It was all the encouragement she needed. Her hand slid down her stomach, hesitating only briefly before she let her fingers rub over her sensitive flesh.
Josh groaned and quickened his pace as he levered himself up once more, watching her hand. Watching them.
She couldn’t help it. She looked down, too, at the sight of him plunging in and out of her while her own fingers circled and stroked. It was so blatantly sexy, so unapologetically carnal that her orgasm was upon her far faster than it had any right to be.
“Josh—”
“Come.”
She did. And he came with her, his groan low and growly and pure man.
They both slumped back into the pillows, his arm heavy on her waist, his breath ruffling the hair that she knew had to be, in his word, enormous.
Eventually, she rolled onto her back and glanced toward him, holding a hand over her mouth. He was right about the morning breath thing. Sure, it was just Josh, but she still had standards.
“Coffee,” she said, the world muffled by her fingers.
“I’d love some,” he said, not opening his eyes.
She reached out and slapped his stomach, which probably hurt her more than it did him considering he had an honest-to-God six-pack.
He grunted and rolled off the bed into a standing position in one motion, pulling off the condom before ambling toward her bathroom. She heard the flush, and then he ambled back into the room for his pants, putting them on commando as he studied her.
“You look hot like that.”
“Hot mess,” she corrected.
“Nope. Just hot. Don’t let it go to your head though, you’re already insufferable enough with that big ego.”
She gaped at him. “I have the big ego?”
“You do.”
Then he was singing “Deck the Halls,” a favorite of his, apparently, and banging around in her kitchen.
A second later his head poked into the bedroom. “I just realized we never made our banana bread.”
“For the hundredth time, quit acting like that’s a thing that we do.”
“Okay,” he said agreeably. “But only because I’ve discovered another thing that we do that’s slightly more interesting than banana bread.”
She lifted her head and narrowed her eyes. “Slightly? Exactly where does sex rank next to your precious banana bread?”
“Depends. Does the banana bread have nuts?”
Heather reached behind her, picking up a candle she kept on the nightstand and lifting it like one might throw a football. “Speaking of nuts, you’d better watch yours.”
“I forgot what you were like without coffee,” he said. “Put the weapon down, 4C. I’ve got some Italian roast with your name on it.”
He disappeared again, and Heather smiled as she went to the dresser, pulling on underwear—non-thong this time, since he had a weakness for them, and her lady bits needed a break—and then tugged on gray sweatpants and a tank top.
Ordinarily she might have combed her hair, but this was Josh. And wasn’t this the entire point of having sex with someone that would never turn into something romantic? She didn’t have to worry about things like frizz.
She walked into the kitchen just as he was pouring them each a mug.
“And you thought I would hate you in the morning,” she said, greedily grabbing at the cup he held out.
“So you don’t, then?”
“Don’t what?” she asked, taking her coffee into the living room and sitting on the couch.
“Hate me.” His voice was casual, but his eyes were just the slightest bit wary as he searched her face.
She shrugged. “This doesn’t feel awkward-morning-after to me. Does it to you?”
“No,” he said. “But how do I know you’re not waiting until I leave to start your shame cycle.”
“Shame cycle? What the heck is that?”
“You know, when you women start overthinking things, wondering why I didn’t ask for your number, wondering if you made a mistake, wondering which notch on my bedpost you were . . .”
“Yeah, I’m not going to do that,” she promised, taking a sip of the coffee. “Although out of curiosity, how many women have you slept with?”
“A lot,” he said without apology as he plopped into a chair across from her.