Things We Never Said (Hart's Boardwalk 3)

She took him into her mouth, and Michael felt like a boy again, helpless against his own passion. This is heaven, he thought, as the electricity licked at the back of his thighs and his lower spine. He could hear his hoarse grunts of her name, the loving words, the dirty words mingling, falling from his lips as he watched the woman he loved suck and lick and devour him.

Then it hit. Hard and explosive and so fuckin’ phenomenal, he forgot where he was for a second.

Panting in the dark, his chest heaving as though he’d run a marathon, Michael could still hear his own shout of release ringing in his ears. His body melted into the mattress in utter satisfaction, his limbs tingling in the aftermath.

Dahlia.

Forcing his eyes open, he watched as she returned from his bathroom, her skin glowing in the moonlight filtering through his windows.

Christ, she was beautiful.

Not only beautiful on the outside. She was pieced together with layers of every kind of beauty there could be, so deep and full, it shone out of her.

Why couldn’t she see that?

She crawled up onto the bed beside him, and he wanted to touch her, repay the favor, but he was tired. He hadn’t slept more than an hour here and there in days. It seemed to take great effort, but he lifted his arm toward her.

“Ssshh,” she whispered, pressing it back to the mattress. “Go to sleep, Michael. I’m here.”

She rested her head on his chest and draped her arm over his stomach as she cuddled her soft body into his side. Cocooned by her, his eyes closed like they had a will of their own and the bliss of sleep took him into its dark.

For hours I laid awake, afraid to move in case it would disturb Michael. He was so exhausted; the weight of the world seemed to rest on his shoulders. And I knew his worries weren’t only about Freddie. I knew I was probably more to blame than anyone for his burdens.

Which was why I’d given him the only thing I could. I loved him in the only way I could without ever saying it.

I’d never said it, I realized, tears burning in my eyes as I laid pressed into his side. I’d never told him I loved him. But he knew. He certainly knew after tonight.

My head rested on his chest, rising and falling with his even breaths. I glanced up at his face, but it was half turned away. Staring at his jaw, at his beard, I could still feel the prickle of it beneath my fingers and lips. I’d trailed sweet kisses all over his handsome face, learning every line and curve like a blind person, drawing him in my mind forever.

His skin was smooth and hot and hard beneath me. My lips and fingertips had moved over the slight hills and valleys where his muscle was tightly roped. For a while, I lost myself in exploring him. Everything else went away as I disappeared in the adventure of his body. I’d kissed the small scar on his right upper rib where a boy had swiped a fourteen-year-old Michael with a broken bottle. I trailed my fingers over a scar on his left leg above his knee I’d never seen before. The question had hovered on my lips but the night wasn’t for my curiosity. It was for Michael.

The memory of him coming in my mouth echoed in a low, deep ripple in my belly. I was slick and wanting between my legs, unable to sleep for the restless need buzzing beneath my skin.

However, panic was writhing over the buzz, overwhelming everything with the fear that despite him saying otherwise, Michael would take my lovemaking to mean something it didn’t.

I wanted my giving to be altruistic, but somehow it was always turned selfish in the end.

Lifting my head slowly, afraid to wake him, I looked over at his bedside alarm clock, the red digits blinking in the dark. It was just past three in the morning. Wow. Hours had passed.

Good. It was good. Michael needed sleep.

However, I couldn’t be here when he woke up in the morning.

Gently, I lifted the hand he had resting on my hip and scooted down until I could place his arm by his side on the bed. Breathing a sigh of relief he hadn’t woken, I attempted to get off the bed without disturbing the mattress too much. I moved as silently as possible, picking up my dress, shoes, and underwear, and I tiptoed into the living room. I blinked against the lights Michael had left blazing and began to dress.

As I was pulling my underwear up, I heard the creak of the floorboards in his bedroom, and my stomach dropped. With a racing heart and trembling hands, I reached for my shoes and then stopped.

I wouldn’t run out on him like a coward.

Michael was awake.

So I had to face him.

I straightened, barefoot but dressed at least, and then he was standing in the doorway. He’d taken the time to pull on a pair of sweatpants.

The sleep still shining in his dark eyes melted away when he realized I was leaving. His accusatory expression singed me.

“You were just going to slip out?” His voice was still hoarse with sleep. “Like a drunken one-night stand?”