by Nicole Snow
I get that curled bite of her lip that almost makes me lose it before we’ve begun.
I keep it together as her hot slit teases me, grabbing her hips and impaling her sweetness on my length like a sucking mouth.
Fuck.
Her delicious torment consumes me as she takes the barest inch—then stops, trembling, tossing her head back with her eyes closed.
Her face glows with pleasure, lips parted, this slick, sex-haired angel come from above to steal my spirit—or at least every hot drop of hell in my balls.
Relax. Breathe. Play it cool, I whisper in the back of my mind.
Hard advice to follow.
It takes all my willpower not to slam up, to take her like a bull in rut, to churn this water into a whirlpool with furious machine-gun thrusts.
Somehow, I resist. I hold back. I kiss her like the immaculate, knockout creature she is.
This is her moment.
She has me in absolute thrall, this siren pulling me into her depths.
Again, she moves, taking more of me, a few more inches, dosing my pleasure in slow movements that feel like explosions punching through to my bone.
Shit.
Now I know.
I know I’ll wind up with Felicity Randall listed somewhere on my death certificate.
Her hot cunt clenches and grips around me. A ragged groan tears from my throat as I kiss her again, sinking my teeth into her shoulder.
Finally, she gives in.
There’s this unbearable instant when she sinks down fully, enveloping me to the hilt, her plush ass held hostage in my hands, my cock buried in her.
For a breathless, gasping, mind-wrecked moment, we hold.
Together.
I can feel her heart beating, slamming into me as she whimpers.
Mine’s crashing back just as hard.
It’s a tempo that guides us, the same as burning breaths, as we start to move.
My thrusts come deep, storming through the water, slow and eerily silent at first except for the faint slap of disturbed water.
We don’t need words right now.
I don’t need anything but her.
And this thing we make together that’s prettier than anything I’ve known, this rhythm that stretches to infinity, that turns me inside-fucking-out—it guts me in the best way.
I’m snarling when she comes the first time and not just because it’s hotter than hell’s grill.
It’s because I know I’m not making mistakes.
Not this time.
Not with her.
This thing we’ve put together with swaying thrusts and rasps has to be something uniquely addictive and rare.
It tastes like forever.
Forever, and still not nearly long enough.
The rolling twists of her body and the tightness of her inner depths push me to the brink. I reach down, find her clit, and stroke wildly while I power slam into her.
A storm lodges in my throat.
When I finally go off with this searing pleasure moving up my spine like it’s one long fuse, hitting my brain and triggering a charge that makes me see stars, I’m roaring.
Recklessly yelling my addiction for this woman into the night, straining to empty my balls into her, to brand her from the inside out.
Fuck yes, I’ve lost it, but I’ve got a good reason.
I won’t let this go.
I won’t let her fall.
And I make her cry my name again and again, holding this fallen angel for as long as she’ll let me drink our forever.
No matter how brief, how painful, or how miraculous that forever may be.
19
Tarnished Gold (Felicity)
For such a tiny dog, Shrub needs to be walked like a hyperactive little fiend.
I guess there’s not many places to store the energy when you’re a Pekingese, practically a four-legged mop, but still...
This is the sixth time I’ve been out with him today.
I watch him bounding ahead on his leash, only stopping to look back at me when he reaches the end of his tether, giving back impatient looks with huge eyes and his pink tongue flopping.
Thank God for harmless little monsters when I’ve got so many big, scary ones breathing down my neck.
I’m grateful for the pup today when his energy helps me get some fresh air, instead of feeling like I’m caged up and practically in witness protection at Alaska’s cabin and all. I think I’ve only left to go to work and then come straight home under his watchful eye ever since the big scrap with Paisley and her goons.
It’s not Alaska making me feel caged, of course.
It’s knowing she could be anywhere, watching me. Or maybe not her, but a hired gun sent to do her bidding. It feels like it’d be too easy to wind up a lifeless stiff, tossed into one of the many canyons around Heart’s Edge, where I won’t be found for a century.
And I wouldn’t see it coming until it was too late.
What I can see right now is Alaska and Eli.
I’ve wandered off along one of the winding side paths leading alongside the massive field where the cabins are situated, but from here I can just make out father and son on the long grassy stretch leading toward the half-heart cliff the town was named after.
They’re a portrait of happiness.
Alaska’s got Eli up on his shoulders, while the boy angles his camera—no doubt trying to get the perfect shot for a landscape photo.
It still makes me smile so much that Eli wants to do that for my café. He’s a budding perfectionist with an impressive eye for detail and lighting.
Let’s be real, so many things about them make me smile.
What I can’t understand is why they want me around.
All I do is get in the way and bring them new problems that could threaten the amazing bond between them, the life Alaska talks about when he’s holding me, the future that’s everything they’ve dreamed.
I can’t be the nightmare to that dream.
I can’t be the bad luck charm that breaks them.
I can’t ever forget that what seems like an idyllic life with them is an illusion.
It’s all pretend.
Puppet theater.
Paisley could come along with her murderous smirk and cut our strings at any second.
God.
Maybe it’s because I’m brooding about Paisley and all the ugly possibilities that when I hear a footstep scuff behind me, I nearly shriek.
My belly jumps into the back of my throat as I whirl.
Too fast. Shrub’s leash tangles around my legs.
I stumble, flailing my free hand out for balance.
Only to steady as Ms. Wilma grasps my forearm, her thin hand surprisingly strong no matter how her skin thins with age, the bones standing out stark against papery flesh.
She watches me with a kind, yet sharp gaze, holding me firmly while I get myself untangled from my dog leash. All thanks to Shrub bouncing around excitedly the second he sees her.
I’m more awkward than I need to be, but then Ms. Wilma just watches like she knows something, and when she’s got that look on her face...
Yeah. I’ve got good reason for squirming, don’t I?
“A little jumpy, dearie?” she asks mildly, the second I finally get myself sorted and let go. “You looked rather out of it.”
I offer her a thin smile.
She treats this entire town like we’re all her grandchildren—not just Warren and the mess of the great grandkids they’re giving her.
I can’t say I’m not grateful for it.
“Just a lot on my mind,” I say as I bend to pick up Shrub so he’ll stop straining at the leash to get to the little clear glass watering can in her hand. From the crystallization on the sides and the faint yellow hue, I’m guessing it’s sugar water for her beloved hummingbirds.
Especially since my pup’s got a sweet tooth and he can smell cane sugar from a mile away, but I don’t need him jumping the town matriarch for a glucose
fix.
While I handle the squirming, licking Pekingese, Ms. Wilma tucks her silvered hair back, adjusting the neat bun, and offers me a sympathetic smile.
“Sorry, Ms. Wilma. You know how he gets. This boy forgets his training the second he smells a treat,” I say.
Shrub flicks his tongue against my cheek and I can’t help but laugh, fighting his snout against my shoulder.
“No apologies necessary,” she says. “I must say, it’s good to finally see you smiling again...but it does worry me that your smiles are always so sad when there’s not a little cotton ball licking your face.” Her keen gaze pins me in place. “And it turns more melancholy when you look at that man and his son.”
“I...what?” I splutter, going hot from my collar to my scalp. “I don’t—there’s nothing—I mean—”
“You mean?” She looks at me almost too neutrally. “You mean to say that you’re talking yourself out of something wonderful before it even has a chance to bloom. I know you, Miss Felicity. I know that look from a dozen other folks around here the last few years. And I know the dreams your fears make you run from.”
I groan, hugging Shrub tighter.
“Not fair, Ms. Wilma.”
“Of course not. I only push you children because I want what’s best for you.” She reaches over and gently scratches behind Shrub’s ears. “The trouble is, some of you can’t see what’s best for you even when it’s hanging there right in front of your noses.”
“Ouch.” But I can’t help how my gaze drifts back to Alaska and Eli, or the warm feeling in my chest as I watch them. “It’s just...we don’t fit, ma’am. We’re two different people. We have so many different issues—personal ones—and we wouldn’t be easing each other’s woes by smushing them together. We’d be multiplying them.”
“You’re so sure of that, hmm?”
Crap. Her eyes drill me into the ground.
“...I mean, this is me,” I say weakly.
“Yes. You, Miss Felicity. Not Morgan Randall. Not even Harper Randall. You. How long are you going to spend your life doing penance for someone else’s crimes, young lady?”
Boom. Right between the eyes.
She really doesn’t pull her punches, does she?
Wincing, I glance down at the ground, my toes curling inside my boots.
“You know it’s not that simple.”
“Love never is. Seems all we ever do is complicate life by trying to make the big things simple. But sometimes we also mess ourselves up by not letting things simply be.” Her hand rests on my arm, so very warm. “What’s wrong with letting things simply be with two people who clearly care for you, dearie?”
I open my mouth and close it again.
No easy answer arrives on the tip of my tongue.
Do they?
Do Alaska and Eli really care for me, or does Alaska just feel like I’m his responsibility? It’s not hard to see he’s got a protector’s streak as wide as the Yukon, and even if he looks at me like I just stepped off a cloud, I wonder.
Maybe he’s just doing this because it needs to be done.
Because I’ve got no one else.
Because he stepped into a snare set up to catch me.
And because I’ve never been special enough for any man to just set aside his life and—
“Ow!” I rock back as a finger thwacks between my eyes.
“You stop that,” Ms. Wilma says sternly. “Look at you, with that cute little wrinkle between your eyes. You’re too young for wisdom lines and you’re overthinking things.”
“Only a little!”
“Little Miss Randall.” She smiles, much more gently than the impact of her finger. “Tell me this. What’s so wrong with loving someone?”
Again, my mind blanks on an answer.
That question shouldn’t rattle me so much.
“I don’t know, I...” I don’t know how to answer that, so I shake my head. “It’s just easier, Ms. Wilma. It’s easier to love something like making coffee. Not someone. It’s harder to take something away from you.”
“But do you remember who gave you the thing you love?”
“Dad.” Oh, no. My throat’s tight, my lips quivering, and my eyes blaze while I stare at Alaska and Eli like they can somehow save me from this awful dread in my chest. “I...I wanted to make him happy so much. I kept thinking if I could just make him happy, maybe he’d stop going off to look for things that hurt him. I was too young to understand, but I knew. I just knew...” I gulp in thick heavy breaths of air.
She reaches up and lays a soft hand on my shoulder, lending me the strength to finish. No matter what religion you are—or lack thereof—this woman will always be the town confessional, the shrink, and the heart surgeon.
“I knew when I made him those perfect cups of coffee and tried to make each one better than the last...he smiled at me. His eyes were so warm and he looked like he loved me so much that maybe this time he wouldn’t go away. Maybe he wouldn’t leave me wondering if he’d ever come back.” I dash at my eyes furiously, only for Shrub to decide to help out, licking at the tears pouring down my cheeks and making me laugh even while I’m sniffling, hurting. “And then one day he just didn’t.”
“That’s what you’re afraid of.” Ms. Wilma’s arm tightens, gathering me closer, dog and all. “You’re scared that dashing young man and his son will abandon you and never come back, leaving you behind just like your father.”
“Maybe. Yeah.” I lean my brow to her thin shoulder.
God, she’s so kind, and it hurts something fierce. But in a good, honest way.
“I guess I’d have to trust him to stay, wouldn’t I?” I ask, sniffing.
“Is trusting people so very bad?” she whispers with a smile.
“Yes! It sucks, Ms. Wilma,” I hiss, and watch as Alaska spins around, laughing, while Eli spreads his arms wide and yells with sheer joy. “So why do I want to believe you so much?”
Trust.
That’s what it boils down to in the end.
It’s always been a matter of trust and always will be.
But after getting through the day, after sharing a dinner full of laughter and warmth with Alaska and Eli, I realize what I told Ms. Wilma wasn’t quite right.
It’s not them I don’t trust.
Paxton saved my life and Eli rescued my sense of humor. They’ve gone above and beyond to win my confidence.
That’s not the issue.
It’s that I don’t trust myself to be good enough for them.
But talking to the old woman makes one thing clear—my worthiness isn’t for me to decide.
Only Alaska can decide if I’m good enough for him and his son.
After dinner, I linger in the doorway to Eli’s room, watching Alaska slowly talk his son to sleep yet again. It’s becoming one of my favorite moments, the perfect way to wind down a long day.
There’s just something sweeter than pie about watching this giant cave bear of a man taking care of his cub with so much attentiveness and warmth. You see so many fathers who only do the bare minimum, who just go through the motions, always thinking that providing financially for their families is where their job ends. It’s too much to expect them to provide emotionally, too.
Not Paxton Charter.
It’s crystal clear that he’d give everything for Elijah.
And I’m starting to think I would, too.
That kid’s got me just as enchanted as his father in his own way. Before, I never really saw myself as someone who could ever go for having kids.
Not anymore.
This is one child I definitely don’t mind having in my life.
Looking up to me. Needing me. Asking me to help keep him safe and comfortable and make his life a stable place to dream.
It makes me feel like I’m a part of this beautiful thing they have together.
Maybe it’s a little selfish of me, but yeah, I want that feeling.
I want it to stay. Permanently.
Once
Eli’s fully tuckered out, nuzzled against his pillow, Alaska stands. He moves quietly to the doorway of his son’s bedroom and gently pulls the door until it just barely latches, silent and careful.
“Hey,” he near-whispers, looking down at me with those chocolate whorls for eyes that gleam like decadent truffles in the dark.
“Hey,” I answer, my lips curling as I tilt my head toward the back deck. “Want to have a beer?”
“Babe, you never have to ask,” he whispers, brushing his fingers through my hair and smiling so wide his eyes twinkle.
The surprise on his face leaves me punch-drunk until he moves.
We head out through the glass-fronted back door, sinking down in the comfortable chairs with the fire pit between us and a six-pack iced down in a bucket on the deck.
While he lights the fire pit, I crack a couple drinks open and pass one to him.
With another mesmerizing smile tucked in his halo of beard, he settles into his chair and leans back, his fingers brushing mine as he takes the beer.
“Gorgeous night for a gorgeous lady,” he says, tilting his head to the sky.
“Oh, stop,” I say, swatting at him playfully as I hide my blush behind a slurp of beer.
He’s right about one thing—it’s a marvelously clear, starry night.
But somehow, all I can see is Paxton, and how relaxed he looks under the glowing sky.
How his aura of peace—doesn’t pax mean peace in Latin?—reaches out to lap at me like waves to a shore, calming all the rioting feelings inside me until I’m just as tranquil as him.
He does that.
I’m full of destructive storms.
But he never flinches.
He tames them until they’re mellow, all rain and gentle breezes, something that nourishes rather than destroys.
I make myself look away from him—from the perfect physique of his tall, thick build, from his handsome face and how his beard brings out the highlights of his mouth, his cheekbones, and those dark, expressive eyes.
My gaze follows his up to the sky.
When I was young, I traveled the West Coast one summer. I’ve spent a little time in cities here and there, and the thing I always missed most in Seattle and LA was not being able to see the stars so clear and bright.