Committed Passion by Bonnie Dee Page A

rubbed his jaw and looked uncomfortable, as if he’d gotten into a speech he couldn’t quite find his way out of.
    “If there really is a devil, the old man has found himself the perfect drinking buddy at last,” Micah quipped, but not a trace of a smile curved his mouth. He reminded me of one of those statues on Easter Island, impassive and remote.
    “Amen,” Jesse Wyatt’s grizzled old friend replied without a hint of irony.
     
    Much later, after we were alone in our motel room, I joined Micah in the shower, sidling in behind him and running my hands over his slick body. I pressed my lips against his warm, wet back while feeling every ridge of his ridiculously fit body—hard and solid underneath my palms. My guy was no gym rat by any stretch of the imagination, but he had a trim, athletic build.
    “Good genes. You can thank your dad for that,” I said against his skin.
    Micah laughed and turned to face me. He took the bath puff and glided it over me, lathering my skin. I tingled and not just from the hard jets of water or scratchy nylon. I nearly yelped when he drew the puff over my nipples, they were so tender and aching.
    We kissed as the hot spray washed away the suds from both of our bodies. Micah lowered his face and sucked on one breast, then the other, while I groaned and jutted my chest for even more contact. After a moment, he lifted me up and held me against the wall of the shower while he rammed into me. Every push made me shudder and whine. I gripped his hair and twisted hard, making him gasp.
    Our athletics were too much for the small space. We shut off the shower and dried off with cheap motel towels, then we raced for the bed. As I tumbled onto my back and pulled Micah down on top of me, I felt the urgency in his body. He needed this release, needed a little bit of aggression right now, so I gave it to him. We thrashed around and nipped and pushed hard against each other.
    He filled me with a force and drive that made me cry out. Micah’s usual vibe as a lover was slow and skillful. God knew he had enough practice to make him really good at sex. But this time he fucked me hard and rough.  
    And I loved it.
    When we were done, both of us were sweaty again and breathing hard. I leaned up on one elbow to look at him. “Feel better?”
    He nodded.
    It was then I noticed his eyes were glistening with unshed tears. He bit his lower lip hard to keep from letting go.
    I moved in close and gathered him to me, holding his head against my chest and stroking his hair. “It’s all right to be upset. It’s all right to care.”
    “But he was a son of a bitch. He doesn’t deserve it.” The catch in Micah’s voice nearly broke my heart.
    “Doesn’t matter. You feel what you feel. Let it out. There’s only you and me here.” I was amazed I could even speak, my own throat swelled with emotion.
    The rest of Micah’s tension, the part he hadn’t let loose in his climax, shuddered through him then. And he proved that men do cry, while I held him with all the strength in my arms.
    *
    Micah
    When I got done crying like a little bitch, Gina never said a word about it, for which I was extremely grateful. She climbed out of bed and started to dress. “We should get ready. We’re supposed to meet the others for dinner.”
    I wiped away the last of my tears and snot and hurried to catch up with her. We weren’t going anywhere fancy—fancy didn’t exist in Sawville—so I tossed on a bowling shirt, a pair of khaki pants, and tasseled loafers.
    Gina, dressed in a short skirt and leather jacket, swept a gaze over me before we walked out the door, and smiled. “In case I forget to ever say it, I love your sense of style.”
    She moved in close and slid her arms around me. “Even when I didn’t really like you—on our blind date, for example—I always liked your clothes.”
    I raised an eyebrow. “Thanks?”
    “Take it as a compliment. Even then I think I knew a lot of your flirty bullshit was an act.”