All the Sky (Signal Bend Series)

by Fanetti, Susan

  “Oh God! Hav, oh God! Don’t stop don’t stop don’t stop!” No longer capable of stillness, she let her hips loose to move as they would, and they flailed hard, rubbing her clit against his tongue until the crash became an explosion and she lost the power of speech or movement.

  While she was still stunned and throbbing, he pushed himself off the bed and stripped. She watched him through eyes she couldn’t raise above half-mast. But then he was naked and lying between her legs, and she could feel his hot, hard, heavy length between them, pressed into her belly.

  He kissed her, deeply, his tongue searching all of her mouth, his hands tangled in her hair. Then he pulled away and stared down at her. “Fuck, woman. You make me feel crazy.” He took one hand from her hair and brought it down, between them, and then she felt his cock pressing into her. “You’re gonna be still, so I can be sweet, right?”

  “Wait, Hav. Condom.”

  He laughed. “Horse’s out on that one, honey. Don’t think I can knock you up twice. Not at the same time, anyway.”

  “What about…” Was she really going to talk about disease while they were naked and panting, and he was pressing his cock between her legs? “Never mind.”

  But he pulled back and propped himself up on his forearms. “You askin’ me if I got something you can catch? A man could take offense.”

  Now she felt small and stupid—stupid for bringing it up at all, and stupid for not pursuing it. “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m clean, hon. We make the girls get tested. We’re not stupid.” He grinned and cocked an eyebrow. “You?”

  “Yeah. Clean, now. I’m sorry to kill the mood, but Matt…” God, this was awkward and awful, and he’d been so perfect and sweet.

  “That bastard bring something home to you?”

  “Yeah—I’m sorry for bringing it up. God, I suck.” Mortified, she tried to wriggle out from under him.

  He stopped her. “Where you goin’? We’re good, honey. Take a lot more than that to kill what I got goin’ on tonight.” As proof, he flexed his hips, and the scalding steel rod that was his cock pushed hard against her, into her. She gasped and brought her legs up, folding them along his hips, and he pushed all the way in with a long, pained groan. “Oh, fuck, Cory. Fuck, this feels…fuck.”

  He was right. He felt totally different inside her. When they’d gone at it on the kitchen floor, the reason she was pregnant now, that had been a frenzied, incoherent fuck, and she barely remembered any details about it—just a blur of emotional and physical need overwhelming them both. But now, she relished the heat of his skin sliding against the wet of her. He felt even bigger, too, somehow. And more real. She felt more connected to him without that slim barrier of latex. As he stared into her eyes, driving into her slowly but deeply, letting her feel every ridge and vein as he moved inside her, she clutched his shoulders and squeezed her thighs against his hips. She tried to be still.

  But then he shocked her. He gathered her up in his arms and rolled to his back, bringing her with him and settling her astride his hips.

  They’d never done this position before. Havoc didn’t give over—except to get head, and then, too, he set the rhythm. He was a man who liked control. Who needed it.

  “Hav?”

  Letting his hands curl lightly around her hips, he grinned up at her. “You go, honey. Show me what you got.” So she rode him, glorying in the freedom to move and in the sight of him, his surprised awe as he let her make him feel the way he so often made her feel. His hands began to tighten on her hips, and she could feel the muscles in his legs going taut under her as she swiveled and rocked and flexed and arched, her hands kneading into the dense muscles of his chest.

  And then his brows drew tightly together, and he sat up. She thought he’d take over, roll her to her back, but he didn’t. He just held her close and stared into her eyes as she continued to move, feeling the intensity inside her own body increasing to the point that she knew she’d not be able to focus on him for much longer; soon her need would dictate her body’s response.

  It was there, it was on her, and she cried out, dragging her teeth over her lower lip as her body clenched around him. He grabbed her face in both hands and held her fast, forcing her to look at him. She saw confusion and anxiety in his eyes. Then she saw understanding, and she wondered what it was he’d learned just then.

  Her climax reached, she doubled down and focused again on him, riding him all the harder, not sweet, not now, and when she brought him to his release, he clasped her close, locking her to his chest with his large, strong arms, and bit down on her shoulder, letting her flesh take his howl.

  Panting heavily, his chest heaving against hers, Havoc pulled back and looked at her, his eyes searching her face. “The way you fuck with my head—don’t think I’ll ever get used to it.”

  “What? What’d I do?”

  He brushed her hair back from her face. “Nothin’. Just…it’s like everything I ever knew is wrong. Turns me ‘round some.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “It’s okay. I just love you.” He brought her head to his.

  They sat in the middle of the bed, forehead to forehead, until their breaths found their normal pace. Then he laid her gently down, her head on her pillow, and lay behind her, pulling her close, his hand on her belly, and they slept.

  ~oOo~

  They buried Sophie in the middle of January, nearly a month after her death, on a darkly overcast Saturday, the sky heavy and swollen with snow. The service was held at St. John’s Methodist Church, the only church in Signal Bend. A pretty rosewood casket sat in front of the altar. Cory knew that there was very little of Sophie in that box, that most of her body had not been found and would never be found, but Havoc’s parents knew no such thing. That was one of the few Horde secrets Havoc had told her, and that he’d done unwittingly, the night before, in a drunken fervor of grief. Someone had sent him his sister’s head.

  That was the world Cory lived in now. The world she’d brought her children into. The thought sobered her, but did not scare her as Havoc thought it should. Instead, it strengthened her, somehow. Made her feel a need to be more than she’d been. More active. More fierce.

  Sophie was buried in the churchyard next door, her pallbearers carrying her casket from the church directly to her grave. The men carrying the dark, gleaming box were all Horde—or, no. One was not. They all wore kuttes, but they were not all Horde. Isaac and Havoc stood at the leading edge. Len and Show at the middle. At the farther end were Badger and a man in a different kutte, a man she had heard about but had not, until the night before, met. Bart. The man who had been Havoc’s best friend. Cory learned last night that Havoc blamed Bart as much as he blamed himself for Sophie’s death. She didn’t completely understand, because he would not share many details, even drunk and weeping, but she had seen the marks between them in the past eighteen hours of a tight bond, one that was broken, but which might be repaired.

  Though there would be a small reception after the burial today, last night the Horde’s Friday night party had been a somber affair, an early wake of sorts. Cory and Nolan had been there, at Havoc’s request. And into it, unannounced, had walked Bart and his wife—Riley Chase. Cory and Nolan had of course recognized her immediately. She was pregnant, too. A few months farther along than Cory, by the look of her rounded belly.

  Sitting with Nolan on one of the battered leather couches, Nolan’s leg propped up on a chair Double A had brought over, Cory had been a spectator to a strange scene. A wave of silence had rolled through the room, as people noticed Bart and Riley standing near the bar. The last sounds had been the gentle click of suddenly abandoned pool balls hitting together. Bart had been standing in front of Riley, his posture subtly defensive.

  Isaac had moved first, coming up to him, calling him “Bartholomew.”

  Bart had responded, “Boss.” And they had embraced in the macho way of these men, a tight, hard hug that ended with a robust slap of Isaac’s large h
and on Bart’s back.

  Isaac then hugged Riley, his huge body fairly engulfing her tiny one, but no one else approached them until Havoc, who’d been leaning against the wall near the kitchen, talking to Badger and Len, came up. Bart had said something that Cory couldn’t hear. Havoc had nodded. Cory had seen Isaac pull Riley back and had time to think it odd, and then Havoc was on Bart, driving him to the floor, his fists flying.

  This morning, standing at a corner of Sophie’s casket, wearing a kutte with a large, curving scorpion patch, Bart’s face was a split and swollen mess. He’d not even raised his hands to shield himself from Havoc’s attack. No one had pulled Havoc off. He’d hit until he wearied of it, and then he’d stood and held his hand out to the bleeding man at his feet.

  And now, Bart was a pallbearer for Sophie. Even though Havoc hadn’t spoken to him, Cory thought that meant a healing might be underway.

  Once the men had sat Sophie’s casket on the steel frame over her grave, they stepped back and took their places. Havoc and his parents were seated nearest the grave. Cory was next to Havoc; Nolan in his wheelchair at her side. Behind them stood the rest of the Horde and their old ladies and children. And Bart and Riley. Behind them, a fairly large representation of the town. But no one else—no school friend, no boyfriends, past or present. No one but town, few people even young enough to be Sophie’s contemporaries. Cory had not had a chance to know Sophie very well—a couple of lunches, the occasional chance meeting in town. She’d had no idea how isolated Sophie had been.

  The wind was picking up, and the forecasted storm was threatening more emphatically, so the Reverend Mortensen picked up the pace of his remarks. Cory could feel the rush and knew by the way Havoc’s slightly shaking hand was crushing down on hers that he could feel it, too. And then the service was over, and people were walking back to the church, where there would be a quiet reception catered with casseroles from the townswomen. Havoc’s father stood and held his hand out to his wife. They walked toward the church. But Havoc didn’t move. Show put his hands on Nolan’s wheelchair and asked him if he wanted help over the uneven terrain of the churchyard.

  Nolan turned to Cory. She smiled and said, “It’s okay. We’ll be in. Go ahead.” So Nolan looked up at Show and nodded.

  And then Cory and Havoc were alone at Sophie’s graveside. Havoc stared until they lowered the nearly-empty box into the ground.

  “Fuck.”

  She didn’t respond except to tighten her hand in his. Finally, as they were dismantling the frame over the grave, Havoc stood and, much as his father had for his mother, he held his hand out to her.

  The first flakes of snow fell as they crossed the grass back to the church.

  It was a small church with a commensurately small gathering space in the basement, which served as town party room, movie room, meeting room, and polling place. Today, a long table was set up to hold the casseroles and the urns of coffee, and people were milling quietly about. Cory had always thought that these gatherings after a funeral were strange. But for the dark colors of people’s attire, it was indistinguishable from any other church gathering. It might as well be the monthly potluck. Even the food was the same. Hell, even the dishes the food was served in were the same—there was Evelyn Sweet’s fancy floral dish, containing her usual green bean casserole.

  Havoc and Cory were standing together not far from the door when she saw his father stride purposefully across the room. He stopped when he was standing in front of his son. The men were of similar height, with recognizably familial features. His father had the weathered, rough-hewn face of a man who’d spent most of his adult life working hard in the sun. But his features were also creased in a way Havoc’s would never be—with a sort of violent disdain for the world around him. Maybe her perception was colored by her dislike, but Cory thought he had the face of a man who’d never found much of joy in the world, because he’d never bothered to look.

  Staring into his father’s face, Havoc let go of Cory’s hand suddenly and pushed her sharply away. Then he said simply, “Pop.”

  And his father hauled off with a huge haymaker of a punch, landing squarely on the side of Havoc’s face. The sound of it was deafening to Cory, perhaps because the room had gone suddenly quiet. The blow knocked Havoc off his feet, and then she was being pulled even farther back, and she looked quickly down to see Len’s tattooed hand on her arm.

  But Don didn’t throw another punch. He spat on the floor next to his son and turned away. Cory, stunned, watched him walk to his wife, grab her hand, and leave the church without another glance anywhere but straight ahead.

  Len let go of her arm, and she went back to Havoc, who was still on the floor, his arms draped over his knees and his head down. His cheek was bleeding. His still, silent tears ran into the blood.

  Not sure what else to do, Cory went to her knees and laid her head on his shoulder.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Havoc had been unwelcome in his parents’ home for a couple of weeks after Sophie’s funeral. His mother had kept in touch, but his father would not have him there. Then he told his ma about the baby. She had immediately insisted that he bring Cory and Nolan for the next Sunday dinner, and she had apparently stood up to his old man and won, because, though he was silent and sullen, he did not make a fuss. They had what passed for a nice meal, and his mother had doted on Cory and Nolan.

  He wondered what kind of grandfather his father would be. Havoc’s own grandfather, his mother’s father, had been a good man. For most of the time Havoc knew him, he’d been frail; the stroke that had brought his mother and father to live in Signal Bend and take over the farm had taken much of his life force. But he had been a great storyteller and a steady, calming presence in Havoc’s childhood.

  He married Cory in March, without fanfare. Just went to the county courthouse and got it done, with Bonnie, Len, and Nolan their only guests. Havoc liked it that way, but Cory had surprised him when she’d brought it up. She’d said she’d already done the white-dress wedding, and that hadn’t ended up so well. This time, she just wanted to be married and get on with the life part. So they drove to the county seat—in the Beast, and not just because they had Nolan along. Cory wasn’t getting on his bike again until she’d popped their kid.

  She was showing pregnant, a little, just a firm little pooch over the waistband of her jeans—or, on the day they got married, under the flare of her pale blue dress. He loved that pooch. He still couldn’t quite believe that she was making his kid. He’d taken her to her doctor’s appointments and heard the heartbeat, but it still felt surreal to him. He was still afraid of all the things he could do wrong. The damage he could do.

  But he’d try to be the right kind of husband, the right kind of father. The right kind of man.

  After the courthouse, they went straight back to Signal Bend, but he didn’t drive to Cory’s rented mobile home. Instead, he drove into the town proper, down Main Street, and turned right onto Dogwood Street.

  At that turn, Cory asked, “Hav? Where we going?”

  “Just a sec. Gotta drop something off.” He could tell she was annoyed, but she shrugged and left her hand where it was—on his hand, which was on her knee. He pulled up and parked in front of a little white house with a porch spanning the entire front. It wasn’t much, but it was solid. It had been vacant for years, the windows boarded up, but Havoc, with the help of his brothers, had spent what time he could over the past few weeks making it into something. The exterior and the small bit of overgrown yard—a little more than half an acre, front and back—still needed some work, but that would have to wait a few more weeks, until the weather settled on spring.

  He knew she might balk. She usually let him have his way, except in matters relating to Nolan or those she considered major life decisions. She probably considered a house a major life decision. But he also knew he could persuade her if he needed to.

  He parked and got out. Cory didn’t move, still figuring, he guessed, that he was run
ning a quick errand for whomever lived here. So he went around the front of the Beast—a vehicle upgrade was next on his list—and opened her squeaky door. When he held his hand out to her, she gave him a look, her forehead creased.

  “What are you dropping off?”

  He’d meant to keep a straight face, and he was usually very good at that, but this time he failed, and he grinned. “You.”

  “What?”

  “I brought you home, honey.”

  “What?”

  From the back seat, Nolan, who was in on it all, stage-whispered, “Mom. You’re being dense.”

  He opened the back door and scooted out, leaning in for his crutches. He was finally out of his wheelchair but not yet out of the cast. He was much happier on crutches, though, and had not much longer for that. He’d be sixteen in April, and his big birthday goal was to be walking like a normal person by then.

  “What?” Her expression hadn’t changed at all. She just wasn’t getting it. She talked about “pregnancy brain”; maybe that was an actual thing.

  Rolling his eyes, Havoc reached in and unfastened her seatbelt, then lifted her out of the car and set her on her feet at his side. “I bought this house, Cory. For you—us. We need more space for the tadpole, right? The yard and the exterior need work, but I got the inside ready. We all did. The whole club helped.”

  “You bought us a house?” That crease between her brows only deepened. Still grinning, he reached out and smoothed it with his thumb.

  “I bought us a house. That okay?”

  “You bought us an actual house?”

  He took her chin in his hand and made her turn and look up at him. “I bought us a house, Cory. All ours, free and clear. You want to take a look?”