by Nicole Snow
And no glassy waters can rob her away from me. They can’t draw her off into that shadowy remote place she used to retreat to whenever she tried to isolate herself with her woes.
I feel the shift around me when we descend, the plane vibrating and the engine whine changing to a shrill grumble.
“Fliss, wake up. We’re here.” I gently shake her arm.
Her eyes flutter open slowly. She sleeps like a cat, and it warms me to see her so relaxed, so trusting, when it used to be the only time she got deep sleep was when she collapsed from sheer exhaustion.
She yawns herself to life, looking at me with a groggy “Nnh?”
Only for her eyes to light up, widening as she leans past me, looking out the oval window with a gasp.
“Oh my God,” she whispers. “Paxton...it’s like the sky fell into the ocean, and the stars are still burning.”
“Yep. Hell of a way to describe it,” I say, my heart throbbing as I take in her face. “It’s just like that.”
She never peels her eyes off the view as we land, and who can blame her?
Truth be told, my own gaze is too caught up in an angel to stay glued to heaven.
I’ll have to take some photos for Eli later as promised. He’ll never forgive me if I don’t.
For now, I only have eyes for Felicity.
I’m forced to look away for a short while as the plane taxis in and we disembark, gathering our luggage with the help of a friendly porter who shows us where to snag a car to take us to our hotel.
We’re quiet the entire time, clinging to each other’s hands, leaning close.
It’s like we’re still caught up in the wonder of our wedding, and now with this whole week all to ourselves, there’s nothing to do but drown in each other and this perfect celebration of our love.
As our cab pulls up to the hotel, Fliss breaks the silence, her eyes widening once more at the lights glimmering inside. About a dozen candle-flickers greet us from their lanterns.
“Alaska, this is too much. It’s too beautiful.”
“It’s what you deserve,” I tell her, taking her hand.
No lie, the hotel looks immaculate.
There’s a main service building in elegant bamboo wood. The suites are designer tiki huts floating on the water, their construction partially submerged with glowing glass-walled underwater rooms, each one perched at the end of its own dedicated pier and lit with more ivory candles.
It’s a living frigging dream.
Of course, it’s Fliss who makes that dream real.
We float through check-in, and the hotel staff show us to our cabin, lets us in, and drops our luggage with a reminder that we can call for anything, any time of day or night.
There’s complimentary champagne on ice waiting in the center of the room on a white-draped table decorated with a banner reading Congratulations.
I chuckle, stepping across the room to feel the silk banner. “So this is what the wedding package upgrade was for.”
Felicity flits into the room, twirling and bedazzled. The pretty ankle-length A-line dress she’d put on to travel swirls around her, mirroring the cinnamon tumble of her hair.
“I love it,” she breathes, her face pure sunshine. “Never in my life have I thought I’d ever have anything like this.”
“Had the same thought—with one exception,” I say, catching her waist on her next spin, pulling her into my hold. “I never thought I’d have anything like you.”
She stills, swaying against me, her hands curling against my arms.
“Paxton...”
The desire in her voice comes thick, almost like a drug. The heat in her eyes draws me in till I’m lost in her.
We haven’t even been in the room for five minutes, but I’ve been vibrating with animal need for her since the moment she said I do.
Enough waiting.
We’re about to christen this room like a married couple should.
Growling, I pin my wife against the door, lacing my fingers with hers as I seize her mouth in a slow, marauding kiss, tasting every corner of her mouth.
I want to sink my teeth in, mark her, fulfill every barbaric urge howling in my blood.
The air smells like heat and salt and ocean, but all I can smell is her, that coffee scent mingling with the very particular perfume of Felicity that welcomes me.
No matter where we are, as long as she’s with me—preferably naked, under me—I’m home.
That pretty dress never stood a chance.
It’s sheared off in a shower of kisses, and then it’s her turn.
I’m sure I rip something helping her help me out of my shirt and trousers. She jerks my pants down and lingers on her knees, eyes wide, grabbing my throbbing length.
“Fliss, fuck, be careful with that—”
Mouth? Yeah, and she knows how to use it so sinfully well I’m lost for words.
I reach out, slapping a hand against the wall, groaning as she cranes her head over my dick, engulfing me. Her fist pumps, matching the heat in her eyes, delivering this evil friction that makes my blood seethe.
It’s a damned miracle I don’t blow right down her throat when she’s working hard to make me.
I want her too bad. I want to take her married pussy for the first time, claim my wife’s marital virginity with a need that scares me.
“Up,” I rumble, a one-word command.
I can’t wait, bowing to hoist her up and tumble her over my shoulders. Then I cross the room to the bed and throw her down.
“Paxton,” she whimpers, her legs already apart, giving me a view of her wet, pink perfection. “Take me.”
With extreme delight.
Wordlessly, I throw myself between her legs and lose myself in her, plunging into that sweetness that belongs to me. I swear to fuck she’s somehow gotten tighter tonight—or maybe we’re both just that drunk on euphoria and pent-up lust.
I go strong, hammering my thrusts into her, watching her eyes sparkle and roll as she tosses her head back, hair flying everywhere.
We’re in rapture, deliriously messy, giving this honeymoon bed the only thing it should ever get—our creaking, gasping all.
And I’m damned near rasping between each needy, searching kiss that feels like I’m trying to slip inside her from both ends, to fill her with every bit of me.
I know it sounds insane.
But that’s how it goes with our kind of love—the only romance worth having—the sort that’s so intense it can’t be holed up in any asylum.
I crave owning her in so many ways—her lips, her flesh, her heart, all of them tangled up in me till there’s no more distinction between love and lust.
She’s everything.
I want to give her everything, too, and I make a head start when her first crescendo hits, her lips wide and round and her nails raking my back.
“That’s it, that’s it, lady. Come for me. Turn yourself inside out,” I snarl, mashing my forehead to hers, loving how she pants hot breath against my lips through her convulsions.
This is my universe, right here.
My dick.
My heart.
My mind.
My soul.
Plus every filthy pleasure we can find on this perfect night when it’s just us, the movements of our bodies shaming the night tide below and the blinding stars above.
I power through her coming undone, finding it harder and harder to hold back.
My balls ache to unload their screaming contents into her womb.
She arches against me, the lightest brush of her body dousing me in flames.
I stroke my hands down her arms, feeling every hypnotic inch of womanly flesh.
The curves that hold me rapt, that draw my hands to touch them with savage magnetism.
There’s a constant rough growl grinding out of me when I seize her wrists.
She’s always so sensuous.
So responsive.
When I lift her up, wrapping her legs around my waist, positioning her to take my co
ck deeper, I’m not alone in the divine inferno melting my brain.
She’s there with me.
Her heavy-lidded eyes watching in lusty fascination, her gasping lips begging, her body open and waiting.
She’s always been so open for me, begging me to accept her as she is.
That ring on her finger is how I promised her I wouldn’t have her any other way.
And I need her just as she is, right now, as I sink so deep it makes me shudder.
Our eyes lock in this primal war, her aching to pull everything out of me, pressing her palms to my cheeks.
Just for a moment, to tease, I roll my hips back and hold my next thrust, counting.
By the count of five, she gives me a look of pure hell and opens her lips.
I press my finger to their pink middle.
“Not yet. Hold it for me, darling.”
Then comes the shock as I slam into her in a single hungry thrust, the familiar depths of her body opening to take me till I fit so wickedly inside her.
The sugar rush of pleasure thieves our breath away.
Too much. Too fucking much.
I’m fighting her till the bitter end, battling to hold back, to prolong this bliss.
She’s clinging to my neck as I raise us up, march across the room, and power slam her against the door with my thrusts.
I hold her there with my body, stealing the taste of my name off her lips again and again and again.
Slow.
Furious.
Diabolical, this thing.
The first time I have her as my wife, and there’ll never be a last time.
That’s the sweet reminder I need to let go, to kiss her frantically, to bury myself to the hilt and explode.
There are no words for the lightning storm arcing up my back and splitting my head.
I go rigid, pumping molten seed, filling her till she overflows with me and squeezes me for dear life as she goes off again.
I think her nails delve lines down my back—a compliment, not a complaint.
That ocean saltwater might sting when we venture out tomorrow, but believe me, I’ll be smiling at the reminder of tonight.
And I’m giving her plenty to remember, tangling my tongue with hers, fusing our lips, communing with her soul in a kiss that matches our revelry.
Fuck.
This is the first night of the rest of our lives.
For too long, I was trapped in an endless winter. This heat between us burns that cold away, until there’s only Felicity to light and warm and baptize my world.
I’ll never let her go.
Never.
And I keep her close to me all night, loving her again and again and again, returning for more till we’re slicked in sweat and can barely stand, and still...still, I crave more.
I’ll always crave this woman.
Always crave us.
There’s no one else in the universe who could fit me the way Fliss does, smiling up at me with dreams in her eyes that can rival the starscape waiting outside.
Some men are happy with their millions. Trophies and treasures are what most folks die for, but I’ve found something infinitely more valuable, more true, and far more damned fulfilling.
This mad, gigantic, and forever hungry love.
This beautiful insanity with my wife, my Felicity, forged in pain and molded in heart, always surer than any gold.
Thanks for reading No Gentle Giant!
Need more feels with Felicity and Alaska?
Step into the future of Heart's Edge and see what life looks like for the happy couple and Eli in this feel-good flash forward short story. - https://dl.bookfunnel.com/o9aqm1k6on
Then read on for a preview of Holt Silverton being brought to his knees by an enemies-to-lovers firestorm in No White Knight.
Preview: No White Knight
Wild Horses (Libby)
Give a girl three wishes, and I’ll tell you two of them right now.
I should’ve listened to Dad.
And I should’ve stayed away.
That’s the only thought rattling around in my head as I do a slow blink, staring around at this terrible scene covered in dust.
I can’t let anyone find this place.
I wish someone did little old me the same favor.
But there’s barely time to breathe, to walk away, to force a painful grin and just pretend I never saw it.
Thank God my arms and legs still know what to do while my brain’s turned into a rock.
Close that gate.
Lock it.
Guard it with my life.
Then I turn tail and run, taking off to swing myself back into the saddle and get out of Dodge like a pack of angry hounds are hot on my heels.
I’m alone.
No one saw me here. No one could have.
But I feel like the vacant eyes of death back there are following me anyway.
You know what? Screw wishes.
I’ve lived enough to know they don’t come true.
Holding on for dear life to my horse’s reins and leaning hard into his hoof-pounding gait, I make a new wish on the fly.
No one ever finds out what’s at the end of Nowhere Lane.
For my father’s sake.
For the farm’s sake.
And for my own.
Everybody’s got their own intuition.
Some people swear by a spidey sense. Some people’s ears burn when they get a close friend in their head, lighting up their thoughts enough to worry. Some people even claim they’ve got ESP, a sixth sense, whatever you want to call it.
Me?
I’ve just got a nose for trouble.
When it tells me something smells rotten, I listen.
That dust cloud coming down the highway toward my ranch, catching up the dry summer earth and turning it into a mini reddish-yellow storm churning my way, let me tell you...
My nose does a whole lot more than itch.
It’s on fire, ’cause I smell trouble with a capital S for Sierra.
Sure enough.
A minute later, an old Ford Taurus—clean, but its white finish yellowed to a dull shine—sweeps up the drive outside my fence. I’m in for more trouble on top of calamity.
I haven’t seen her for years, but I still instantly recognize the woman behind the wheel.
She’s my sister, after all.
And wherever Sierra Potter shows up, trouble’s soon to follow.
I fold my arms on the fence, leaning against the sun-warmed wood and watching her as she parks the car and gets out.
Sis doesn’t see me yet. It’s pretty obvious from the self-conscious way she fusses and pats at her clothes like there’s no one here to watch her.
She’s dressed like all fancy-schmancy. Of course she is.
But if she’s fancy, she’s Goodwill fancy.
I know a secondhand dress like the back of my hand. That bright-pink sheath thing doesn’t do much for her complexion or her dirty-blonde hair.
Blue-eyed blondes in eye-melting pink usually do it a bit better, but...well, she’s trying.
The thing is, I don’t trust why.
When my sister’s trying this hard, she wants something.
For a second, I bite my lip and blink longer than I should.
Hoping she’s grown up.
Hoping there’s no ulterior motive.
Hoping I’m dealing with a different woman than the one who ran off and stole my trust with her.
While I’m busy hoping my butt off, a warm, velvety nose bumps my shoulder. I turn my head just in time to get a whiff of hay breath.
Frost’s snowy dappled head nudges me with a whiny nicker. I’d ridden the Gypsy Vanner out to check the fences and dismounted long enough to leave him restless.
I smile faintly, cupping his cheek and running my fingers along the strong line of his jaw.
“I don’t like it either, big guy. Let’s go see what she wants, eh?” I murmur. “Then we’ll send her packing.”
> Cruel? Hardly.
If you knew Sierra like I do, you’d chase her off your property, too.
Sometimes blood don’t mean a thing—it sure as hell never did to her.
Frost snorts, tossing his head hard enough to nearly bump my hat off.
Guess he agrees.
“Good boy,” I whisper with one last pat to his cheek. I swing myself back up into the gelding’s saddle, settling into his comfortable bulk as he plods us forward.
There’s a lot to love about Vanners. Not only are they gorgeous with their long, shaggy manes and tufts of flowing hair around their hooves, but they’re smaller beasts while still being pretty freaking strong.
A girl with a similar build can relate.
We circle the barn, coming into plain sight of the gate. The instant we emerge, my sister turns quickly, perking up with a smile as bright and plasticky as bubblegum and just as obnoxiously pink as that dress.
Cringe.
She’s always tried to dress like she knows what big city looks like. Too bad neither of us ever spent time in the cities growing up, and I’d be surprised if that’s changed judging by her wardrobe.
You’d think she’d never seen a horse in her life, either.
The way she eyeballs Frost like he’s gonna lunge right out from under me and bite her as I guide the horse up to the fence steams my blood.
We stop right there, waiting.
I ain’t getting down until she gives me good reason to.
And I ain’t crossing that fence or opening that gate for her.
Maybe this is her ranch, too, technically.
But it’s my home and Frost’s space.
Not hers.
Later, I’ll regret that thought like some kinda godawful prophecy.
For now, Sierra idles, clearly expecting me to get down and welcome her with a big hug. Whatever siblings who don’t want to tear each other’s throats out usually do.
But the longer the silence runs on, the more her smile droops until she’s pouting, folding her arms across her chest.
“Really, Libby? You haven’t seen me in eight years,” she says, “and you’re still mad at me?”
“Reckon I’ll stay mad,” I say, resting my hand on my thigh, right next to the saddle holster for the sawed-off shotgun I keep around to scare off predators. “You got a reason for showing your face here, or are you just doing it to torture me?”