by Anthology
“I’m going to do the same. Towels are in that cabinet.” I gesture to a cabinet on her left.
She draws in a sharp little breath, then nods.
“If you want to leave your clothes outside the door, I’ll bring you some dry things.”
Where the fuck is this nice guy act coming from?
“Okay,” she whispers, and I back out before I can kiss her.
Chapter 5
India
The moment the door closes behind me, I reach for my hat and yank it off my head. It’s the first thing to land on the pristine countertop next to the gleaming sink. I’m so damn cold and wet that I can only appreciate how spotless this place is once I’m completely naked, my clothes dumped into a damp pile on the smooth tiling beneath my feet.
I bundle them up into my arms and go back to the door. My hand trembles when I reach for the knob. Will he be out there, waiting for the clothes? Should I just wait until I’m done showering to put them out there?
“Get over yourself,” I mumble. It’s Dawson Flint. He’s seen more than a peek at my naked breasts in the past.
I crack the door and peer out, heart pounding, but he’s not there. The clothes fall to the floor with a dull thud, and then I close the door tightly behind me.
I don’t flip the lock.
Energy zings down the length of my spine as I scamper over to the shower and turn it on, the steamy water thundering down at full blast. Wait, I need a towel. The cabinet Dawson pointed toward a minute ago has a shelf with neatly folded towels, and I grab one and hang it on the hook just outside the shower before stepping in.
He must have a huge…water tank. I can’t help laughing out loud that that’s the first thought to come to mind when I’m standing in Dawson Flint’s shower. But it’s true. If he’s showering right now, then there must be enough water for both of us. Or maybe he’s being a gentleman and letting me finish before he takes his.
Another laugh tears from my throat, but it’s half in pain. Dawson Flint’s shower. After all that happened between us ten years ago, I’m surprised he even let me in his house.
God, my dad was such an asshole back then. He never wanted to look past Dawson’s rough edges, no matter how much I loved him. I’ll never forget the night of my senior prom. Good ol’ Dad sat me down at the kitchen table and looked me straight in the eye.
“Men like that never turn out to be worth anything.” His mouth was set in a thin line. “You’re my only daughter, India, and I know you’ve got feelings for the boy, but if you throw your life away on him…” Here he shook his head. “Your life will never amount to anything, either.”
I shake my head hard under the stream of hot water, my chest aching. I’ve been so damn careful about choosing good men, the right men, since then, and what has it gotten me?
I’m at my parents’ house alone for Christmas – again – because not one of those people ever lived up to his clean-cut, good boy image.
They certainly aren’t the ones I think of when I’m lying awake at night. No, it’s always Dawson, although now my mental image of him pales in comparison to the real thing. He’s a man now, with a man’s build and a man’s confidence when he walks.
The shower is stocked with neutral shampoos and soaps, and I spring into action, washing my hair and body with doubled-up efficiency to make up for the time I’ve spent moping underneath the water. I turn off the shower with a flick of my wrist and tug the towel from the hook, working it over my hair first.
My cheeks go hot again at the thought of the clothes that might be waiting outside the door, even now.
They must be his clothes.
I tiptoe over to the door and lean toward it, ear over the seam in the door.
Nothing.
I pull it open an inch and a curl of steam escapes into the hallway. My clothes are gone, and there’s a pile of folded items that I snatch up as quickly as I can, heart in my throat.
God, I need to get a grip.
Back in the bathroom, I put them carefully on the counter and survey what he’s brought me.
A pair of boxers—thoughtful, because my underwear and bra went out with the rest of the clothes—a t-shirt so soft I could sleep in it, an equally soft hoodie, and a pair of sweatpants that must be too small for him because they’re only slightly gigantic on me.
I look ridiculous in his clothes, but they feel like heaven on my skin. Who knew cheap cotton could be so damn luxurious?
I run my fingers through my hair, getting it into some semblance of order.
Deep breath.
I can’t stay in here forever, and so I surprise myself by jumping toward the door, yanking it open, and stepping out into the hall before I can think too hard about it.
Dawson is in the living room, and when he hears me, he turns. His light hair is damp, and he wears a clean pair of jeans and a flannel button down, a gray t-shirt peeking out from underneath.
He sees me and a smile flickers across his face.
Maybe this doesn’t have to be a painful battle after all.
“Come on out, India. You don’t have to stand in the hallway by yourself.”
“I know.” I sound more confident than I feel. I go out into the light of the living room and spin around in front of him. “How do you like the outfit?”
He opens his mouth, eyes ablaze with a look I recognize, and for a second I think he might say, “I’d like it better off.”
But he presses his lips together instead and takes in a deep breath. “Looks good on you.”
“Thanks.” I can’t help the little grin that appears on my face.
“You still hungry?”
Yes, but not for food.
Chapter 6
Dawson
I have to turn away from India so she doesn’t see that I have a raging hard-on that’s barely contained by my jeans. The sight of her wearing my clothes, the petite curves of her body hidden beneath the fabric, makes me want nothing more than to pull them off of her layer by layer until there’s nothing between us but the air.
I can’t do that.
To do that would be a mistake on par with falling for her in the first place, all those years ago.
I tried to change fucking everything for her, and she rejected me anyway.
Standing on her front porch, that goddamn bouquet clutched in my hands, and she’s shaking her head at me, eyes shining with tears.
“It’s just not going to work out between us, Dawson,” she said, each word landing like a body blow. “We’re too…different. We want different things.”
“Fuck,” I’d whispered under my breath, my mind struggling to wrap around what she was saying. “You’re joking, right? You’re kidding. This is—”
“I’m not kidding, Dawson.”
And then—Jesus, the worst part of it all—the limo pulling up to the curb behind my beat-up truck, Eric Powell climbing out in a tuxedo he probably owned because his family was so rich, and striding up next to me with an even bigger bouquet.
“You trying to steal my date, Flint?” His eyes were narrow and cruel, and my throat tightened.
“Fuck no,” I spat at him, and then I dropped the flowers on the porch and turned away.
That was the last time I saw India Patrick until she crashed her car into the ditch thirty feet from my driveway.
And now…
Holy shit, she’s even hotter than she was back then. I bet she tastes just the same, though, minty and spicy and—
“You trying to steal my groceries?” Her voice comes from behind me, from the kitchen door, and it’s a knife twist in my heart, but my cock jumps anyway.
“What the hell did you even buy? An onion and Oreos? What is this stuff?”
She rolls her eyes. “Random stuff that my mom wanted.”
“What am I supposed to make with this?”
“You’re cooking?” Her eyes sparkle in the recessed lighting. It cost a damn fortune, but it’s paying off right now.
I look out the kitc
hen window. It’s still a whiteout. “Can’t leave. Nothing else to do.”
The silence hangs between us, and I’d bet all the money I have that we’re both thinking the same thing.
“Sure,” India says, like she’s not convinced.
I pull the onion out of the bag. “I guess we’ll start with this.”
She opens her hands. “It’s all yours.”
Twenty minutes later, I’m sliding two plates of chicken and rice and hot peppers across the kitchen island and taking a seat. India has watched with rapt attention the entire time, leaning her hip against the counter, asking neutral questions and driving me fucking crazy with her very presence.
She doesn’t hesitate over the food, stabbing a hearty bite of chicken with her fork and popping it into her mouth.
“This is so good.”
“It’s just chicken.”
“Yeah, but with spices.”
I let out a short laugh. “You really don’t cook, do you?”
She shakes her head. “No. I never…got into it. Plus, where I live now—” India breaks off, glancing down at her lap. “In the city, there’s a ton of cheap takeout. I usually go for that kind of thing after work.”
“What city?” My voice is soft, and I hate how this information has taken me aback. What, did I think she’d somehow moved to the city without me knowing?
“Charlotte.”
It’s three hours and a million miles away, as far as I’m concerned. It’s the biggest city in the state. People from here go there and they never come back.
Except for on the holidays, when they then do stupid shit like crash into the ditch outside my house.
“How long have you been there?”
How long has she been that close, yet that far?
“Since I graduated.”
“For work?”
“Yeah. A PR firm.”
The thought of her going into the office every day in one of those tailored working woman outfits makes me hard again.
“Wow. You’ve really made something out of yourself.”
The corners of her mouth turn down, and she sets her fork on the edge of her plate.
“You know, I didn’t…” She takes a breath that sounds like she’s on the verge of tears, but then she goes on. “This is really good. Thanks for the food. You didn’t have to do this,” she says, her voice so soft it’s almost inaudible.
“I’m glad you made it out.” There’s an acidic edge to my tone, and I fucking hate it. I hate it. It usually serves me well in the bar when I’m dealing with nut jobs and drunks, but India…we were both young. Yeah, she broke my damn heart. We’re not those people anymore.
“Yeah, well, it turns out I didn’t.”
Her voice is strung tight with emotion, but I can’t say what she’s feeling.
“You’ve got a career. You’re just back for the holidays, right?”
“Yes.” It comes out as a whisper, and she clears her throat. “I didn’t plan to run into you.”
“Why would you?”
“Because—” She sets her jaw. “Because I’ve thought of you every day since—”
“We don’t have to recap.”
She slaps one hand down on the island’s surface. “Every day, Dawson.”
“Why are you telling me this now?”
She doesn’t answer with words. She leans over, takes my face in both of her hands, and kisses me.
Hard.
Chapter 7
India
The air between us is taut with all the things we’ve haven’t said for ten years, and with every word out of Dawson’s mouth my heart beats faster and faster. I want to eat the rest of the chicken and rice—it’s damn delicious—but when he starts in on “getting out” there’s something in his eyes that’s so raw I can’t put another bite in my mouth.
“Why are you telling me this now?”
I don’t have an answer for him—not a good one. There’s no reason I couldn’t have gotten in touch with him after high school. God knows I spent enough time in college friending people online and spilling our deepest secrets. What was keeping me from telling Dawson that I walked away from him because I was afraid?
Because I was a coward.
I don’t know, and it doesn’t matter, not anymore. All that matters now is the pain he can’t disguise in his voice.
In that moment, something inside me shatters, and I give in. I give into the instincts I’ve been fighting since I first saw him. I give in to the intense need I’ve had for ten years to be close to him, to touch him one more time. If I can just do that, maybe we can both move on, maybe we can—
Before another thought can cross my mind, I reach out, taking his face in my hands, my palms against his stubble, and I pull him toward me, pressing my mouth against his.
We fit together like we’ve never been apart, not for one single day, and everything in my being melts. His hands go to my waist so quickly that I almost fall off the kitchen stool, landing on my feet while I throw my arms around his neck for balance, never breaking the kiss.
His tongue demands entrance to my mouth and I don’t fight him, just part my lips and let him in. Oh, damn, he tastes so good, like the gum he always used to chew and a pure sweetness that’s all Dawson. A moan escapes from somewhere in the pit of my stomach and it’s all I can do not to strip off all my clothes so I can get that much closer to him.
That’s when he pulls back a few inches, his forehead wrinkled, his breath fast in his chest. “What are you doing, India?”
“Kissing you.”
“You didn’t want to—”
“I always wanted to.”
Something changes in his eyes, and then he’s the one who covers my mouth with his lips this time.
It’s like time stops, the kiss is so intense, every moment stretching out into an eternity of pleasure. His lips are firm against mine, powerful, unrelenting, and I sink into the strength of his arms.
God, this is where I’ve wanted to be ever since the day I turned him away.
Dawson’s grip tightens on my waist, and then his palms begin exploring the curves of my hips, my legs. He hooks his thumb into the waistband of the oversized sweatpants and pulls them down, then slides his palms up over my bare skin, pulling the shirt off along with the hoodie.
The warm air of the kitchen does nothing to deter my nipples from standing straight out, and his thumbs circle their hardness while he kisses me with more ferocity than I thought possible. The boxers are the last to go, and then I’m totally exposed, though no heat rushes to my cheeks—not from embarrassment, anyway.
“This isn’t fair,” I mumble into his cheek, and I feel him smile.
“What’s not fair about it?”
In answer, I slip my hands underneath the hem of his shirt and tug it upward, revealing the most gorgeous, cut set of abs I’ve ever seen in my damn life.
I lean forward and press my lips to his collarbone, then drag my teeth across it, and with a growl he lifts me up so that I have no choice but to wrap my legs around his waist, as he presses his mouth into my shoulder, the sharp edges of his teeth pressing against my skin.
“Do it.”
I don’t know what I’m begging him to do, but he reacts anyway, moving us out of the kitchen, plates abandoned on the counter.
He goes through the living room, licking at the side of my neck, and takes a left instead of a right. Toward his bedroom, not the guest room.
By the time we get there, I’m lost in the sensation of his attention, and it’s the cool surface of the comforter against my back that brings me toward some semblance of reality.
He’s stripping off his jeans, his boxers, giving me my first glimpse of his manly frame.
And, oh, shit, it’s a sight to behold.
Every line of him is cut, ripped, and so solid I’m sure he could stay standing if the house fell down around us. His blue eyes blaze in the soft light of the room—when did he turn the lamp on?—and my chest goes tight in an
ticipation of his hands on me again, his strong, rough hands against my skin…
The tension breaks as he steps forward, the bed dipping under his weight, and leans his lips down to the space where my shoulder runs into my neck and licks it with the tip of his tongue. My entire body trembles. It feels just like it used to, only magnified a million times.
“Please…”
The word escapes me, and I don’t do a thing to hold it back.
Chapter 8
Dawson
Every cell in my body ignites at the word “please,” and I wrap myself around India, her damp hair spreading out over the comforter behind her head.
I run my hands down every inch of her creamy skin, testing the weight of her breasts, wrapping my hands around her hipbones. She arches up toward me, her hands on my broad shoulders, and I lean down one more time to put my lips against her collarbone and drag them across to the hollow underneath her neck.
India spreads her legs wide underneath me, begging me wordlessly to come on, come in, and for once in my damn life, I don’t let the gash she left in my heart make me hesitate for even a second. I line myself up with her wetness and plunge in.
My mind fractures with the intense pleasure of it, the way she’s still so tight, yet yielding. She takes all of me in with a growl of pleasure, lifting her hips so that she can get absolutely as close to me as fucking possible.
It’s like I’m in my body now and ten years ago at the same time, only now we’re not crammed in the back of my truck or hurriedly fucking up against a hidden corner of one of the abandoned factory buildings on the outskirts of town. There’s only the expanse of my bed to hold us. I’m so much fucking stronger now, somehow larger, but her lithe body can handle it. There’s no weakness in her trembling, only an electric strength that makes me want even more of her than this.
I can’t begin to think about what that means, though, because her muscles pulse around me and everything shuts down except what matters most right now: the fresh, soapy scent of her skin, the way her eyes flutter closed as I thrust into her, the smoothness of her chest interrupted by her hardened nipples. I could drink her in for the rest of my life and never need to touch another drop of water.