And I hate myself a little more for it. Scarlett is a beautiful woman, and I’ve never seen her as anything but a friend and savior to my oldest friend. Until this weekend. Now I see beyond her beauty and kind heart. I feel a primal need to touch and taste her.
It’s wrong. I know it’s wrong, disrespectful, and at the very least in bad taste. Regardless of how over she says their marriage was, I have a hard time wrapping my brain around the idea that she and Henry were planning a life apart while raising their son together. I’m not sure I’d be strong enough to do that, and I sit in even more awe of her.
As we drive back to town, the sounds of Eric Church fill the cab of my truck; the lyrics of the song playing aren’t lost on me. Desperate. I feel desperate. Desperate for her touch and laugh. For more conversations about nothing and yet everything. Moments of quiet when neither of us feel it’s necessary to fill the void. Comfortable. Content. In the moment. That’s how I feel when I’m with her.
As we approach Lexington, I consider stopping by Country Road to check on things and grab takeout, but a quick glance to my right and I know I need to get her home and comfortable. She’d never say it, but I know a day exploring in the sun wore her out. It sure did me, and I’m not carrying another human in my body.
Just the thought of her nurturing and growing another person makes my heart beat faster. I’d never admit it to anyone, but I’m a little jealous of the moments she’s having and pissed the fuck off at Henry for not being here to share them with her. Each time she rests her hand on her stomach, I wonder what she feels. Is it the baby moving? Is it a simple gesture she doesn’t give much thought to? Earlier today, while she lounged on an Adirondack chair, her feet propped on my leg, and her hands loosely gliding across her stomach, I almost asked if I could touch her. If there was anything to feel. It seemed awkward and completely inappropriate, so I didn’t. But the thought did cross my mind.
Turning into my driveway, I pull beside her car and put the truck in park. Stirring slightly, she shifts in the seat and slowly opens her eyes. With her head resting on the headrest, she turns to face me, a slow smile appearing on her beautiful sun-kissed face.
“Did I sleep the entire way home?”
“You did,” I say, pushing the garage door opener. As the door slowly opens, I turn to her and ask, “Hungry? I was thinking maybe we could order a pizza.”
“Sounds delicious,” she says as I open the door and hop out of the cab.
Before I can make it around and open her door, she slides out of the seat and closes the door. By the time I round the corner, she’s walking toward the open garage. Shaking my head, I motion for her to go ahead.
“Don’t be grumpy. I am capable of opening my own doors.”
“As much as that’s true, I was raised to be a gentleman.”
“Oh hush. That’s saved for dates and women you’re trying to impress,” she scoffs, opening the door to the house.
Darkness fills the kitchen as we walk into the main room. Moonlight offers enough light to see where we’re going but not much more. Although it’s my house and I should know my way around here with my eyes closed, I still manage to run into one of the chairs at the counter, sending her into a fit of giggles. Groaning, I rub the spot on my knee that whacked the chair and walk over to the wall to flip on the lights.
As the room lights up, she says, “Do you mind if I shower really quick? That nap did nothing but make me more tired, and I think it would help.”
“Mi casa es su casa. Have at it. I’ll order the pizza. Any requests?”
“Anything except pineapple,” she replies as she walks down the hallway. I allow myself only two quick seconds of looking at her ass before I move to the refrigerator, pull a beer out, and toss the cap on the counter. In only two drinks I finish the bottle and pull my phone from my pocket.
A quick call to the local pizzeria and a vegetarian and a meat lover are on the way, because you can really never have too much pizza. Plus, if I remember anything from my sister’s pregnancy, she could change her mind three times in a five-minute period. I’m not taking any chances with Scarlett.
While I wait for my dinner companion to finish her shower and the pizza to arrive, I unload the breakfast dishes from the dishwasher and open another beer. I shoot a text off to Grant letting him know Scarlett is still here and seems to be doing well. Although we haven’t really talked about it, I think not being surrounded by her day to day life is helping her process her new normal, whatever that is.
When the doorbell rings with the delivery, I start to shout for Scarlett to hurry but the soft hum of a blow dryer stops me. Placing the pizza boxes on the counter, I pull plates from the cupboards and ranch from the refrigerator. The soft patter of feet lets me know I’m not alone and I open the boxes as a low groan escapes her throat.
“You do love me. It smells amazing.” Her dramatic inhale makes me laugh as she peers over the counter. “Two pizzas? I know the saying is ‘eating for two’ but I’m not actually going to eat enough for two.”
Laughing, I lift the empty plate to her and motion for her to choose her slice. “There’s nothing better than pizza for breakfast.”
I watch as she concentrates on the two boxes in front of her. That lower lip is tugged between her teeth again, and it’s only then that I take in her appearance.
“Red, are you wearing my T-shirt?”
A blush across her cheeks and a smirk are all I receive in response before she clears her throat and says shyly, “I didn’t bring enough pajamas, and I’m a little sunburnt from today. This was loose and . . . I can change. I’m sorry. It was rude of me to assume.”
“No!” I shout, startling myself. “Sorry. No, it’s cool. I don’t mind.” I actually fucking like it a little too much.
Placing two slices of pizza on my plate, I open the refrigerator and grab a bottle of water for Scarlett, handing it to her as she smiles and makes her choice, pointing to the box with the veggie pizza. Following her to the living room, I sit in the spot next to her and pick up the remote control.
“Sorry, Red. It’s my night for television. How do you feel about fish tanks?”
Rolling her eyes, she takes a bite of her pizza and says nothing in response. And once again, the comfortable silence and simplicity of being here with her joins us. There’s a time I would have called this boring. Sitting with a woman, eating pizza, and watching mindless television instead of partying at a bar. And yet, this feels better than hitting on women and drinking my night away ever did.
After the first episode finishes, we both take our plates to the kitchen. Moving around each other in synchronized harmony, I place the pizza boxes in the fridge while she places the plates in the dishwasher. When I turn away from the fridge, she’s in my space, bumping into me.
Reaching out to steady her, I say, “We have to stop meeting like this.”
Once again, my hands are wrapped around her waist while hers rest on my biceps. This time, my hands have gathered the loose T-shirt, and her body is flush against mine. Looking up at me, her eyes go wide. Pupils dilated, I know that look. I’ve seen it time and time again with women in my bed. Desire. Swirling around us, there’s no denying the way her body melds to mine.
“Taylor.” Her voice is a whisper, barely audible.
Lifting my hand to the side of her face, I brush her hair behind her ear, my fingers slowly descending to her neck and then shoulder. Lingering on her shoulder, I glance to her lips and watch as she licks them and ever so slowly rises on her toes, her lips closer and closer to mine. So close I can feel her breath. I can smell the spices from our pizza and can count the freckles on her nose. As her eyes close and the space between us diminishes, I slowly lower my mouth toward hers and then the realization of what is about to happen hits me like a ton of bricks and I release her, causing her to stumble.
A look of disappointment flashes across her face but she quickly schools it and stands up straight, shoulders back and a look of indifference on her fac
e.
Hurt.
Something I’ve tried to keep her from feeling, but clearly it’s something I’ve done. Needing to right the wrong, I lift my hand to reach for her but she steps back.
“I’m going to turn in early. Goodnight.”
Pivoting, she hurries from the kitchen, leaving me alone and feeling like a total piece of shit for how I’ve made her feel.
Chapter 14
Scarlett
I’ve been hiding out in the master bedroom for three hours. Three long hours of passing multiple levels on my phone games, listening to Hawk Weaver read me a bedtime story, and tossing and turning because, while I’ve been in here for hours, I’m not tired. It’s actually the opposite. I’m amped up and full of energy. Emotionally, it’s a different story. I’m frustrated and embarrassed. Which also means I’m craving one of the ice cream bars I saw in the freezer earlier. I’m not above eating my feelings and emotions.
Sure, I could go out to the kitchen and get myself an ice cream bar, never speaking to Taylor. Avoiding all eye contact and opportunities to further embarrass myself. What was I thinking? Of course he doesn’t want to kiss me. He is being kind and a good friend. There is absolutely zero reason he would be attracted to me. I swear my stomach grows an inch every hour and while Taylor Cain is one of the best men I know, he’d be crazy to look at me and see anything other than friendship.
Quietly, I crack open the bedroom door and peek out into the hallway. I can hear the low hum of the television from the other room, but the house is dark. Maybe that means he’s fallen asleep. Taking my chances, I tiptoe down the hall. As I enter the main living space, the television giving just enough light that I don’t kick a piece of furniture or trip, I slide into the kitchen and reach for the handle of the freezer.
That’s not a stainless-steel handle.
It’s a body.
Crap.
“Eep!” I shout and jump back, knocking into the counter. “Ouch.”
“Shit. Are you okay?” Taylor asks, reaching out to touch me but he stops himself. Awkwardly, he pulls his hand back.
“I’m fine. I was just coming for some ice cream.”
“Okay, well, uh . . . help yourself.” Without another word, he turns and walks the opposite direction around the island. I watch as he resumes his spot on the couch, back pressed into the corner with his legs resting on the table in front of him.
Passing on the ice cream, I follow him into the living room and take the spot next to him. Sitting sideways, facing him, I watch as he takes a sip from his water and then places the glass on the table. I can’t take my eyes off of him. While I was wallowing in the bedroom, he got half naked.
Sitting next to me in his shorts, sans shirt, with the glow of the television and moonlight lighting the room, I’m mesmerized and slightly taken aback. I’ve seen the ink on his arms but until this moment I realized I’ve never seen Taylor without his shirt on.
There are moments you want to freeze in time. Your first kiss, your first love, the moment you hear your child’s heartbeat for the first time—pivotal moments. And when your husband’s best friend is half naked, sporting a tattoo that not only mesmerizes you but also sends a shiver of intrigue and awe up your spine. That’s what I just experienced. If you were to ask me about my first kiss or my first love, I can’t say if I’d remember the specifics. But Taylor Cain sitting shirtless in the moonlight is something I’ll be able to recall for the rest of my life.
“Taylor, your chest.” My voice is quiet, which seems fitting for the moment.
“It’s armor. I know it’s a little weird at first but there was a lot of scarring.” Tilting my head, I squint my eyes as if that will help me understand what he means. “Honey, you more than anyone know the scars aren’t always those that rest on the surface.”
Tears well in my eyes. He’s right, I know the scars he speaks of. They are the same ones Henry bore and the ones I feel making their mark on my heart. Scars run deep in each of us. Maybe that’s why we connect so seamlessly. His scars. My scars. Everything we’ve been burdened with, it all sits between us. A mountain of issues and a plethora of chaos, but I want nothing more than to touch him. To run my fingers across the intricate design that covers his chest. The artist who did this work is a genius.
Without allowing myself a second to pull back, I extend my arm, my fingers only a fraction of an inch from his chest with my gaze fixed on the three-dimensional ink. Before my fingers make contact, I look up and catch his eye. For once, I see a look that matches mine.
Lust.
Desire.
Taking that as an invitation, I allow the contact of my skin upon his. The warmth of his chest warms my fingertips and I cease breathing. My heart beats rapidly. It’s barely a moment but one I want to remember.
Feeling embolden, I rise to my knees, my hand gliding across his skin. His breath catches, but he doesn’t stop my perusal of his body. I know there may never be a moment like this again. Without a second thought, I pull my left leg out from under me and slide it across his lap.
Settling atop him, my hands rest on his shoulders, his lightly sitting on my hips. Moving my body, I continue my hands-on motion across his upper body, but it’s no longer about his tattoo, about the scars, or anything other than this moment with him. Needing him to move his hands, to touch me, I twist my hips, a gentle push into his lap and he groans, his head leaning back. With his eyes closed I take the opportunity and rest my lips on his chin and then the corner of his lips.
It’s a test. An out for him should he choose. The hesitation on his part is nothing compared to the desire I feel. It empowers me, allows me the power to take what I’ve wanted, what I’ve dreamt of. My fingers thread through his hair as I continue to kiss him, my tongue sliding across the seam of his lips as my body touches his. It feels like an eternity but can’t be more than a heartbeat before his grip on my hips tightens and he relents, opening his mouth.
Swirling tongues, each touch pulling me further into an abyss of emotion and desire, I make a mental note of every moment. Flooding my mind and body, every touch of his tongue draws me deeper into the darkness of passion. My nipples are hard and sensitive, the friction of the shirt touching them, hindering on the border of pain and passion. When his hands slide beneath the T-shirt, his shirt, and find the naked skin of my backside, I push my pelvis into him again, the friction everything I need.
Slowly, I pull back and look him in the eye, my fingers still gripping his hair. Contemplation and an entire conversation takes place between us without a single word spoken. Rising from the couch, he takes my hands in his, lifting them to his lips. Shivers run up my spine at the contact. Somehow it feels more intimate than the teenage makeout session we were just having. The look in his eyes, enthralling and lustful, takes my breath away.
Taking a step out of his personal space, I turn and link our fingers. Pausing briefly, I give him an out. A chance to stop this before I take another step. When he doesn’t say anything, I link our fingers and walk toward the bedroom. This is a risk; everything will change, but I don’t have it in me to care. I’m selfish and needy. Wantful. It’s more than desire; it’s need. Looking over my shoulder, I catch his gaze and slow my steps, mesmerized by the look in his eyes as I wait for him to stop me. I’m giving him another out. Instead, he tugs me to him, our lips meeting again. These kisses are more intense, emotional and sensual; the desire to move my body is overwhelming.
With one hand wrapped around my waist and the other threaded in my hair, he walks me backward. His lips never leave mine, and I love every second of our contact. When we reach the bedroom, he lays me on the bed, the covers pulled back from my hours spent in here earlier. The coolness of the sheets sends a chill up my bare legs, and my nipples harden more, begging for attention. Sensing my needs, Taylor kneels between my legs and tugs the shirt up and over my head. I want to cover myself, embarrassed by the size of my breasts, but the look in his eyes stops me. Leaning down, he tugs the erect peak into his
mouth, his tongue swirling around it, and a flood of wetness covers my panties. Lifting my hips, I wrap my legs around his waist.. pulling his body to me. It’s then the reality of our situation hits me. Or, rather, hits him.
My baby bump makes this position awkward, and I half expect him to lift up and apologize. To stop the amazing things he’s doing to my body because of regret and humility. But he doesn’t. Instead, he flips us so I’m on top of him, my legs straddling him. When I lean down to kiss him, I’m stopped mid-motion by his hands gripping each breast, and he begins feasting like a man starved.
The sensation and pleasure is too much, and I feel my orgasm building. When his erection hits my core in the right spot, a whimper escapes and I roll my hips, grinding against him. His breathing labors, mine mimicking the sound, and as the wave of my climax rushes through my body, I let out a mewl that would give a cat in heat a run for her money.
Every fiber of my body lights up like a Fourth of July firework. It’s been months since I’ve been touched, but it’s been even longer since I’ve come with such vigor. Resting my face into the crook of Taylor’s neck, inhaling his scent and realizing I’ve never felt more at home than I do in his arms. His hands slide up and down my back, soothing my thumping heart.
A soft kiss to the side of my head pulls me from my thoughts. Sliding up onto my elbows, I look at the man before me. His usually gray eyes are bright and clear blue, but his expression is hard to read. Shifting my hips, I smirk as he groans and throws his head back. Moving my head slightly, my lips graze his chest and I poke my tongue out to taste the saltiness of his skin. The tattoo no longer holds an ominous presence around us and is, instead, begging for my touch.
My hands skirt down his sides and just as they reach his waistband, I feel his hand on my wrist. Pausing, I look into his eyes and stormy gray has returned, replacing the clear blue.
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