The Lost Fisherman (Fisherman 2)

There were mistakes.

Lessons to learn.

Tears to cry.

Intimate moments with other people.

Risks to take.

And I did it all.

I did it not because I thought it would lead me back to Fisher; I did it for me. The only gift I cared to give my future husband was the most confident version of myself. A full heart and a humbled soul.

As I leaned back on the bed, Fisher pulled my jeans down my legs. “Not even death will take this memory away from me.” He grinned.

As his mouth made its way up my body, he stopped briefly to tease the sensitive flesh between my legs while sliding off my panties.

“Fisher …” I closed my heavy eyelids, and my hands fisted the bedding, my hips lifting from the mattress looking for absolutely anything he would give me. When I opened them, he was discarding his jogging shorts and briefs.

That grin … so sexy.

The slow prowl, bringing every inch of that body to me. I’d never felt so alive. My legs spread wider. My fingers feathered his chest, his abs, and the hard muscles along his back.

Settling between my legs, teasing me like he did to the eighteen-year-old virgin, he kissed my breasts, my neck, my … everything. Fisher had always been the patient one with me. And that night was no exception. He guided me onto my stomach and kissed along my back and the curve of my butt like an artist admiring every detail of a fine work of art or … a lost fisherman exploring Target with the woman he was destined to fall for every single time.

I liked that analogy best.

And that smile … the grin I felt every so often when he kissed my body.

Fisher was happy.

Happy with me.

“What … do we have here?” He angled my butt toward the window and the sliver of streetlight coming through it.

Oh … I forgot about that.

“A tattoo? You have a tattoo?”

I craned my neck to look over my shoulder as he held me firmly in place, closely inspecting my butt cheek.

“Callipygian,” he said slowly.

“I was drunk, hence the hidden tattoo on my butt. It means—”

“It means you have a shapely ass. Alcohol makes you confident and a little vain.” He chuckled before biting it.

“Ouch!” I wriggled out of his grip and rolled onto my back. “How do you know that word?”

He guided my knees apart. “Because I have the same word tattooed on my ass.”

I giggled. “You do not.”

He dipped his head between my legs.

“Stop teasing me,” I pled my case with my hands claiming his hair as he tried to set up camp down there.

“Don’t hurry me.”

I smiled as his mouth made a lazy exploration up to my lips, making several stops along the way. He didn’t understand my rush because in his mind, he’d been waiting weeks for this. I’d been waiting years.

He seemed pretty proud of himself when he made a production of getting a condom from the unopened box.

“Wipe that grin off your face.” I rolled on top of him and pinned his arms next to his head.

Our mirrored smiles faded as I lowered my head and kissed him. He guided my hips over his erection.

I sat up just enough to let him push into me the whole way. Drunk on the feeling, I couldn’t move. I just wanted to stay in that exact position forever. I’d imagined that feeling so many times, and despite the other men I’d been with, there was no comparing them or anything I’d done with them to Fisher being inside of me.

Him sitting up and kissing me.

Him rolling us again and again.

Arms and legs tangling together with the sheets woven every which way.

The look in his eyes when he moved inside of me—so intense. His strong hands all over my body, laced with my fingers, and tangled in my hair as he kissed me.

The whispered promise of never forgetting that moment—so heartbreaking.

The focused expression and taut muscles in his jaw and face when he made sure I came before he did, but only by a few seconds. So many emotions flooded me in that moment.

I had never felt so vulnerable in my life, a permeating fear that I just gave him something so much greater than my virginity.

After long minutes of stillness with him collapsed on top of me and still inside of me, he rolled to the side. “My therapist is going to be really pissed off with me.”

I shifted toward him, finding my new favorite place—my naked body molded to his. My face in the crook of his neck, his in my hair, and his hand on my butt. “Why?” I asked.

“Because she told me to take a step back, to not get distracted by the physical part of my relationships.”

“I’d get a second opinion. Because in my humble opinion, we should do this again … maybe even a lot.”