Happily Ever After: A Romance Collection

by Amelia Wilde

  And I was still stuck. With him. I shivered as that sliver of fear unfurled into something else.

  17

  Micah

  “Want to grab a couple beers from the fridge?” I said in the lightest voice I could muster. Not easy when I wanted to growl.

  She made her careful way to the kitchen, reminding me that she must still be sore as hell and in no way up for the kind of long, hard fucking that was flashing through my mind right now. Of course, it’d been so long since I’d done it that I was pretty sure I wasn’t up for that either. I’d probably last about five seconds. Already, my cock was throbbing angrily at me, demanding that I do something about this situation.

  Using the bottom of her shirt—my shirt—to protect her hand, she unscrewed the caps before throwing them in the trash. Something about that clogged my throat. Jesus, she was delicate. Her skin was soft, bruised to hell now, and totally breakable. If the fluted edge of a screw top was too much for her, what the hell was I? She needed tender and careful, not coarse and blunt. Animalistic, she’d called it.

  Knowing it didn’t stop the images from coming. Getting in her, seated deep and tight. Watching her face while I did it…

  “You want this here?”

  Oh. My beer.

  I lifted my chin toward the table. Couldn’t walk away from the counter sporting this hard-on. I’d have to let her eat on her own at this rate. Or carry the chicken real low on my way over there.

  I finished carving, piled the dog bowls high with chunks of meat, grabbed the baked potatoes from the oven, and buttered the green beans. She came to get the sides, making all kinds of comments about them, when really, it wasn’t anything special. I ate this kinda shit all the time.

  Well, maybe not two roast chickens at a time, but I made all my food. What else was I supposed to do with my time? No TV, no violent-ass video games, no girlfriend. Just the dogs, the job, and this.

  Me.

  “This looks amazing.”

  I met her eye. “Taste it before you decide.”

  “Well, it smells good. And your stew was unbelievable. Jesus, if my ex had cooked like—” She shut her eyes hard, then opened them, grabbed her beer and took a long swig, her cheeks flushing like she’d run ten miles. “I’ll shut up now. Cheers.”

  I had to smile as she clinked her bottle to mine, met my gaze quickly and looked away again. I wished she wouldn’t shut up. I liked the shit she said, from out of left field.

  I’d just taken hold of the serving spoon when a strange, long-dead urge to give thanks rose up, straight from my childhood. It made sense, I guess, for it to show up here and now, after all these years of devoutly avoiding anything resembling religion. I tried to ignore it, but something about the situation, the day, the fact that she was here, made it impossible.

  “You, um, you say grace or anything?” I served her a potato and some beans, pointed to a thigh and nodded when she put it on my plate.

  “Not usually. You?”

  “Thinking we should.”

  “Oh. Yeah. You’re right. It’s Christmas Eve. I should have thought of it.” She put her hands out and I took them, did my best not to notice the details of short, soft fingers, weaving through mine.

  She watched me solemnly, tightened her hands, and gave me the courage to say the words I’d never once uttered in my life. “I want to give thanks for this food, for the, uh,” I shot her a look, “company.”

  Her smile was small, as if we were being watched by God.

  I squeezed her hands, ready to let them go.

  “Wait. I want to thank you, Micah, um…”

  I swallowed, waiting for her to finish, then realized she’d forgotten my last name. “Graham.”

  “Micah Graham. Thank you for everything you’ve done. The meal, the bed, the…” she glanced at my bedroom door behind me, then back. “Thank you for living here. For being home to save me. For hearing the crash, for running down and pulling me out.” She was crying now and I needed her to stop. Tears filled her big eyes, rolled down those round cheeks, dripped off her chin, to be soaked up by my shirt or pants or the wood floor, when what I wanted was to wipe them with my fingers. No. No, to stop them before they had a chance to form. To kiss them away, at least.

  I tried to release my hand, to reach out and make her quit it, but she wouldn’t let go.

  “No. No, listen. Thank you for being a man who needs his solitude enough to live here. Right here, where I needed you.” She leaned forward, brought our hands to her mouth, in something like a prayer, and whispered one last thank you against my skin, before letting me go.

  I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to say to that—certainly not Amen or You’re Welcome—so I stayed silent, digging into my food with significantly less appetite than I’d had a few minutes ago.

  CHRISTA

  I felt hollowed out inside from crying. Exhaustion probably wasn’t helping. And the other stuff. The way this man’s presence plucked at my nerves, the way he turned my body on, set it on this constant low hum.

  And now I’d gone and embarrassed him. So, that was good.

  I sniffed and looked around, in search of distraction.

  Food. That would work. I took a bite and sighed. “This is delicious.”

  Micah grunted, not quite meeting my eyes.

  What a contradiction this guy was, with his wild exterior, when so much about him, from this meal, to his house, and the way he’d treated me so far spoke of absolute civility. Somebody’d taught him right.

  “Did you say you had four sisters?”

  He huffed, set down his silverware, and took a swig of his beer. “Yeah.”

  “Older? Younger? Where do you fall in there?”

  “I’m the youngest.”

  “Holy crap. What was that like?”

  “Good.” He shrugged. “Arguments, screaming. A lot of laughing. And advice. So much advice.”

  “About what?”

  “Everything. Girls, friends, school, what I should wear.” He smiled now, for real, and his handsomeness hit me like a punch to the gut.

  “What was Christmas like with that many kids?”

  “Insane.”

  “How?”

  “Somebody was always pissed off about a present not being good enough or not what they wanted.” He grinned and his shoulders lifted in a half-laugh. “My dad used to measure the boxes. If the girls didn’t get the exact same number and size, every year, they’d lose their minds.”

  “Geez. That sounds stressful.” But also very, very fun.

  “What about you?”

  “I was kind of spoiled, I guess.” Oh, crap. I would not tear up again. I refused. “Just me and Dad and my grandparents.”

  He frowned. “No mom?”

  “Dad had custody. She wasn’t in the picture.”

  We ate silently for a few more minutes. I kept picturing little Micah, surrounded by screaming girls.

  “What you smiling at?”

  “Oh.” I was smiling. Funny I hadn’t noticed. “I always wanted sisters.”

  He let out another little huff of amusement. “Wasn’t all a walk in the park. When I was real little, they dressed me up as a girl. Makeup and everything.”

  I almost spat out my beer.

  “You like that, huh?”

  “Can’t picture it.”

  “Wasn’t always this hairy.” He rubbed his beard one-handed, then sobered. “Dad wasn’t into it. Shut it right down.”

  “Don’t suppose you have any pictures of your cross-dressing days?”

  “No.” He threw me a dirty look and finished his beer. “Want another?”

  “Sure.”

  He went and pulled out the entire six-pack, grabbed a couple, which he opened and put on the table, then put the other two out on the front porch.

  “Shouldn’t open the fridge too much.”

  “Oh, right.” I eyed him as he sat back down at the table. “You have a lot of experience with outages up here?”

  “Ev
ery year.”

  “You like it.” It wasn’t a question. I could see that it satisfied him, in some way, to be alone in the wild, without power, no connection to the outside world. How would that be, not to have to worry about anything but survival? “I get that. Must feel good to be cut off for a while.”

  “Yeah?” His look was skeptical. “You’d want a shower eventually.” City girl. He didn’t have to say the words for me to hear them tacked onto the end of that sentence.

  “Probably. But I don’t mind the occasional dirty weekend.” I was talking about a day or two spent in PJs, never leaving the house, never showering, but the way his expression changed told me he was seeing something different. “That’s not what I meant.”

  “What?” His voice was low, almost a whisper, his eyes heavy lidded, but sparkling with what looked a whole lot like interest, his tone almost teasing.

  “Your mind’s on an entirely different kind of dirty.” I could easily have pretended I didn’t know what he meant, ignored the way he watched me, the shift in the air.

  “One of those weekends women like to have where they stay in and watch girlie movies in their nighties?”

  “Not quite.” I don’t think he even noticed that he’d leaned over the table toward me. “I’m picturing you up here, alone, doing all that manly stuff you do.” I waved vaguely toward the front door. “No music or movies or internet. Just pure, unadulterated survival.”

  “Keeps me sane.”

  I imagined me—us—in this cabin, the way we were today, except in bed, together. I wouldn’t need music or movies if I had this guy around. From out of the blue, something occurred to me. “You have a girlfriend?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Other than my sisters and clients, you’re the first woman I’ve spoken more than ten words to in ages.”

  My brows flew up in surprise. “Why?”

  He shrugged. “Don’t know. Haven’t been interested.”

  My pulse quickened. Could throw aside my insecurities and ask him? “Are you now? Interested?” There was a slight tremble to my voice.

  Looking shell-shocked, he sat back in his chair, his Adam’s apple bobbing once.

  Oh, crap. There I went again, voicing thoughts better left in my head. “Never mind. Forget I asked. It’s the kiss thing, you know. I thought maybe—”

  “I’m interested.”

  That stopped me in my tracks. I opened my mouth to respond, and finally closed it.

  We watched each other, the last of our food forgotten, fire crackling cozily in the wood stove, one of the dogs snoring lightly from the hearthrug. Outside, the wind whistled through the trees.

  “You?” He hadn’t moved, but the energy around him changed, grew expectant, tense.

  “Yeah,” I whispered.

  “Is it ’cause I saved you?”

  “Partly.” I couldn’t lie now that I’d opened up once. How the hell could I parse out this insane attraction? I’d spent less than 24 hours with the guy, so yeah, the fact that he’d saved my life probably had something to do with wanting to jump his bones. But not everything. “You’re also ridiculously hot.”

  He opened his mouth and I went on. “You’re kind, generous, interesting. You give the best massage I’ve ever had—including professionals—and you can cook.” I took in the dogs with a lift of the chin. “I’m clearly not the only female around here who thinks highly of you.”

  “I’m a moody bastard.”

  “Haven’t seen that yet.”

  “I fly off the handle.”

  “As long as it’s not at me.”

  “Never.” His lips tightened and his eyes glittered with a small taste of that vengeful rage he’d shown this morning. “I reserve that for nutsacks who force themselves onto women.”

  This man. Good God, this man. “I could like you. I could really, really like you.”

  “Not much for relationships.”

  Half-nervous, half-excited, I opened my mouth and asked, “How are you for dirty weekends?”

  18

  Micah

  We finished dinner and cleaned up, piling our dishes into a basin in the sink, to be dealt with outside in the morning. I lit a bunch of candles, which we needed in order to see, but it changed the whole thing, made it feel not quite romantic, but set up. Like we were building a set for this thing we’d decided to do.

  The whole time we moved around easily, I was freaking out inside. She wanted this. Me. She wanted me.

  If we did this right now, I’d come the second she touched me below the belt. And then what would she think of me? I’d have to hold her back, keep her from touching me, if this was going to be even remotely satisfying for her.

  Christ. I didn’t have any condoms, did I? And if I managed to dig some up, they’d be expired.

  It was only seven o’clock. We had hours in front of us. Which both freaked me out and excited me.

  “Could we just hang out for a while?” she asked. “Sit on the sofa for a while, maybe? Have another whiskey?”

  “Sure.” I grabbed the bottle, relieved to have a job and glad we weren’t rushing into this. Maybe I could sneak a trip to the bathroom to take the edge off before things got too hot.

  I poured, added logs to the fire, then sat beside her, with just enough space to give her the chance to take the first step.

  “You always been like this?”

  I glanced at her. “Like what?”

  “A gentleman.”

  I grunted out a laugh. “No. Definitely not.”

  “Tell me.”

  “You don’t want these stories, Christa.”

  “I kinda do, Micah.” There was an evil light in her eye. Sexy as hell.

  “Not too proud of some of the shit I’ve done.”

  “Everybody’s got skeletons, right?”

  “What do you want with mine?”

  “Maybe I want you to be human, instead of this perfect man.”

  I snorted.

  “No, really. There’s like nothing wrong with you. You’re a total catch.”

  “So, you need me to tell you about my asshole days?” She wanted asshole? I’d give her asshole. “I used to go out, on leave, and screw three, four women in one night. In bar bathrooms, fucking alleys, cars. Wherever. How’s that for respecting women?”

  “They wanted it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  “Problem is that I never made any connections. Never fell in love, never gave a shit. Guys around me tied the knot, had kids, dug roots, and I just kept being an asshole.”

  “You regret it now?”

  This wasn’t the conversation I thought we’d be having and, suddenly, I was annoyed at her for trying to scratch the surface or get under my skin or whatever it was she was up to. “Hell if I know.”

  “Who was here for you when you came home?”

  “I was on my own.”

  “Your sisters?”

  “They’ve all got too much going on.” Every one of them, along with my parents, had tried to get me to move in with them, but I couldn’t stand the idea of being dead weight. “Last thing any of them need is one more person to take care of.”

  Slowly, she nodded, her gaze steady on me as she set her glass on the table. When she came back, she got close, one knee bent between us, leaned forward and bypassed my mouth to whisper into my ear. “I think I’ve found your weakness.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yep.” She inhaled against me and let out the breath on a low, happy note. “You don’t let anyone take care of you the way you take care of them. I’ll bet your muscles hurt, too, from carrying me up here? Would you let me massage you right now?”

  They did. Every part of me felt used up. But I felt that way most days. Because pushing myself to the limit was my M.O. Aches were the norm.

  “Don’t need a massage.”

  “How about a thank you? For saving my life?”

  In a flash, I sa
w her on her knees, her mouth on my cock, my hands wound tightly in that short, dark hair. It was…wrong.

  “Don’t need your thanks.”

  “What do you need, then, Micah? What do you truly want, deep down in that part of you that never gets taken care of?”

  Another flash—this one to my bed: morning sex, the lazy, slow kind I’d always imagined people having before they’re fully awake. I want that.

  “You don’t need to—”

  “No. No, you just thought of something. Something you’re into. What is it?”

  “Look.” I pulled away, but she followed me, up and onto my lap and, suddenly, this wasn’t funny anymore. She was messing with my fantasies, becoming them in a way I didn’t know how to handle. “I don’t want anything, okay?”

  “Oh. I get it. I pushed too hard.” Her weight shifted, as she moved to get off, looking crushed, like I’d killed her kitten or stolen her doll or some shit. “I do that sometimes. I’m sorry.”

  I put a hand on her thigh to hold her still, let her feel how worked up she’d already made me and, when she didn’t make another effort to pull away, wrapped my hand around her neck and dragged her mouth to mine.

  This kiss was different from before. This one held the promise of what lay ahead. Fewer questions, less hesitation. We’d cleared one thing up. We both wanted this. Or some semblance of it. I liked the way she kissed, humming a little, twisting in my lap, letting me take the lead and then nipping at me when she wanted it back. I liked the way she smelled, up close. Less flowery girly than some of those women I remembered from way back when. More womanly. Fresh, clean. Like soap. Made sense, I guess, since she didn’t have any perfume or lotions or whatever with her.

  Her tongue, when it hit mine, was soft and sleek, and it made me wonder what her pussy would feel like, how it would taste. Fuck, it’d been years since I’d gotten my mouth on a salty-sweet woman. Now that I had…