“Okay, sure.” Ashley settled back into the pillow and ran her fingers over his head. His damned hard head.
Something strange and wonderful was happening here in her bed. Something he didn’t know how to deal with. Everything had changed. Him. Ashley. The world. The feelings he’d stuffed down into his soul, the ones he’d honestly thought he’d never have to deal with again, were back. Making him wonder if the wiser men and women of the world weren’t right. If there wasn’t more to life than just the revolving door of slams, bams, and thank-you-ma’ams of fast, hard fucking. Especially with the tender woman in his arms.
Yeah, he’d been a horny beast as a kid. What teenage boy wasn’t? He’d used girls and tossed them aside. Why not? Every football star, especially good-looking, buff linebackers, had plenty of sex thrown in their faces. From their first Friday night win to the day they graduated, were injured, or left the sport, high school football stars were stalked, bribed, and titillated by offers of free sex. And yeah, he’d indulged. Why not? They’d offered, and he’d snarfed down every last sweet thing that came his way, a couple of their mothers, too. He hadn’t been old enough, nor wise enough to understand anything about self-control, the unique sanctity of virginity, or how precious the gift of a good woman was back then.
He’d been a damned cocky jock, a walking, talking stack of vibrating testosterone, puffed up with too many ‘atta-boys’ and swamped with undeserved hero-worship. He’d been a stupid kid. Just seventeen. Not even a real man. Certainly, no hero.
Tripp knew the difference now. Heroes were the unseen men and women who’d fought and died fighting for their countries. It honestly didn’t matter which country, either. The second any person put their wants and needs aside, the moment they picked up their country’s banner and fought for something bigger than themselves, they were the real Friday night winners. Every overpaid sports celebrity, even Hollywood’s finest, were so much less. Had they given their blood? Had they lost their lives? No. They were only concerned with ratings and the illusion of being more important than they truly were.
Heroes were the invisible people, like Ashley. Men and women who would never lead others into battle or into dark alleys. They were just regular people fighting their own private hells, who got up every day and convinced themselves to keep going and keep trying. To keep pasting on smiles they might not feel, even as they marched off to jobs they might be over-qualified for, or searched for wayward daughters who’d curse them when they found them. Who’d curse them for loving them. Like Mom.
As much as Tripp wanted to show Ashley a really good time this morning, the stress of the last couple days was a hard mountain to climb. He nuzzled his nose deep between her luscious breasts. A couple tears eked out of his tired eyes. What a loser.
Until her slender fingers threaded into his hair and settled around his head, her fingertips against his scalp. “Hey,” she breathed softly. “What’s wrong, honey?”
Honey. She called me honey. That cost Tripp another tear, and he honestly didn’t understand why he was this emotional. He was no pussy, damn it. He was a man, and he… and he...
Fuck, I’ve got feelings. That had to stop.
“Not a damned thing,” he lied, turning his face to the side, wishing he were a better man even as he used her breasts for pillows. That he deserved this woman. “I’m just happy, Ashley.” Truly happy. Finally.
“Sure. Stay right where you are,” she replied, her voice soft and loving, her arms wrapped around his head now.
He knew it, that thing he was feeling. He was utterly, hopelessly, for the first time in his life, in love. Not just in lust. He’d found what he’d been searching for all these years. Tripp just didn’t know what to do with it. Scare her off by professing true love? Take her now while she was wet and willing, but still so innocent and way too giving? Before she understood what he’d only just figured out? That she was worth a hundred greedy, grasping men like him. Or should he let her go and live that perfect white-picket fence dream?
Tripp had no business thinking what he was thinking, and he knew it. She would always be the angel; he’d always be the sinner. He was so fuckin’ tired.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
What do you do with a naked man who’s fallen asleep in your arms? Simple. Ashley bowed her nose into the top of his head, smoothed her hands over his shoulders, linked her fingers behind his neck, and kissed his hair. That was all. Tripp had finally let go. She could tell. The second he did, the hard knots in his shoulder muscles relaxed. His body was limp and heavy. She couldn’t remember ever feeling so privileged in her life, and thankful that she’d called her boss and had taken the rest of the week off.
Tripp’s needs were paramount to everything else. The first, obviously, sleep. Then sex, hopefully. Maybe a shower. And lunch. For sure lunch. He needed to keep up his strength. It was difficult not staring at the expanse of naked man spread over her. His broad back that narrowed to a trim waist and a taut ass and long legs. He’d dipped most of his face between her breasts. Warm steady breaths now feathered over her skin.
But what a sight. Every last ropey muscle over his shoulders and down his back and arms, his biceps, even his forearms, were thick and heavy. Gnarled veins stretched under his bronzed skin. He’d been in Seattle. Not much chance he’d gotten that deep tan there. Which meant he’d
