I Need More. Kimberley White

a loud cry. Her walls tightened around him, rhythmically milking the length of his shaft. Before he could thrust his hips, he was filling her with the volcanic explosion of his climax. Exhausted, she dropped down on him, her cool, wet body extinguishing his heat. He held her close, refusing to let her move.

      He had come to Erika in a panic, his ego more than a little bruised after his meeting with Mark. Possession drove him. Desperation filled him. He couldn’t let her go. No matter what the right thing to do was, he loved her and he needed her.

      But he’d messed up things so badly between them he didn’t know exactly how to fix it. She was asking for a divorce. Mark was waiting for him to give her one. He was ill, his future uncertain. His method of winning her was irrational, but he wasn’t in a place to be sensible right now. So he held her tightly, not wanting her to move, or have the opportunity to wash away his seed, because his irrational, desperate, possessive mind told him the only way to get Erika back was to give her his child.

      He awoke early the next morning, not necessarily wanting to explain his presence to his mother. Not until he could explain it to Erika, or himself. Erika wasn’t beside him, but he heard running water from the master bath. It was early, but he remembered Erika and Ginnifer golfed on Sunday mornings.

      He left the bed and eased down the hallway, thinking to surprise her. They could make love in the shower like they used to before she dressed to hit the golf course.

      “Good morning,” he said as he entered the bathroom.

      “Hi.” She downed a pill with a big gulp of water.

      “Headache?” He kissed her as he held her from behind, admiring how right they looked together in the mirror.

      “No.” She held up the blister packet with two tiny pills—one of them missing—and his heart sank down into his stomach. “Plan B. I had Ginnifer bring it this morning. She’s waiting out front. Today’s our golf day. Remember? Do you want me to cancel so we can talk?” she asked, reading his expression wrong.

      He shook his head, unable to speak. She’d taken the morning-after pill. He turned away, pressing his lips together against a string of violent curses. His temper flared in unjustified anger. There would be no baby.

      His mind shifted, seeing his rage for what it truly was: hurt. He was devastated by her rejection. His world began to spin, everything was out of his control—his health, his marriage, his disproportionate love for Erika. All the intimate wishes he’d shared with her during sex were enough to excite her and heighten the encounter, but she didn’t really want to make a baby with him.

      “We should still talk,” she said, her concern worrying her brows.

      “I’ll call you.”

      She turned to him, making him face her. “I’m glad you came. Last night was good. Like you haven’t been away.”

      He leaned in and kissed her forehead.

      “Brock?”

      “You better get going. I’ll leave before my mother wakes up.”