Page 69 of Letters to Molly (Maysen Jar 2)

Molly came to lean against the counter at my side, speaking in a hushed voice. “I don’t want you to leave. But . . .”

“I know. The kids can’t know I’ve been sleeping in their mother’s bed.”

We could tell them until we were blue in the face that we weren’t getting back together, but if they caught us, it would send a completely different message.

“Should we just end this now?” she asked.

I stiffened. The immediate answer was no. Hell no. I didn’t want to give this up. But logic began to creep in, like a fog dulling the sunlight.

This was going to end at some point. Molly and I weren’t getting back together, so this fling would eventually expire.

“I don’t want to,” I whispered. “I’m not ready yet. Are you?”

She didn’t hesitate. “Not even close.”

Our eyes locked, holding one another captive. Hers were so expressive and hungry. There was something beneath the lust, something familiar, but I couldn’t place it.

Once, years ago, Molly and I could carry on entire conversations with our eyes alone. But that was before we’d learned to hide things from one another—before I started keeping my problems from her, and she started hiding her true feelings from me.

I didn’t try to solve that look. This wasn’t about Molly and me working things out as a married couple. It was about sex.

Only sex.

I leaned closer to her, dropping my chin so my cheek brushed against her hair. It was pulled up into a messy knot, but some of the tendrils had escaped since dinner, dangling loose toward her neck.

Molly drifted my way, her breaths coming faster. The air in the kitchen crackled with anticipation.

“Kiss me.”

She gave me a slight nod, rising up on her toes.

I dipped, my breath coasting down her cheek, but then I remembered where we were. “Wait. Not here.”

She huffed when I pulled away, taking a few deep breaths as I took her hand and dragged her down the hallway to her bedroom. The second we were away from the stairs—with the door closed and out of danger that one of the kids would walk in on us—I framed her face with my hands and slammed my lips down on hers. I swallowed her gasp and let my hands roam from her face and down her shoulders. I pulled her closer, needing to feel her against me.

Her hands went for my fly, tugging the button on my jeans open to dive inside. The feel of her grip, those long fingers wrapped around my shaft, was so incredible I nearly blacked out.

How was it possible for us to go so wrong? We were good together. So. Fucking. Good.

“Finn,” she moaned into my mouth, her tongue sliding along the seam of my bottom lip. Her fist wrapped around my shaft tighter, stroking the velvet flesh inside my jeans. “More.”

I pulled her closer, my hands everywhere. Under her shirt. In her hair. Palming her ass. I couldn’t find the right spot. The right grip so I wouldn’t lose her.

“I can’t . . . I need . . .” She let go of my cock and her fingers fumbled for the zipper. She got it down and then shoved at the hem of my shirt. “Closer. Get closer.”

I reached behind my head and jerked off my shirt. Before my skin could even register the cool air, her hands were on me, leaving a hot trail as they traveled up and down my chest and stomach.

Next came her shirt in a swish of cotton sailing toward the hardwood floor. Only then did I get closer. I wrapped my arms around her body, letting my hands dive underneath her panties.

Molly hissed as the rough tips of my fingers bit into her soft curves. But she gave as good as she got, her nails scratching up my spine as I walked us backward toward the bed.

Jeans were lost along the way, hands only breaking contact for split seconds to rip and tug ourselves bare.

When the backs of my knees hit the bed, I hoisted us both onto the mattress, scooting myself toward the headboard.

Molly followed on her knees, her breasts heavy, her nipples peaked and tight. Then she gave me a wicked grin that went straight to my balls. “I want to ride you.”

“Climb on up, darling.”