The Ashtons - Cole, Abigail & Megan

moving. Two fingers…“Cole.”
    “Soon, sweetheart,” he crooned. “Let me play a little more.” Three fingers, in and out, the rhythm driving her crazy. Then his thumb pressed lightly on her, and she exploded.
    Aftershocks pinged through her. She lay motionless, her eyes closed, trying to catch her breath, her muscles wasted…and she ached. Ached fiercely. After a moment she felt him, smooth and blunt, probing at her entrance, and lifted heavy eyelids. He’d scrambled out of his clothes while her eyes were closed, and at last was as naked as she.
    “The scarf,” she whispered, holding up her bound hands. “Take it off.” She needed to be able to touch as well as be touched. Needed more than pleasure.
    He paused. The arms he propped himself up withwere so rigid they shook. There was no play left in his eyes, only hunger and something akin to desperation.
    He shoved inside. His face spasmed, and he groaned. And then, with shaky hands, he untied the scarf.
    She gasped with relief and reached for him, and they made the last part of the journey together. It was a quick, rough climb, and if her second climax didn’t hit with the force of the first, this one satisfied.
    And afterward, with his weight heavy and limp on top of her, she lay there for a long while in the dying firelight, stroking him. Feeling the need to soothe him. As if he were the one who’d been pushed to the limit and beyond.
    And she didn’t know why. She didn’t understand at all.

Chapter Eleven
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    S weat rolled down Cole’s forehead, stinging his eyes, as his feet thudded on the path near his cabin. He’d forgotten the sweatband—had pulled on his shorts and a T-shirt, shoved his feet into his running shoes and taken off.
    The morning was barely broken, the sun a sliver at the horizon. The air was chilly—or had been, before he started running.
    Too late echoed in his head with every footfall. He pushed himself a little faster.
    It was amazing what a fool he’d been, thinking he could just enjoy Dixie. Thinking love was a decision, or something he could avoid, like stepping out of the way of a speeding car. Nope, no thanks, don’t want to get hit today.
    Too late.
    Or that love could be made into play. That’s all he’d meant by that game with the scarf—some sexy game. With, maybe, a whiff of the need to keep her interested, make her want to continue the affair.
    Somewhere along the line it had taken a serious turn. He’d wanted her tied and bound to him. Forever.
    Too late.
    This morning he’d woken up reaching for her. She hadn’t been there, of course. He’d taken her back to The Vines last night—a move born of panic, he admitted. She’d be sleeping now, sleeping in the room he’d moved out of years ago.
    Too late, he thought, his feet dragging to a stop. He stood with his head down, his hands on his thighs, dragging in air. Maybe it had been too late from the moment she walked into his office again after an eleven-year absence.
    He was in love with Dixie. Desperately in love. He was running because that’s what he wanted to do—run away from the feeling. From her. It was impossible, of course. He couldn’t escape what he felt. Not the love. Not the fear, either.
    Or maybe he could—the fear, anyway. If he left her.
    Cole had been terrified of going to the dentist as a child. When he was ten, he’d realized that the fear was as bad as the event, maybe worse. He hadn’t conquered it, but he had stopped putting it off. It would happen whether he delayed or not, so why wait, dragging out the fear?
    But dental visits truly couldn’t be avoided. Was losing Dixie just as inevitable?
    He’d been telling himself he knew she would leave. Maybe not for months, but eventually she would go. But now, faced with the prospect of living with the fear of losing her or walking away himself, he discovered a stubborn core of hope.
    There were the gifts she’d given him, the orchid and chocolates, the cufflinks. Just yesterday she’d given him a goofy card, telling him sternly, “Take note. Women love to get cards. You get extra points for a blank card that you write in yourself.”
    He’d told himself they were part of the game for her, but they’d gotten to him underneath, where words don’t reach.
    There was the way they laughed together, too, and the sheer comfort he felt with her sometimes. And sometimes, when she was looking at him, her face seemed to glow—not with the blazing heat of desire, but a gentler