“I haven’t. Oh God, Henry,” I panted, that familiar panic setting in, the one I always felt when an orgasm hovered and I worried it would shimmer in front of me and then disappear, a mirage. “Don’t stop, please don’t stop.”

Of course, he didn’t stop, because this was my new life, not my old, and I was with someone now who put value on my pleasure and not just his own. I nearly wept as the orgasm rocked my body above his hand, turning my legs to jelly.

I was barely steady on my heels again before I felt my hands being freed, and I caught myself against the mirror with both palms just as his cock pushed inside me. My skirt rode up as he drove inside me again and again, his hands gripping my hips. I watched myself in the mirror, took in my hiked-up skirt and wide-spread heels, my red knees and wild hair. And I watched Henry fucking me savagely from behind, heard his ragged breathing and clenched-teeth cursing, felt his fingers digging mercilessly into my skin.

When he looked over my shoulder, our eyes met in the mirror, and two seconds later, he exploded inside me, his body going still, an arm hooking around my waist, his chest heavy against my back as his cock throbbed inside me. When the spasms subsided, we were still for a moment. He laid his forehead on my shoulder.

Chills broke out across my skin, and I shivered. But it was a good shiver—one of anticipation for the future, of the promise of being happy again, of all the possibilities that lay ahead.

Henry picked up his head. “You okay?”

“Yes.”

“You sure? Was I too rough on you?”

“No. I might have some explaining to do about the rug burns on my knees, but I am more than okay.”

“Good.” He planted a kiss on my shoulder. “Because there’s something I want to talk to you about.”

“Sounds serious.” I was teasing him a little—my sweet, sexy, serious Henry—but he nodded.

“It is, kind of.”

“Oh, okay. Give me a minute?”

“Of course.”

* * *

Henry waited in my bedroom while I went into the bathroom to clean up a little. When I came out, he was standing by my dresser, looking at a framed photo of my kids when they were little.

“Did you take this one?” he asked.

“Yes.” I pulled a new pair of underwear from a drawer and slipped them on beneath my skirt. My feet were bare—I’d kicked my heels off on the way to the bathroom.

“Cute.”

“They are. And hopefully I’m not messing them up too much.”

He turned toward me, his hands in his pockets. His top shirt buttons were undone, and he hadn’t put his tie back on yet. His hair was adorably mussed. “Did you ever talk to Whitney last night?”