“But what?” I said huskily.
“I’m gonna need a month’s worth of loving tonight in order to get my quota in since I’m headed for a long dry spell again.”
“A month’s worth?” His hands were under my jersey and he jerked back, lifting the edge and peeking under. “No bra,” he said.
“No.”
“Huh.” His other hand inched down into the waistband of my jeans and he grinned. “Commando?”
“Yep.”
He whistled and stepped back. “Take your shirt off.”
I cocked my head to the side and smiled, a tremulous, happy, smile. “You first.”
But I didn’t have to say anything else—he was already on it—and we never made it back to the house until much later, and even then I wasn’t halfway done fulfilling my man’s quota.
I let Ben Lancaster love me and I gave him back as much as he gave me. And later, much later, when he held me in his arms and drifted off to sleep, I stared up into a perfect night sky, content, in love, and for the first time in forever it seemed, I was hopeful.
The pieces inside me, the ones that sometimes moved fast and loose, were still. They were quiet. Peaceful.
And for that I was grateful.