Page 138 of Faking Cinderella
“Mm?”
“I’m still in my cowboy boots.”
“Are youtryingto make me hard again?”
There I go, giggling once more. “And it’ll get cold in here.”
“You’ve been cold?”
“No. Not under the covers.”
More grunting.
Some swearing.
I start to move, but he sits up faster than I can, probably because he’s cheating.
It’s hard to want to move when he’s trailing his blunt, rough fingertips down my bare legs.
One of my feet comes out of a boot, which thumps to the floor, followed by the other.
“Socks?” he says.
I can take my own socks off. But I murmur a soft, “Off, please.”
He peels them off, kisses each of my big toes, grunts and grumbles a little more, and then he’s rolling me under the quilt. “Better?”
“Almost.”
The floorboards squeak under him as he leaves the room.
I sit up. “Rhys?”
“Condom.”
“Again?”
“Getting rid of it.”
He returns to the bedroom a minute later and pulls the quilt off me. “What—oh.”
He brought me a warm washcloth.
And he’s using it to clean me between my legs.
I grab his arm. “Rhys.”
“Yeah?”
Thank youisn’t enough, so I hook my arm around his neck and pull him close, kissing him softly.
He sighs against my lips, finishes wiping me, then tosses the washcloth on the floor and finally—finally—climbs into bed with me.
“You’re softer than I thought,” he murmurs between kisses while he strokes my back.
“Wasn’t always.”
“How do you balance it?”
