Total pages in book: 37
Estimated words: 34804 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 174(@200wpm)___ 139(@250wpm)___ 116(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 34804 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 174(@200wpm)___ 139(@250wpm)___ 116(@300wpm)
The panting breaths, the yearning sounds deep in her chest. My hands move to her hips, and I help her in her quest to get to the same place as me. I pick her up, slam her back down so she feels me deeply.
Calliope grunts, bites down hard on her lip, and starts to bounce. My cock swells, my balls drawing inward as I feel that first ripple of pleasure through her pussy. Grabbing onto my shaft and sucking me in deep, I let loose with a hoarse cry of release.
She grinds down on me, hard, her entire body shuddering with her orgasm, her head falling back. I watch her with awe as pleasure ripples across her beautiful face, and her body quakes beneath my hands.
In this moment, I am validated, knowing that I never stopped loving Calliope.
Only now, I know I love her more than I ever did.
CHAPTER 8
Calliope
I step into my apartment and close the door, leaning heavily against it. My head tips back, resting against the hollow wood, and I sigh.
What in the hell possessed me to climb Rafe and have sex with him?
Sure, I could reason that it’s been an emotional time for both of us since he got back—him with his dad, and me, well…being conflicted about him being back in my life.
I could say that I was addled by the cold dunk in Podden’s pond and was overcome with a fit of the sillies. I’ve always been slightly impetuous.
Or maybe…just maybe…there’s something still there between us that can’t be reasoned or explained.
I’m not going to lie. It helped to hear Rafe’s explanation of what happened back then.
I mean, it was a stupid explanation. About as dumb as a man can get, making decisions for his woman without any type of discussion. But there is something to be said for the fact that we were young—both barely eighteen. Even though it was entirely demeaning for him to make that decision on his own, I can’t deny that it came from a place of love.
He’d said he was just as devastated by his decision, but the real question remains…can I believe it?
Another sigh, and I push away from the door. I need a shower and a cup of hot tea to think on this further.
I move through my small but entirely cozy apartment that I’ve lovingly decorated and filled over the years with homey items that make it uniquely my own. Soft alpaca pillows on my couch, a goofy painting of a cow wearing a red toboggan on his head over my mantel, and Yankee candles in every room, ready to lend mood-enhancing scents whenever I want.
My shower is delightful and long, and I wash my hair three times to make sure it’s free of pond scum. I shave my legs, horrified they were slightly stubbly while having sex with Rafe, but also figuring he’s felt my stubbly legs before. He used to tease me about it if I forgot to shave. I dry my hair, taking the time to blow it out, which means it will be styled perfectly tomorrow after I sleep on it. My thick hair always looks best on day two after a good shampoo. I slather lotion on my body, dress in a pair of comfy yoga pants and an off-the-shoulder T-shirt that’s so well worn it’s transparent in some spots, and move to the kitchen to make some strawberry hibiscus tea.
With steaming cup in hand and a few shortbread cookies on a paper towel to accompany it, I settle onto the couch to fire up my Kindle. Maybe getting immersed in a good book will help take my mind off my problems.
Mainly, how a gorgeous hockey star rocked my world a bit earlier, and how I don’t even know how to deal with it.
I flip through my to-be-read list, purposely staying away from romances. I don’t want anything to potentially make me swoon with possibility.
A knock on my apartment door startles me, but I swing my legs off my couch, figuring it’s probably Mrs. Filmore from next door, bringing over some new baked goods recipe she’s tried out. Her husband died last year, and she moved into the apartment next to mine, wanting to downsize and be closer to her daughter and grandkids, who actually live not too far from my parents’ house.
I swing open the door, eager to see Mrs. Filmore because she’s an excellent baker, but am stunned stupid when I see Rafe standing there with two grocery bags in hand.
I left him at his parents’ house not more than an hour and a half ago. There was no kiss goodbye, only a promise to call me later. I didn’t know what to—or if I should—read into that. The kiss would have implied some lingering affection; the lack of implying the sex was a one-time-only thing, and perhaps a mistake. Yet the promise to call spoke to wanting to see me again. Or maybe we’d just go back to being tentative friends.