought as he slowly climbed into bed. “You have to get up at any particular time?” he asked.
She shook her head. Then he set an alarm on his phone and shut off the light.
“Tell me if you need anything else—blanket, pillows, whatever,” he added, his voice like velvet in the darkness. “Or if you change your mind about me being in here, I’ll understand.”
“I think we’ll be fine.”
She was going to spontaneously combust. She could smell his shower soap now, mixed with the underlying smell of him . She wanted to bury her nose in the crook of his neck and just breathe , inhale him. Then consume him, either slowly, with lapping licks, or in big gulping bites.
The thing was, she was horribly inexperienced, even at her age. Maybe especially at her age. How the hell was she supposed to make a move? She had no frame of reference here. Should she ... ask? She was very much a proponent of consent, and he’d been the one to say they needed to talk. At the same time, asking felt so awkwardly formal, almost professional.
Pardon me, my good sir. I am interested in doing physical things to you, starting with kissing and moving on to potential penetration. Would you be interested in discussing the parameters of such an endeavor?
Giggles escaped, and she slapped her hands over her mouth, but they didn’t stop. If anything, it made them worse. Before she knew it, she was shaking the bed as she turned her face into the pillow to try and quiet herself.
“What are you snickering about over there?” Hudson said, amusement clear in his voice.
“I ... it ... I ...,” she tried, but the laughs only spilled out at that point. She was laughing hard enough to cry, and he was chuckling, too—obviously at her, but not in a mean way. When she was finally breathless, she held her stomach, which was sore from laughing, and got a grip. “Sorry. Weird train of thought, and I needed the stress outlet,” she said, feeling better. “Besides, sometimes I laugh when I’m nervous.”
And of course he latched on to the last bit of what she’d said. “You’re nervous?” His voice was coated with concern. “Do you want me to ...”
She stroked a hand up his bare chest, slowly, finding his throat in the dark and feeling his pulse pound beneath her fingertips. “I don’t know how to ask, but ... I kinda want to kiss you,” she whispered, every ounce of courage she had forcing the words out like parajumpers from a plane. “Is that okay?”
A pause, the barest of ones, then a sigh. “That’s very, very okay,” he rumbled. “Do anything you like. We’ll go at your pace.”
She swallowed, then caught herself licking her lips. If the last time they’d kissed was any indication, he was really good at it. She, on the other hand, was rusty as hell. She slid toward him, and he moved his arm and tilted his body toward her, making access easier. She was nestled against him, feeling his breath, minty like toothpaste, fanning across her face.
For a split second, she had a moment of panic. She’d kissed men before. Silly, sloppy kisses in high school. Rushed kisses in college, with a few boyfriends. Then Steven, the romantic, the showman. He’d actually dipped her when she’d picked him up from the airport after they’d been separated for a month. It had been a movie kiss, right out of a romantic comedy, and she’d almost literally swooned. But those kisses had gone away, transforming to the perfunctory hello-goodbye kisses that married couples shared in between errands and jobs.
This was different. She was different, and she was tired of being stressed and struggling and denying herself what it was clear she wanted. She was going to kiss Hudson like she was going to fucking war tomorrow. She was going to kiss him like he was keeping her alive.
She was going to do everything she could to try to make him feel even a fraction of the way he made her feel.
As a warm-up, she kissed Hudson’s collarbone, tracing the shallow bowl with her tongue and tasting the clean, warm skin there, gratified by his barely perceptible intake of breath. She moved her lips up his throat, feeling the roughness of his stubble against her lips. Even the scratchiness was exciting against her skin. She took a page out of his book, nuzzling along his jawline until she got to his earlobe. Feeling fizzy like champagne, she playfully nipped at it.
He let out a laugh, and she responded with one of her own, feeling a pulse of joy. “Oh, it’s like that, huh?” he challenged, gathering her closer.
She felt the laughter fall away and stretched, her mouth feeling against his face blindly until she found what she was looking for.
His lips were firm, just as they’d been the first time they’d kissed ... warm, insistent. She parted her lips easily this time, and he teased her with his tongue, an action that made her body shiver and her thighs start rubbing against each other of their own accord, restless heat building between them.
She shouldn’t have worried. She wouldn’t say it was like riding a bike—although that brought some delicious pictures to mind—but as soon as he kissed back, as soon as they connected, it was purely instinctive.
And hotter than hell.
Before she knew it, she was in the same state she’d been in after they’d salsa danced in her kitchen. She wasn’t thinking, just feeling. Everything was either sensation or emotion: the taste of him, the scent of him. At some point, she tugged him until he crushed her into the bed, her legs spreading to give him space to notch between them. She felt his hardness against her pussy, and her hips rolled, and he groaned into her mouth. They were breathing harsh, choppy breaths.
She wove her hands into his hair, pulling him harder against her mouth. Her legs wrapped around his thighs, her heels digging in, encouraging him.
He pulled back just for a second. Her eyes had adjusted, but she could still only make out the barest details in the dark. “We have to be quiet,” he said.
Some sanity came back, like a dip in cool water. His kids were here, and he probably didn’t want to advertise what was happening.
“Oh,” she said, immediately dropping her hands to the sides of her face. “I’m sorry, I ...”
“No,” he growled, and then— oh my Lord —he grasped both her hands in one large palm, pinning them above her head as he propped himself up with the other. “You have nothing to be sorry about, and I’m not trying to stop. Not unless you want to.”
Then the traitor actually rolled his hips . His dancing was no lie, and anybody who could move his body so sinfully ought to be registered as a lethal weapon. She whimpered, biting her lip to at least try to keep the sound inside.
“What’s it going to be?” His voice was rough as hell, and he felt like a furnace.
She felt on fire as a result.
“I don’t want to stop,” she breathed. “I want more .”
When he kissed her, she swore she could feel that sharp, mischievous smile against her lips.
“Whatever the lady wants,” he said, and she braced herself for what was going to come next.