Draw the Line

chapter thirty-one

I'd never walk away from this, from Micah, whole and intact.

I'd never truly be the same.

Though the warning should have sobered me enough to run for the hills, it slid off my skin like the silky suds now circling the drain. Because a part of me knew that it was useless. A part of me knew that I was already too far gone. Which is why the admission fell from my lips like a lit match over my very own pyre — "I feel...like I want to do it again."

And we did.

Again.

And again.

And again.

And once more, a few minutes ago, after his alarm woke us.

I can still feel the aftershocks of my orgasm pulsing between my thighs, and as I pull his duvet over my head to block the bright sliver of light pouring from his cracked bathroom door, I bite down on my lip to keep from smiling like a blissed-out idiot. It's hard not to, though. It's all I want to do. Smile, laugh, crawl into his lap and kiss him until he flips me onto my back and thrusts into me again and again and again until I can hardly breathe as my body climaxes with that addicting, mind-numbing, soul-bursting, I-think-I-might-actually-die-from-this-amount-of-pleasure pleasure.

And if he didn't have to leave for his early morning workout, I probably would.

A rush of warmth pulses through me at the thought, settling between my thighs as the bathroom door opens and Micah steps out. My skin hums, aware of every inch of space separating us. I pull the duvet back down, holding it to my bare chest as I sit up against the headboard and smile at his mussed hair and tired eyes. Backlit by the bathroom's golden light, my gaze lingers on the waistband of his athletic shorts hanging low on his hips before slowly rising to admire the sinful expanse of the bronzed, tattooed, toned abdomen above it. I want to draw him just like this — with tousled hair, sleepy eyes, and a devilish grin that grows when he catches me staring.

I bend my knees, crossing one leg over the other in a subtle attempt to ease the need already thrumming back to life between my legs. The rush from my last orgasm is still hot on my skin, clouding my mind and coursing through my body with soothing, sensual heat, but I'm already craving the feel of his body on top of me — inside of me — again.

A shiver shakes my shoulders between his sheets.

Is this normal? This feeling? This soul-deep need to feel him inside of me?

Is this what sex is always like?

Or is this feeling solely reserved for sex with Micah?

I tug at the inside of my cheek, trying to hold back a smile. I don't need to sleep with anyone else to know the answer to that. I've heard enough of Halle's hookup stories to know this feeling isn't universal. In fact, even simply enjoying sex isn't guaranteed. Sometimes it's bad. Bad enough to rely on a battery-operated toy to finish the job said hookup partner wasn't even good enough to start.

When Micah's eyes catch mine in the dark, he holds my stare as he runs a hand through his sex-tangled hair, and suddenly, the question, the thought that this feeling could be because of anything other than him seems nonsensical.

Of course it's because of him.

His stare alone is enough to warm my body, to send that thrumming heat between my thighs into overdrive.

Running a hand through his tangled hair, he grabs the crimson ball cap on his desk and slides it on backward to cover the disheveled knots before flicking off the bathroom light and squatting beside the bed. His eyes catch mine in the desaturated sapphire moonlit room but dip to the messy braid falling over my shoulder as he slides the loose plait between his fingers. He tugs gently on the thin ribbon holding it together, and my cheeks flare at the memory of him wrapping it around his hand to pull my head back so he could drag his tongue up my throat. His eyes drop to watch my cheeks burn, and a satisfied smile tugs at his lips.