by Tawna Fenske
“Okay,” she said finally. “I can do that. No wine, not tonight. I’ll drink milk. I draw the line at pouring it in a glass, though. It’s a straight-from-the-carton kinda night.”
“Fair enough.”
Clay reached up to grab one glass from the cupboard. He handed it to her without comment, and Reese opened the freezer and grabbed a handful of ice cubes. She dropped them one by one into the glass, the clinking sound making Clay think of Scotch. He pushed the thought from his mind and watched Reese’s hands.
“Is it okay if we don’t talk about Sheila?” she asked. “I’m kind of in shock, and I just—well, I just need some time to process things, okay?”
“Not a problem.”
Reese kept her eyes on the glass, which gave Clay a few more seconds to study her. Her hair was the same color as the cola but bore a few streaks of caramel and a few threads of silver and cinnamon and a dozen other colors he couldn’t name.
She looked up then, and Clay’s gut flipped as she pinned him in place with those wild green eyes.
“You’re staring,” she said.
“You’re beautiful.”
She looked away, flushed in the dimly lit kitchen.
“Do you know what the fight was about at Finnigan’s?” he asked.
She looked up, startled. “What?”
“The fight. Not the one the other night. The one five years ago. The one where you got hurt.”
She swallowed and shook her head. “Do you want to tell me?”
“Yes.” He balled his hands into fists, remembering every detail of that night. The smell of beer, the twang of country music over crackly speakers, the way Reese touched her hair and glanced nervously around the bar.
“I was wasted,” Clay said. “What’s new, right? I pulled out my wallet to buy another round, and this guy next to me catches a look at one of the pictures I’ve got tucked in there. He looks at you, looks at me, looks at the picture, starts going off saying all kinds of crude shit about how hot you were and what he wanted to do to you, and I just—”
“You had a picture of me?”
Clay reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. He tossed it on the counter in front of her, bumping the Coke can against the glass. “I still do.”
She blinked at it but didn’t pick it up. She looked back at him and swallowed. “Why?”
“Because I’ve always been in love with you, Reese. Always. I still am.”
“What—how—”
“I kept my distance because I thought that’s what I was supposed to do. And I may not remember everything about those years I was drinking like a goddamn fish, but I never forgot that.”
She looked back down at the wallet. She picked it up and opened it. She began flipping through it, past his credit cards to the photos at the back. She stopped, staring down at the wallet. “There’s more than one picture of me,” she said. “There are three. These are from college.”
He nodded. “Back when I still had a chance with you and blew it. And don’t think I didn’t notice the opportunity to make a blowjob joke right there. I’m still me, Reese. I just forgot that for a little while, but I’m done holding my tongue all the time and trying to say the right thing.”
She closed the wallet and set it back on the counter. She looked up at him. “Still want that Coke?”
“Yes.”
She nodded and popped open the can. She began to pour—too fast. The foam bubbled up and over the rim, spilling onto her fingers. She lifted them to her mouth, but Clay stepped forward and caught her left wrist.
“Let me,” he said.
He gave her a fraction of a second to resist or pull away, but she did neither. She just looked at him, those green eyes flashing in the dim light of the kitchen.
He drew her hand up and slid her fingers into his mouth.
“Oh,” she said.
She tasted sweet—not just the cola but something else. Something warm and exotic and strangely familiar. He slid his tongue lightly over the pads of her fingers and felt her body shift as she angled herself closer and gasped.
Clay drew her fingers deeper into his mouth, sucking lightly, then withdrawing. His tongue found the junction of her middle and ring finger, and he tasted her there, lingering in that soft cleft.
Reese groaned, her body seeming to liquefy as she pressed closer and braced herself against the counter with her other hand.
“I thought we were going to talk,” she murmured.
He pulled back, freeing his mouth but not her hand. He stroked the inside of her wrist with his index finger.
“I’m done talking,” he said. “I’m done doing a lot of things.”
Reese nodded, then looked at his mouth. “Not that, I hope.”
“Not that,” he murmured against her knuckles. “But I’m done apologizing. I’ve done it enough now. I’m done crawling. And I’m done not saying what I feel because I’m afraid of offending someone.”
“I never wanted you to crawl,” she murmured. “And what you’re feeling—” She moaned as his tongue traced the ridges of her knuckles. “I always wanted you to tell me that.”
Clay shook his head and slid his hand along her waist. “I told you, I’m done talking. I’d rather show you instead.”
She gasped as he slid his hand down, moving along the path of her spine. He pulled her closer, his palm pressing hard into the small of her back as his mouth sipped at her knuckles.
He kissed his way along the fleshy part of her thumb and into the hollow of her wrist. She was warm there, and he could feel her pulse fluttering against his lips. He slid his other hand under her shirt, tracing the warm, bare column of her spine before slipping around to the front to cup her breast.
Reese sighed with pleasure and opened her eyes to look at him. “Two days ago you asked me at least a dozen times if I wanted to stop,” she murmured. “Aren’t you going to ask this time?”
“No.”
“Not even once?”
Clay shook his head. “If you want to stop, I know you well enough to be sure you’ll tell me.”
She nodded, then whimpered as he drew her hand to his mouth once more. He moved his lips over the inside of the wrist before pressing it to his sternum. He let go, and she held it there, her fingers splaying over his chest as she blinked up at him. Her chest was rising and falling fast beneath the thin top, and the feel of her breast pressing against his palm was enough to make him dizzy. It was all he could do to resist the urge to just bend her over the sink and have his way with her.
“I want you, Reese,” he murmured. “I’ve always wanted you. And I’m pretty sure you want me, too.”
She hesitated, then nodded as she licked her lips. “Yes.”
“But wanting isn’t the only thing between us, is it?” he asked. “I wouldn’t be here if that were the case.”
He stroked his thumb over her nipple and she gasped.
Then she slid her fingers down over his abs, then around his back. Her other hand joined that one and she gripped his shoulder blades, using them to pull him closer.
Clay slid his hand out from under her shirt and moved both hands to her shoulders. He shoved the flannel aside, baring the thin straps of the tank top. He kissed her left shoulder as the flannel fell away, dropping over her hands and onto the floor. Clay kicked it aside, not caring where it landed.
He trailed both hands down her rib cage, traveling downward until he found the hem of the tank top. He gripped the fabric and, in one quick motion, pulled the shirt up over her head.
Reese lifted her arms and the top slid off, leaving her standing there in her bra. She licked her lips as her nipples strained against the pink satin. Clay tossed the tank top aside, barely registering that it landed in the sink.
Polite Clay would have worried about water stains.
Norma
l Clay found the clasp of her bra with both hands.
He yanked the hooks apart, releasing the tension. Then he slid his hands up and pushed the straps from her shoulders, letting the bra fall to the ground.
“Oh,” she breathed as Clay nipped her bare shoulder, his teeth rough on her smooth skin. “Topless in my kitchen. This is new.”
“You should always be topless in your kitchen,” he said, and kissed her hard on the mouth. Reese responded, opening her mouth to him and sliding one hand up to cup his face.
He kissed her like that for what seemed like hours, moving from her lips to her throat, dragging his teeth over the rounded mounds of her shoulders. They were both breathing hard as he slid down her throat, trailing kisses until he reached the edge of her collarbone. He moved one hand beneath her breast, savoring the weight of it. He cupped it gently, moving his mouth down to kiss the edges of it. As his teeth grazed her nipple, Reese dug her fingernails into the back of his head, urging him on.
He kissed her there, savoring the soft flesh of one breast, then the other, as Reese squirmed and whimpered. She drew one hand out of his hair and found his biceps, digging her nails in lightly.
“Your tattoo,” she whispered, tracing it with one fingertip. “Why wouldn’t you tell me what it said?”
Clay lifted his mouth from her breast and straightened, his fingers covering her bare nipples. He swallowed.
“It was crude. I got it when I was young. After the first stint in rehab—the one that didn’t take. I was embarrassed. I’ll tell you now—”
“I already know,” she murmured.
“I wanted you to think I’d matured. That I’d stopped making dirty jokes, stopped drinking, stopped being a jackass.”
She shook her head and traced a finger over the words. “I didn’t want you to stop being you.”
“Me neither.”
She looked up at him from under her lashes, her expression halfway between playful and dangerous. “Res firma mitescere nescit,” she murmured. “‘A rigid thing doesn’t soften.’ Right?”
“Something like that.”
She gave him a salacious grin. “Want to prove it?”
Clay pressed his hand into the small of her back, drawing her closer. She slid her leg between his and could feel him hard against her thigh.
“You have to ask?” he murmured.
“No, but I wanted to hear you say it.”
“Say what?”
“I’m hard for you, Reese—I want you, Reese.”
“I am. I do. I always have.”
She smiled. “Always?”
“Longer than you know.”
“Double entendre?” she murmured as she slid her hand over him, down and then back up, stroking the solid length of him through the denim.
Clay groaned and gripped her by the shoulders. In one motion, he spun her around, turning her to face the kitchen counter. She moaned as he cupped her breasts from behind, then slid one hand down to tug at her belt buckle. He yanked it open with one hand, then started on her zipper, not willing to take his other hand off her breast to speed things along.
Reese whimpered and moved her hands to her hips. She shoved her jeans down and kicked her legs free. One flip-flop went flying across the room, making a decided flop as it landed on the dining room table.
“Jesus,” Clay said, and eased away from her—not far enough to break contact, but far enough that he could see her. She was naked and beautiful in her kitchen, bathed in dim light and pinned beneath him.
She smiled at him over her shoulder. “You planning to join me, or should I cut you out of those jeans with a butcher knife?”
Clay reached for his belt, keeping one hand on Reese’s hip. He jerked his buckle free with the other hand, then tugged at the button fly. Reese wriggled her ass and squirmed against him and Clay released her for the ten seconds necessary to pull his jeans off the rest of the way.
He grabbed his wallet off the counter, fumbling for the condom he’d stuck there earlier on the slim chance Reese might be willing to give him another shot. He tore it open and slid it on, returning one hand to Reese’s hip.
The other hand grabbed a fistful of hair at the nape of her neck and tugged. Her back arched, pressing her perfect ass up against him. He felt dizzy for an instant as Reese groaned and moved against him, her palms pressing hard into the counter.
“Please—” she whimpered.
“Please what?”
“I want to feel you inside me.”
The urge to oblige screamed through his body, but he fought it. “Not yet.”
Instead, he let go of her hair and slid both hands around to cup her breasts. He leaned forward, using his weight to press her against the counter. He nudged her hair aside with his chin as his lips found the tender skin of her neck. He kissed her there, drawing his tongue along her hairline as his palms grazed her nipples, so softly he barely touched her. Reese writhed under him and pressed her ass harder against his groin.
“Clay, please—”
He bit the nape of her neck, and she bucked against him. He leaned closer, his breath against her ear.
“You’re mine,” he whispered. “Only mine. You’ve always been mine.”
“Oh, God, please!”
“For fifteen years, you’re the one woman I couldn’t stop thinking about. The one I’ve wanted, the one I’ve loved. Do you believe me?”
“I don’t—”
“It’s true. It was always you, Reese. Always you.”
She bit her lip, angled her head to look up at him. She blinked, her green eyes blazing. “For me, too.”
He plunged into her then, and her words turned into a startled cry. He held still for a moment, not wanting to hurt her. He slid one hand down, worried about her hip bones against the hard granite of the counter.
“Please, Clay!”
He didn’t require much more prompting than that. He slid his hand away from her hip, keeping one on her breasts but drawing the other one up to grasp a fistful of her hair. He gave another gentle tug and she arched her back again.
He moved slowly at first, hoping to hold on as long as possible. But she was so warm beneath him, so soft and wet.
Baseball, he thought, running through pitching stats to keep his mind distracted enough to make this last. Tire pressure, dog food commercials, barbecue assembly—
He released her hair and slid his hand down, moving slowly over her rib cage and around to savor the contour of her hip before finding his way to the thatch of curls between her legs. She bucked against him as he found the spot that made her cry out.
“Oh, God,” she whimpered and pressed into his fingers.
He tried to be gentle, to make slow, delicate circles with the pads of his fingertips, but Reese squirmed against him, urging him to increase the pressure. He felt her clench around him, felt her soft and wet and tight as he thrust into her over and over.
He was getting dizzy now, and he knew he only had seconds left, maybe less if she kept moving against him like that.
“Oh, God, Clay—I’m so close.”
He thrust deeper, no longer afraid of hurting her. She screamed, and Clay gripped her waist, his fingers pressing into the soft flesh.
“Yes!” she screamed, and slammed against him.
Everything exploded then, the light behind his eyes, the throbbing in his eardrums, something deep inside Reese.
“I love you,” he murmured against her hair. “I’ve always loved you.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Reese woke up blinking beneath a thin sheet of sunlight blazing through her half-open blinds. She grabbed the alarm clock, startled to realize it was after eight a.m.
She hadn’t slept that late in years.
She patted the mattress beside her, hating the twinge of disappointment she felt at discovering Clay was
n’t there. Sitting up, she swung her legs out of bed just as Clay swept through the doorway wearing a pair of boxer shorts and carrying a breakfast tray.
“Not so fast.” He set the tray on the nightstand, picked up her legs, and lifted them back into bed. Then he crawled in beside her and grabbed the tray.
Reese reached for a cup of coffee. “Breakfast in bed?”
“We already used the kitchen for bedroom activities, might as well use the bedroom for eating.”
“Very wise,” she said and bit into a piece of toast.
“I am wise. That’s why we’re going to argue now.”
She raised an eyebrow. “That’s your idea of post-coital romance?”
“No, breakfast is my idea of post-coital romance. The arguing is foreplay for more romance.”
She swallowed her toast and took a sip of coffee, studying Clay over the rim of her mug. He looked awfully cheerful, which made sense considering how many things they’d done last night to give each other reasons to smile.
But now it was daylight, and doubt was already trickling through her consciousness like it always did.
“You have doubts,” Clay said, apparently reading her mind as he spooned eggs onto a plate and grabbed a fork. “So I’m going to shoot them down one by one. Start anywhere you like.”
Reese shook her head, smiling in spite of herself. “This is all part of your new ‘say what you mean, even if it’s rude’ agenda?”
“Pretty much.”
“Fine. I run a vineyard. I live at a vineyard. You are a former alcoholic.”
“No, I am an alcoholic,” he pointed out. “I’ll always be an alcoholic. I just happen to be in recovery.”
“That’s not helping your cause.”
“Yes, it is, because I recognize it. You know how many drunks can’t do that?”
She opened her mouth to argue, but Clay shoved in a forkful of eggs.
“Chew,” he ordered. “Here’s the thing, Reese—I know myself better than I ever did when I was a drunk. I know what my triggers are and how to avoid them. I know what I can and can’t handle, and I know I can handle being at a vineyard. What I can’t handle is being at this vineyard with you always worrying I’m going to dive headfirst into a barrel of Chardonnay.” He gave a dramatic shudder. “I always hated Chardonnay.”