I wasn’t going to last, and I usually lasted a hell of a lot longer than this. But she was too perfect. Too real. I licked the pad of my thumb, then reached between us and found that hard pearl and circled it.

Her eyes met mine, flared wide and then went blurry. She came on a low moan, her head tipping back so her hair tickled my thighs. Her pussy clenched down and practically strangled my dick as she came.

I couldn’t hold off a second longer, just grabbed her hips, lifted her up, dropped her down hard. Once, twice. Then I spurted hot and thick. Long as fuck. I went blind. Lost brain cells. The world could explode, and I’d never know, but I had, because as I came back to myself, I realized the woman sprawled across my chest had changed me.

The one thing I knew, that sure as fuck hadn’t been fake.

12

ASTRID

I woke up, as usual, at four. At first, I was completely confused where I was, then had a moment of panic when I felt the arm over my waist and cupping my breast. It all came back in a flash. My parents’ house. The wedding. Thatcher. Thatcher’s thorough obsession with my boobs. Even in his sleep, he was touching one.

Dawn was approaching, but there wasn’t yet a hint of pink in the sky. Only the early start of the birds chirping indicated I wasn’t late waking up. Except I didn’t have to bake. I wasn’t even in The Bend.

But I was wide awake. Not only because I’d trained myself to get up at this ridiculous hour, but because I was in bed with Thatcher Manning.

Naked.

I’d kicked off my cowgirl boots when he’d gone to the bathroom to ditch the condom. Then he’d pulled me into his arms and I remembered nothing after.

His dick was pressed against my lower back and even unconscious, the guy sported wood. Carefully, I slid from the bed and slipped on Thatcher’s shirt and snapped it closed on the way to the kitchen. I dug through the fridge for something to eat, but my mother didn’t cook, and they didn’t consider leftovers an option. Amy only ate salads and drank smoothies so there wasn’t even an egg to scramble.

I shut the fridge door and stifled a scream. Thatcher stood there, arms crossed over his bare chest. He was only in his boxers. His hair was a mess—thanks to me. I’d flipped on the undercabinet lights when I’d come in so the room was lit, but not brightly. Every hard plane of Thatcher’s chiseled body stood out in relief. The six-pack abs. The sturdy thighs. The thick bulge in his boxers.

“Sweets, what the hell are you doing up?” His voice was raspy from sleep and his whiskers were dark.