If It Makes You Happy(106)

Her head lolls back with a loud huff of air. I praise it with a bite on her shoulder.

With every noise, every additional thrust and slap of my body against hers, the tension in my stomach gets tighter. She takes control, pushing against my chest, grinding faster. My legs start to shake. I can feel my own pleasure building. And even though my mind is practically buzzing and I can almost see spots in my vision, I move to pull out. But Michelle tightens her knees around my thighs.

“I’m on birth control,” she breathes sharply.

And, God, the smile that explodes over my face must be wild because her matching grin is so fucking seductive.

“Lucky me.”

We both laugh, and I’m not sure I’ve ever had fun during sex like this, but I’m tied up in knots over her.

I roll my tongue over her nipple, pushing my thumb against the apex of her thighs. She exhales, and the sound is so sweet, so precious, that I’m moving faster. Rubbing small circles, burying my other palm in her hair …

Her head falls back. I tip it forward again.

“Look at me,” I demand.

Our gazes snap together. I watch her lips part, her eyebrows scrunch together, and I breathe in to savor every gorgeous piece of her crumbling apart in front of me.

I think she might moan out, “I’m close again,” but I’m not sure because the tail of it comes out in a whimper as she suddenly tightens around me and releases.

I’ve never orgasmed at the same time as someone else before, but now, as her hair cascades like a curtain around us, my orgasm floods over me like a tidal wave, sending my head rolling back on the couch headrest as I jerk into her, releasing every ounce of me with a low groan.

I might say her name. I might mumble something about how gorgeous she is. I don’t know what nonsense leaves my mouth, but I know that, one moment, I’m seeing stars, and the next, her bubbled-up laughter is tickling against my neck as she places kiss after kiss along my collarbone.

She rests her chin on my chest, smiling up at me like I’ve never seen Michelle smile before.

I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.

“Hey,” I whisper.

I cup her cheek, and she leans into my palm.

“Hey,” she echoes.

“You are …” I start, but the words fade off. I press my lips to her forehead and murmur, “Spectacular.”

Her face, already flushed with pink, deepens to a red. I run a thumb over the color with a smile.

And it hits me.

I love this woman.

I don’t know when it happened. It slipped over me so softly, like the changing of seasons. The seeping scent of baked bread first thing in the morning. A wistful sigh on a perfect fall day.

I love Michelle. I’ve loved her for far too long.

She’s complicated. Difficult sometimes. She tastes like caramelized sugar and cinnamon and all the layers of flavors in between.

And suddenly, I know exactly what that is. She could never be something as simple as croissants or muffins or even cinnamon rolls. She’s something else entirely.

Michelle places her cheek against mine and nibbles my earlobe.

I chuckle, running my palms over her spine and up to her shoulders. “Careful there.”

But Michelle leans back and raises her eyebrows in challenge.

“Will you talk to me again?” she asks.

I laugh. “You really liked that, huh?”

She nods.

I bite the inside of my cheek and shake my head, grinning from ear to ear. “You’re playing with fire, woman.”

Her hand slips over my chest, trailing back down between us. A wicked smile tips at the edge of her lips.

“Fine,” I say with a grin. “Have it your way.”





DECEMBER 1997





CHAPTER 35





Michelle




“What’s with the Santa suit and no Santa?” I ask.

We stand on the sidewalk, looking out at Winston’s winter wonderland yard, where every patch of snow-covered grass is crowded with either a candy cane, snowman, or light-up reindeer. A loose red suit hangs from the roof.

“The myth is that he magically popped away when a kid saw him,” Cliff explains.

“And he left his clothes?”

“Yeah,” Cliff says, tilting his head to the side curiously. “Winston’s Santa is a weird guy.”

I cock my head to the side as well, then peer over at Cliff. He smiles, reaching out, dusting snow from my hair. But the fuzz from his mitten only separates strands of hair more. I give a pursed smile. He huffs out a defeated laugh.

“Oh, hush,” he says.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to,” he teases, lowering his arm to brush his fingers against my sleeve.

I press into the touch, letting it linger for longer than a normal touch should.

It’s been one week of this. Hand-holding. Stolen touches. Exchanged laughs and constant smiling. If I think about it too long, my nerves kick into my throat. It feels so real. Too real.

With Allen, it was all serious conversations and work. I think I craved the adult feeling of being wanted and respected. But with Cliff, it’s … easy. It’s respect, accented with adoration. It’s flannels instead of suits. It’s not going to fancy parties; it’s playing in the snow.