Chapter 29 Spank Me and Love Me #2
There’s passion in his irises but also pure vulnerability. “You’re doing something to me,” he murmurs. “You’re just doing something to me.”
My heart thumps harder. We’re talking about sex, but we’re also talking about us.
“Let me keep doing it,” I plead. “Want to taste you coming down my throat.”
It’s not the first time I’ve blown him. But it’s the first time I’ve felt this…
desperate to touch him like this. To give just to him.
I lean into the mood, the athlete on a victory lap after a win.
The athlete enjoying his spoils. “You know you were thinking about it at the game,” I tease. “And you deserve it for that assist.”
But Ford’s expression is stony. He holds my face, cups my cheeks, and shakes his head. “You’re wrong.”
I freeze, my mind racing with worry.
He reassures me quickly with a deep, rumbly answer. “I was thinking about how fucking badly I want you to sit on my face.”
My neck flushes. “I really better finish you fast then,” I say, then point to the bed, since, well, a very curious dog is staring too closely at us from the floor, with all these naked parts on display.
In no time we’re on the bed, and I’m between his legs, sucking him deep again, with loud slurps.
Ford’s noisy too. Grunting, groaning, biting out a long string of fuck yeses and just like thats.
He’s reckless and uninhibited, and the sound of his pleasure sends sharp, hot waves of pleasure cascading through me. I love how he lets go in the bedroom.
He’s gripping my head, thrusting into me, and I’m this close to gagging.
This close. But when Ford unleashes a low, feral moan like a warning, I hold the hell on even though I’m on the verge of coughing.
He shakes. Grips me tighter. Roars my name in a deep rumble.
He comes, the warm salty taste like TNT to my own desire.
I’m dying for his touch. Aching everywhere.
When he eases out, he makes good on his promise. He yanks off my panties and gives me an order. “Fuck my face now, Skylar. That’s what I really want.”
“I better not deny you,” I say, breathless and wild as I comply.
Briefly, as I straddle his face, I’m struck by the easiness of our intimacy. Sex can be awkward and weird, complicated and lopsided. But when it comes to Ford and me—we just fit.
It doesn’t take me long at all. Soon, I’m gripping the headboard, shouting his name, and falling apart.
When I open my eyes in a haze of pleasure, Cleo’s slinking off the bed like she’s had enough.
Ford hasn’t though. Gently, he moves me off his face, tucking me close to him. He wraps an arm around me. Kisses my shoulder. Runs a hand over my hair. “Yeah, I was definitely thinking about eating you out at the game,” he says, then takes a weighty beat. “Among other things.”
He sounds serious as he says those three words—among other things.
“What sort of things?” I ask.
He inhales. Stares at the ceiling thoughtfully. Then at me as he shrugs and speaks with such vulnerability that it feels like something’s cracking—in him. “How much I like spending time with you, Skylar.”
My heart glows, warm and bright in my chest. “It’s the same for me. With you,” I say, an admission for an admission.
He dusts another kiss to my forehead, then hums—a happy but wistful sound. “Good. That’s really good.”
“It is,” I say softly, snuggling against him, feeling safe, and feeling like there’s no place he’d rather be.
That’s how Ford makes me feel. Like I’m his priority. It’s a new feeling. A welcome one.
But then he glances down at his clothes. “I should…”
The way he trails off makes me think he’s going to say leave. Instead, he says, “Change. Make some food. Then tell you about the next date we’re going on. Everly asked us to come to family night.”
I smother a full-blown smile. He didn’t use the word fake. He just called it a date.
I’m not surprised Ford can cook. He’s a competent man. A man who gets shit done.
What surprises me is that he’s stashing fake bacon.
“You have Facon?” I ask, even though the evidence is right in front of me as he unpacks a grocery bag onto my counter.
“Of course I do,” he says, all nonchalant as he pulls a tomato from the canvas bag, then some lettuce.
My mouth waters as I stare, slack-jawed, at the magic bag.
“But—” I sputter, unable to put into words how I’m feeling. What I’m thinking. The thought behind the gesture. “You have…”
I just point, flailing, flapping my hand like a fish out of water.
He slides behind me in the kitchen, wraps his arms around my waist, and kisses the back of my neck. “You don’t eat meat, so I picked up a few things I thought you might like.”
Which is thoughtful in and of itself. But it’s also calculatingly thoughtful, because he just popped over to his house, changed into shorts and a T-shirt, and returned with this bag. Which means…he planned this meal.
“When did you get all this?” I ask.
“Earlier today,” he says, then lets me go and offers a confident smile. “What can I say? I figured we’d both be hungry and would want a late-night snack. So I picked up some things.”
The detail. The thought. The planning.
Does it matter so much that he’s my neighbor? What would happen if I just took a risk…with a client? Maybe. Maybe I can. Because Ford isn’t just some guy. He feels like he could be my guy.
I rise up on tiptoe and cup his cheeks, sighing affectionately. “A neat freak who drives a Swedish car and plans midnight dates.”
“I know. I’m awesome,” he says, then swats my ass. “Now get out of the way so I can cook for you.”
I set out a cutting board, knife, and pan, then trot over to a stool, park myself on it, and enjoy the front-row seat to a hot hockey player making me a veggie BLT—complete with fake bacon.
As he slices the tomato, I sigh happily. “What’ll you do when you finish playing hockey? Open a late-night grilled cheese and BLT pop-up shop? A girl can dream.”
“Not a bad idea.”
Which brings up a valid question. “Seriously though. What will you do? You’re a planner. You probably have three priorities for retirement.”
He nods. “I do.”
But that’s all he says. Hmm. Is it a secret?
I debate leaving it alone, but I’ve never been good at that. “What are they?”
As he washes the lettuce, he says, “My health—always a top priority. Second would be keeping busy doing something I love. Third would be…” His gaze goes slightly wistful, almost dreamy, as he opens the package of Facon and drops a few slices into the pan.
“Third would be spending time with my dog. So to answer your question—for two, I’m debating between going into broadcasting and opening a smoothie shop. ”
I sit up straighter. “Really?”
“Really. I think I’d like both. I’ll decide after we win the Cup this year.” He pauses, his gaze contemplative, spatula midair. “That’s the first time I’ve shared that with anyone.”
My heart does a little flippy-flop. I’m all sorts of giddy. “Thanks for telling me.”
“You’re easy to talk to, Skylar,” he says—offhand, but full of meaning.
My chest is warm as I respond in kind with a, “You too.”
After he slices some sourdough bread, he asks, “What about you?”
“I’m not retiring anytime soon, buddy,” I tease.
“Is this your dream? The eco-friendly design?”
“Yes. I’m doing exactly what I want.” I pause, giving my own question some thought. But I already know the answer. “I suppose my dream is to keep doing more jobs like this —the full house, where I have the chance to really make a difference with my brand of design.”
“You’ll succeed,” he says, then finishes making some delicious-looking BLTs.
He plates one for himself and one for me, then slides onto a stool beside me.
In my pajamas and tank top, I indulge in the most delicious late-night snack—made just for me.
Later, we go back upstairs, with my dog under the covers, his in one of Simon’s many beds, and Ford in mine.
“Ford,” I whisper quietly as moonlight streaks through the window, illuminating his handsome face. “Is the third priority really just your dog?”
“Ah, you noticed that,” he says, with a soft laugh—one that says he knows he was caught.
“Yeah. I did.”
He sighs. Hesitates. Then finally, he says, “I was going to say…spend time with people I care about. And my dog.”
My heart thumps harder. “Why didn’t you?”
He’s quiet again, his brow furrowed. “It seemed…”
But I think I know the end of that sentence. Or at least I hope I do. You’re one of those people. I don’t want him to feel pressured to say that though. So I jump in with a save. “It seemed like too much?”
He takes a beat, and when he answers, his tone is just shy of somber. “Maybe, Skylar. Maybe it seemed like too much.”
But too much what? Too much to want? Too much too soon?
I don’t press.
Not tonight.
It’s safer that way.