Lost In Me (Here and Now) (5 page)

His eyes go wide. “You’re worried about
me
?”

“It doesn’t seem fair to ask you to start over.”

“I’m not marrying your memories. I’m marrying you. And I would start over happily for you.”

“This is all so surreal. I just keep waiting to wake up and find out it was all a dream.”

He untangles his hands from my hair and slips them under my shirt. His touch is light and cautious of my bruises, but when his fingertips skim the underside of my breasts, he’s confident and sure—a wanderer returning to familiar territory. His thumbs find my nipples and my breath draws in with a hiss. I collapse forward, resting my head on his shoulder.

“I’m here,” he whispers in my ear as his fingers work delicious magic under my shirt. “And I’m real.”

I roll my hips against his erection, and I can’t deny it. He’s real. And he’s amazing.

I slide my hand between our bodies and find his hard-on.

“We shouldn’t do this,” he groans. His lips sample the side of my neck between his words. “Not until you’re better. Not until we’ve really had a chance to talk.”

I know this isn’t the first time we’ve touched. It couldn’t possibly be. If I wanted to release him from his jeans and take him into my mouth, it surely wouldn’t be the first time for that either.

In the war between my desires and my self-conscious nerves, my nerves are winning, and I won’t have that. If this is my new amazing life, I’m going to live it up.

“I guess it’s stupid that I’m so nervous,” I whisper.

“It isn’t. Not at all.”

Anything else he planned to say is cut off by his groan as I unzip his jeans and release him from his boxers with one bold move of my hand.

My breath catches at the sight of him, long and thick and hard. For me. I lick my lips, wrap my hand around his shaft, and stroke.

“Jesus.” His eyes float closed and his hips buck instinctively, moving him hard against the grip of my hand.

My nerves flitter away as he gets lost in my touch. He fights to keep his eyes open, his control intact. I may be a little on the inexperienced side, but I know how to give a damn good hand job. I had one asshole boyfriend my freshman year in college who demanded them regularly. Once, I regretted that relationship, but suddenly it feels worth it because I love the pleasure on Max’s face—the way he looks at me through his lashes, the way his nostrils flare as I use my thumb to test the moisture at the tip of his cock.

“Hanna,” he chokes out, and I squeeze him a little harder. I can tell he’s close by the way he’s swelling. Harder. Thicker.

I push off him and to my knees on the floor, never releasing him.

He reaches for me, but I ignore his hands and lick the swollen head of his dick.

“Oh, fuck.”

I grin because he’s lost the battle with his self-control I never intended to let him win.

I release him just long enough to slide my tongue up the underside of his shaft, and his body shudders. When I stretch my lips over him and take him deep, he groans, and I feel beautiful and powerful. My body winds tight with arousal.

Max puts a gentle hand on my face. “You don’t have to—”

I pull him deeper before he can say anything else. I don’t remember doing this before—blowjobs are definitely not in the limited realm of my remembered experience—but sixty seconds in, I can already tell what feels good to him and what makes him nearly lose control.

I work my tongue over the underside of him and add more suction to my movement. His gentle hand moves to my head and slides into my hair. He leads me to take him half an inch deeper. Before I can even adjust to the new depth, he’s coming, filling my throat in a way I never would have imagined could be so sexy.

Yet a smile curves my lips as I release him, as happy as I am turned on. And
fuck
am I turned on.

He pulls me into his lap and gathers me against him.

“That was amazing,” I murmur into his chest.

His body shakes with his nearly silent chuckle. “I’m pretty sure that’s my line.”

“I know you were trying not to go there tonight, but…” I sigh and grin up at him. “I couldn’t help myself.”

He kisses me firmly, tongue sweeping into my mouth, teeth nipping my lips. Then his hand is under my shirt again, doing delicious things to my nipples, and I hope he never stops.

“I like that so much,” I breathe into his ear, and he moans and rolls a nipple between two fingers. He slides his other hand between my legs. I come up on my knees to get a better angle. As I rock into his hand, a desperate moan slips from my lips, and he gives me the extra pressure I need. My body might be beaten and tender, but I’ve had years of fantasies about this man. I don’t have the patience to wait now that I have him at my fingertips.

More pressure between my legs. The hem of my jeans presses into my swollen clit, and I grind harder, but I need more. I need slick skin and rough fingers and—

“Ack!”

The sound of a woman’s screech has me jumping off the couch. My feet tangle under me and I go down, falling to the floor and knocking my head on the glass coffee table.

Max’s eyes go to the door, where my mom’s standing, her back already turned to us, her hand thrown over her eyes.

“Shit,” he mutters.

“I didn’t see anything,” Mom sing-songs. “Just here to check on my daughter and drop off some groceries.” She hoists a plastic bag into the air as evidence.

Max quickly pulls himself together, zipping his pants before sinking to the floor next to me. “Are you okay?”

I rub my head where it hit the table. “I’m fine.” A little mortified that my mother just walked in on me grinding myself against Max’s hand. But hey, I’m an optimist, and the optimist in me is just glad she didn’t find her way in the front door, say, five minutes earlier—when I was on my knees.

“We didn’t lock the door, did we?” he whispers.

“Apparently not.”

“Yeah, next time—”

“Absolutely.”

He helps me off the floor, and I give my girlie parts a silent little lecture about patience because they’re down there whimpering,
“Not fair! Make her leave! Things were just getting good!”

“Is everyone decent?” Mom asks, already turning around.

“Now we are,” I say under my breath. “Mom, maybe you should knock next time?”

“You just got out of the hospital. I didn’t think…” In her defense, her cheeks are beet red, and I’m fairly confident she will be knocking next time. And every time after. “I was young once too. I remember those weeks leading up to my wedding. Your father and I could hardly—”

“Mom. Please?” Somehow I don’t think hearing about how horny she was before marrying Dad is actually going to make this situation less awkward.

“I’m just here to make sure you don’t need anything, but obviously Max was taking care of you—”

“Mom!”

She throws her hand over her mouth, but I can see her smile peeking out the sides. “I didn’t mean it like that.” She drops her hand and sighs as she sets the single bag of groceries on the counter.

“Thanks for checking on her and”—Max rubs the back of his neck—“sorry about that.”

She waves away his apology. “So we haven’t had a chance to really celebrate your engagement, what with this accident nonsense. Max, would you allow me to host an engagement party at my house? I don’t want to be the over-intruding mother-in-law, but I would really love to celebrate.”

Max wraps his arms around me from behind and kisses my hair. I love that he seems to always be touching me. Like he can’t help himself. “That would be wonderful, Mrs. Thompson. There’s nothing I want to celebrate as much as Hanna agreeing to marry me.”

She presses her hand to her chest and tears swell in her eyes. “It does my heart good to see you two together and so happy. The news of your engagement was what really got me through worrying about my daughter.”

“I’m okay, Mom.”

She nods and blinks away her tears. “I know, I know. But it was a shock. Oh, look at me! Keeping you up when you should be getting your rest.”

Even after her touching display of emotion, I want her to leave so I can be alone with Max again. I blame those girlie parts down south. They apparently have a mind of their own, and an active imagination to go with it.

Mom adjusts her purse on her shoulder. “Try to sleep tonight. I know it’s hard, but it’s important if you’re going to recover.”

“I will,” I promise.

Mom turns her smile on my fiancé. “Max, would you be a doll and walk me out? I know you need to get going too.”

Max nods, and it takes everything in me to keep the smile on my face.
Effing seriously? He’s leaving me?

“Of course I will.” He winks at me. “You know how to get me if you need me.”

If
I need him? I would have thought that was obvious.

A
LMOST PERFECT.

I’m surveying my life as if from the outside, and that’s how it looks to me. Almost perfect. Sure, I have these bruises and I’m banged up from my fall, but everything else? My apartment. My business. My body.
Max…

He looks at me like I’m the most precious thing in the world. And I’m wearing his ring. I might not remember how my life got like this, but I’ll do whatever it takes to keep it this way.

I wander around my apartment, feeling a bit like a rude visitor peeping in on someone else’s life. The kitchen is clean, the refrigerator full of water bottles, apples, and carrot sticks. The freezer isn’t much better, with little more than frozen berries and chicken breasts, and the pantry is sparse. Mom brought me a half-gallon of milk and some fresh fruit, but I still need to go grocery shopping. I find a notepad on the counter and start a list:

Grocery shopping: Bread, milk, cereal, pasta

I stop writing and stare at the list I’ve made. These were foods I ate before. What do I eat now? I’ll have to be careful about what I buy. I’m sure I worked hard to lose this weight.

My mind goes to the stairs again. The fall. Max’s words about low blood sugar and me forgetting to eat. Was that really all there was to it, or did I have to live on the meager basics in my kitchen to get this thin?

I shake away the thought. If I’d developed unhealthy habits, my sisters would have put a stop to it. Anyway, however I got here, I don’t want to ruin my progress. Especially if we’re planning a wedding.

A thrill runs through me at the thought. A wedding. I’m marrying Max.

But as I go to return the notepad to the basket, a small slip of paper falls out.

It’s a prescription for an antidepressant. And it’s dated one week ago. Why would I need that?

My phone buzzes on the counter, and I tuck the script into the bottom of the basket for safekeeping before grabbing my cell. I don’t recognize the number on the display, and I’m not in the mood to chat anyway, so I send the call to voicemail.

As I wander the living room area, I spot a laptop on the desk in the corner. I immediately open it, ready to peek into the last year of my life the way a stranger might—social media. A dialogue box pops up on the screen and asks for my password. I tap in my birthday, but it doesn’t take. I try my initials and my birthday. Still nothing. Those have always been my go-to passwords. I’ll have to ask Max if he knows what it is. Maybe I used our first date or his pet name for me.

The bedroom is tidy, save for a basket of unfolded laundry in one corner. The closet isn’t overly full, but I have a nice collection of jeans and shirts in my new smaller size and a slew of black workout capris and tank tops.

It’s a small apartment so it doesn’t take me long to see everything. I should take a shower and try to get some sleep. Tomorrow I want to learn all I can about my business and see what I need to do to catch up from my hospital stay. The idea of the water hitting my bruises with any pressure at all is more than I can bear, so I run a bath instead and sigh as I sink into the warm water. I release my hair from its clip and let it fall down my back.

When it’s just me and the lulling beat of the water pouring into the tub, I let myself think about Max and what we might be doing if my mother hadn’t come over tonight.

I skim my fingertips over my breasts and imagine him stripping off my shirt and releasing my heavy breasts from my bra. I squeeze my nipples with the thought of Max taking them into his mouth. Men have always liked my breasts, and I love having them played with, squeezed, sucked. Would he have kept me in his lap, his hand stroking me through my jeans as he sucked and played? Or would he have taken me to my bedroom so he could lay me down and explore my body?

My mind latches on to that image—a bare-chested Max hovering over me in bed, unzipping my jeans and dragging them down my hips as he sucked my nipple into his mouth, laved it with his tongue.

These aren’t new fantasies, but knowing Max is mine now heightens their intensity. This “what if” could just as well be our “next time.” Remembering how good it felt to have his hand between my legs and his breath in my hair, I’m already close when I slip my hand into the hot water and find my swollen flesh. I’m so wrapped in the fantasy that the hand isn’t mine anymore. It’s Max’s. His hot mouth is open against my neck, and all he has to do is slip a finger inside me—
God, yes, like that
. I imagine his hand, his hot breath at my ear, his groan. I cling to the thought and I come.