The Next Mrs Russo - Jana Aston Page 0,73

one right after the other, and my body’s not ready. It’s not prepared. It doesn’t know where to put these feelings or how to deal with these sensations, and it’s like every piece of me is standing on end.

Warren lets himself go at the tail end of my orgasm. His body shakes as he comes, and he grips my ass to hold us both in place as he gives in to the release. I force myself to focus, to see the look of pleasure that seizes him as he climaxes inside of me.

Because I did that.

Well, us. But a lot me.

And I fucking love it.

“You’re so beautiful when you come,” he says, rolling us so he’s on his back, me splayed top of him. “Do you know that?”

This man is trying to kill me.

Chapter Twenty-Six

The next morning, feeling extremely satisfied, I head right into work. Warren left early, for some important state thing, I assume. I mean I assume it’s important. Then again, I suppose lots of state business is fairly dull and not at all important so who knows really. The point is, he left early. Which is fine, because I’m definitely still feeling last night. In a very happy kind of way. I’m basically humming just thinking about the things his hands did. The things his tongue did. The things—

Okay, I need to focus. I can’t be thinking sex thoughts about Warren all day while I’m trying to work. I’m liable to slice something I shouldn’t with a rotary cutter. Like vintage silk. Or my finger.

I’ve got stuff to do. For one thing, I’ve got all of the new materials to sort and start to design with. I’ll also need to be on the lookout for a call from Mrs McGinn. This is such a huge opportunity, and there’s no way I can fumble this. I need to home-run that football when it gets to me.

I’m dragging in three bags of clothing when I spot Miller sniffing some flowers and opening a card. How adorable. I freaking love how today’s youth aren’t confined by strict gender roles.

“Ohhh.” I grin at Miller, preparing to tease him mercilessly. “Did your girlfriend send flowers to smash the patriarchy?”

“Nope.” Miller rolls his eyes—at my enthusiasm, I think. Hard to tell. “They’re from your boyfriend. Oh, this is very sweet.”

I blush. Holy crap, flowers? This is promising, right? Ugh, why am I such a mess? Because even though yesterday was amazing and last night was even better, there’s a chance that the day was a friend thing and the after was just a fuck-buddy thing. I might be projecting a relationship onto something that’s simply chemistry and convenience.

How can I be so sure of something one day and so not sure of it the next? It would be easier if we just talked about this like adults, but that would require me to put myself out there by asking him.

That sounds awful, obviously.

Tiptoeing around the issue until it resolves itself seems far preferable. It’ll work itself out, right? If I hold out long enough, eventually he’ll either break up with me or propose.

Fine, whatever. He’ll probably want to talk about it before either of those events occurs. But I can wait for him to bring it up. Like I’m not about to call dibs on talking about my feelings.

In any case, whatever we are, we’re definitely not official, and I can’t have Miller saying the word “boyfriend.” Big no.

“He’s not my boyfriend, exactly,” I explain to Miller, trying to be as nonchalant as possible. “I’m like a foster girlfriend, just helping out until he’s ready for his forever home. Wait—are you reading my card?”

“It’s fine. He didn’t write anything gross.” Miller dismisses me as if that’s the only reason he shouldn’t be reading the card attached to my flowers. “It’s not exactly a declaration of love, although… perhaps writing in cursive on a flower card is a declaration amongst your people? You know I don’t understand the mating habits of adults.”

“Give it,” I demand, attempting to snatch the card out of Miller’s hand.

He grins and holds it out of my reach. “It says,” he begins, then pauses—for dramatics, I’m sure, relishing his teenage power, and the fact that he’s got at least half a foot on me—“‘You shouldn’t have to buy your own flowers.’” Miller tilts his head to the side and considers. “That’s sorta swoony. I might use that. When I’m old.”

Oh, fuck my life. That is swoony. Is it supposed to