Page 67 of This Broken Heart

Josh

There’s a reason we haven’t thrown a party in years.

Having all these people in my house is like going through a time warp. It’s like being sixteen again. The only difference is, I don’t have my best friend with me anymore.

She was always the buffer, the one who did all the talking. I feel lost without her and would literally rather hide in a dark corner than face these people.

Then Erin comes sweeping out, and she’s like a ray of sunshine cutting through the doom and gloom. I’m drawn to her like a moth to flames.

I’ve been curious about the life she left behind and seeing those pictures on Instagram is like getting the Cliffs notes version.

I like seeing pictures of her from her younger days. I do not, however, like seeing pictures of that dough ball she dated for five years.

Maybe he was funny.

Or had a great personality.

She sure as shit wasn’t dating him for his looks.

I wasn’t kidding when I said she was out of his league. But I’m learning she tends to undersell herself. I twine her soft hair around my finger, wondering why she doesn’t see what I see.

She glows. A light in the darkness.

I wish I could absorb some of that.

My fingers slip through her hair, weaving behind her head. I know I was the one who said we needed to slow down. But unfortunately for both of us, I don’t listen very well.

She tilts her face towards mine, lips parted slightly and I lean down, kissing her deeply. I’m a man dying of thirst, and she’s an oasis in the desert.

Her hands find my chest, slipping inside my jacket. She fists my shirt, clinging to me.

The door bangs open and a few people spill out, oblivious to us. But I’m still annoyed. Climbing to my feet, I tow her behind me. “Let’s go home.”

I open the truck door and help her inside. Circling around the truck, I climb behind the wheel. She’s sitting too far away, so I grab her thigh and slide her to the middle of the bench. My hand stays locked around her leg as we drive down the lane, and she leans into me, wrapping her hands around my arm.

My heart is pounding in my chest as I lead her back up onto the porch. It’s reckless. I’m dimly aware of that. But there’s an even greater sense of urgency. The kids are out of the house and I don’t know when our next opportunity will be.

I shut the door behind us, helping her out of her coat while she kicks her boots off. Then she’s pulling my jacket off while I step out of my boots.

My arms twine around that waist, pulling her hard against my body. I kiss her, letting my hands slip under her sweater. Her skin is so soft and warm. She arches her back, leaning into my body.

I’m impatient.

This is overdue.

Judging by the way she’s kissing me, she feels the same way.

I start to lift the hem of her sweater, exposing her skin, and she tugs it up over her head. I get a quick glimpse of her tummy, those beautiful tits straining against a lace bra, before she snuggles into my chest, almost hiding from my gaze.

Her hands slip around my waist and she tugs at my shirt. I pull it off and haul her into me. She’s so soft, melting into me so perfectly. I want more. I want to touch every square inch of her. Hunger stokes in my belly, my shaft lengthens and presses against my zipper. Turning her around, I pull her ass into my hips and bend to kiss the slope of her shoulder. With both hands pressed against her tummy, I walk her to her bedroom. I know better than to take her to my room. Too many memories in there. Too many memories in this house, in general. It’s like living with ghosts. Maybe it would be a good thing to move to the big house.

I stop her in front of the bed, filling my hands with those glorious tits. They occupy my thoughts, drowning out all the background noise.

She leans back into my chest, swaying on her feet as I kiss her neck. My hands slip down to her jeans and I unbutton them, pushing them past her hips. She kicks them off, turning to pull my jeans off. Standing in our underwear, I drag her closer, pressing my hips up against her. She rocks against me, teasing me with her kisses, nipping at my lower lip. When her hand slips down to curve around my bulge, all bets are off.

45.

Erin