Two of his fingers thrust roughly inside me, thrusting wildly, dragging ragged moans from deep within me before finally curling, and raking over my G-spot with perfect precision, making the orgasm scream through my body unexpectedly, making me cry out his name with reckless abandon, knowing no one could hear.
He worked me through it, refusing to release me until he milked my orgasm for all it was worth.
"Pussy is fucking shaking for me," he rumbled as he yanked my other leg up, leaving me spread before him. I could feel my wetness dripping down my thighs, greedy for more, to feel him inside me again.
I was sure I would never get enough of him, a thought that used to fill me with dread, but now, in this moment, after both having agreed that this was something between us, yeah, all I felt was an excitement, a certainty that I could have him whenever I wanted, and him me, without worries about losing it.
I heard the swoosh of his jeans hitting the ground, a small stumble as he got them and his boots off, then the truck depressed as he hopped up and moved behind me.
I barely had a second to register his presence before his cock was slamming deep, claiming me to the hilt with a delicious little pinch that had me pressing back into him, wanting more of it, wanting him to take every last inch of me.
"So fucking tight," he growled, hands digging into my hips, using them to shove me forward, then slam me back as he started thrusting, controlling me and my desire completely, leaving me to do nothing but desperately enjoy it, beg for it not to stop.
My body folded forward, forearms going to the clothes scattered across the bed, my head resting there too as he fucked me harder, faster, driving me to the edge.
His hand left one of my hips, going between my legs, stroking through my wetness, teasing around my clit, but never quite giving me the contact I needed to end my torment, to send another orgasm shooting through my system. Just relentlessly teasing as I moaned for more.
Just when I was sure he was finally going to move his fingers over my swollen, sensitive bud, his hand left me entirely, moving, finding a new destination.
I felt his finger pressing against my ass, looking for any sign of reservation for a moment. Finding none, because I was sure that there was nothing I could deny him - or myself - in this moment, he slowly pressed inside, claiming me further, working me gently until I begged for harder, begged for an end to the coiled desire in my core.
His other hand left my hip as he fucked me harder still, going between my thighs, and pressing into my clit finally.
Thumb on my clit, finger in my ass, cock raking over my G-spot perfectly, it was only a couple more thrusts before the entire world went white as the pleasure clawed its way through my body.
That was what it felt like, too, a clawing, something almost violent, borderline painful in its intensity as I lost my voice and air for a long moment before it came back, letting me whimper, moan, cry out his name as the waves kept crashing, as he kept demanding more of them.
Until my body went slack finally, spent.
He slammed deep, coming with my name on his lips before his body lost its strength too, making him curl forward, coming over my body, giving me his full weight for a long moment as he fought for his strength to return.
"Christ," he hissed as he pulled out of me, then dropped down beside me on the pile of clothes, hand going behind his head as it always did, the other reaching for me, sending a warm, gooey sensation through me as I moved to rest on his chest, felt his fingers sift through my hair. "Can't get enough of that," he told me a while later when his heartbeat started to settle beneath my cheek.
"Me either," I admitted.
"It's all that fire," he told me, fingers leaving my hair to trace down my spine, over the curve of my hip, the side of my thigh, my cheek of my behind.
"Hm?"
"All the bickering and attitude-throwing, gets it all pent up. Makes it fucking explosive."
"Well, then we are going to have the best sex life for years to come since I always run a little hot."
"A little?" he teased, sounding like he was smiling.
"And, I mean, I didn't mean to assume that..."
"Shut it."
"What?" I asked, trying to push up, but his arm locked around my lower back, keeping me pressed to him where I really did want to be since I was still naked and the air was cool.
"Don't back-pedal on me."
"I wasn't..."
"You were going to say you didn't mean to assume that we'd be together for years," he cut me off. He was right, and he knew it. There was nothing more irritating than Warren Allen Reyes being right and knowing it. But just this once, I maybe wanted to hear him out, see what he had to say. "I'm seeing years, Brin," he told me, giving me a squeeze. "Figure if we can work together without killing each other, we can withstand anything."
"I mean, to be fair, you almost lost your life at least a dozen times," I admitted, smiling when he pinched my ass.
"Yet, here I am."
"Well, there were a lot of witnesses around."
"Smartass."
"You love it."
It was a throwaway phrase, something I said flippantly, to anyone, full of sarcasm and insincerity.
That was why the next words out of his mouth made my entire body stiffen.
"Yeah, I guess I do."
My stomach dropped, and my heart tried to soar upward before I dragged that bitch back down to earth, sure that he was just doing what I was doing - being silly and sweet, having a friendly conversation. In the nude. After he screwed me silly in the back of his truck.
"What?" I asked, pressing up.
"You heard me," he told me, hand reaching up to tuck my hair behind my ear.
"Maybe I need to hear it again," I said carefully, trying not to let my hopes get too high, trying to force myself to be rational.
"Don't act surprised, Brin. Think I loved you since you debated beating me to death with the cabinet door dividers in Home Depot that night that everything changed."
The night that everything changed.
Everything.
My heart didn't soar or sink.
It seemed to stop dead right in my chest, unsure what to do, what to feel, how to react to his words even as my belly did a fluttering thing that was so strong it was almost freaky.
"What?" I hissed, not willing to let myself believe him.
His hand slid to frame one side of my face, his dark eyes holding mine relentlessly. "I love you, Brin. And don't try to pull that 'it's too soon' thing. We both know it isn't. We've been building feelings here for months. We've been living together, sharing every up and down, getting to know every small aspect about each other. This isn't soon. Even if it was, it wouldn't change how I feel. I get that you gotta process that, but I'm thinking maybe we should do that inside," he told me even as I felt the goosebumps form over every inch of skin, though whether that was from the cold or what he just told me, that was impossible to know.
"Okay," I agreed, pushing up, waiting for him to do the same, so I could snatch some of my clothes back.
"You're itching to get your hands on my social media right now, aren't you?" he asked, smiling over at me as I reached for my bra and panties, bunching them up in my hand.
"Well, I mean, you are going to need to finish the yard, right? I might as well be useful too."
"Useful, mmhm," he said, nodding, yanking the hem of my shirt to drag me with him.
"What?"
"Think you just want to undo everything I did."
"Well, you want to have the right aesthetic. What?" I asked when his lips twitched up, making his dark eyes dance.
"Nothing. That's just exactly what I thought you would say," he told me as we reached the front door.
It was a quaint place, his family home.
And, yes, 'quaint' was absolutely a synonym for 'small.' But when something was literally built by his grandfather, it made sense that it wasn't some massive structure.
It was a low, one-level wooden
building with a wide front porch that needed some definite TLC - the boards on the floor cracked, the stairs crumbling. There was a set of old rocking chairs at the end that his grandfather probably made for himself and his wife, planning to sit on the front porch by her side every night, a sweet, sentimental thought that made my heart squeeze in my chest. They needed to be sanded and repainted, but I suddenly wanted to do that project with Warren, to wait for them to dry, then to sit there rocking with him as well.
Maybe for years to come.
There was no denying that wobbly feeling in my belly, something I didn't let myself feel often, always finding that when I did, it always got dashed.
Hope.
That was hope.
"It's not too much warmer in here," he warned me as he pushed the door open. "I need to open all the windows to air the place it. My old man clearly hasn't been here in months."
"I should have thought to bring some food or something," I said as we moved inside.
The overwhelming element inside was darkness. Even with abundant and unadorned windows letting in the light, the sheer amount of wood made it feel smaller than it was - and it was small to begin with.
We walked right into an open concept living space that led into a small dining area, then finally the kitchen. The floors, the walls, the furniture, the exposed beams in the ceiling, everything was a deep wood.
"I think I am starting to understand your obsession with wood elements," I told him, nodding.
"It's a little dark," he allowed, looking around. "I think I always had a blind spot about the place over the years, thinking it was perfect exactly as it was."
"But?" I prompted, hearing it in his voice.
"But, I think maybe we could lighten it up a bit. The floors don't need to be so dark. Maybe some of the..."
"Shiplap," I supplied, grimacing, making him throw an arm over my shoulders, curling me in for a one-armed hug, planting a kiss to the top of my head.
"Yeah, maybe some of the shiplap can be relocated, just keep an accent wall. That's really more of your area of expertise though."
"How attached are you to those countertops?" I asked, jerking my chin toward the deep red tiles. Yes, tiles. With actual grout. I hadn't seen a tiled kitchen since design school, and then only in old houses.
"Those, I'd be happy to see go," he admitted.
"Do you want me to... you know, draw up some ideas? I know that our styles are different, but I think I can maybe soften up the place while keeping its integrity. I mean, I know that it is your..."
"Draw me up some ideas," he cut me off, and, if I wasn't mistaken, it was somewhat pointed. Like he didn't want me to finish that sentence, knowing what I was going to say about it being his space. "After you handle my social media," he added, waving a hand to where his laptop was set up. "Knock yourself out. I am gonna finish the yard, then maybe run to town real quick to grab some essentials. I figure we'll be hunkering down here until the storm blows over."
"I'd like that," I admitted, meaning it whole - dare I say it - heartedly.
"Alright, go undo everything I did," he said, patting my butt before turning and walking out.
And me, well, I figured I had a lot of work to do.
I wasn't wrong either.
He'd just uploaded pictures, no rhyme or reason to them, no real descriptions, and the worst hashtag choices known to man.
I mean #building?
Seriously?
What had he been thinking?
Once I had his Instagram somewhat less hideous, I went to work on his Facebook, then his god-awful website. Granted, he had done it quickly and likely just went with a pre-made theme, but my Myspace when I was eleven was more advanced than the coding he had going on.
By the time I finally hit the publish button, figuring it was as good as it could get without a professional to tweak it, I could hear Warren pulling up the drive, making me realize I had been so zoned out that I hadn't heard the mowing stop, or him leave in the first place.
I jumped up, stretching out my neck and shoulders before moving toward the door, slipping into my shoes, figuring I would help him with the bags, no matter how much he fought me on it.
The stubborn ass.
Even though I was maybe more charmed by his old-fashioned manners than I would let on.
I had just thrown open the door when I realized that Warren's truck wasn't there.
But another car was.
My heart skidded into overdrive as my stomach swirled ominously, the only thing I could think was - they found us.
The paparazzi.
The stupid online gossip columns trying to get a few words from the cons themselves.
And I was all alone to deal with it.
I was about to throw myself back into the house when the door to the car opened.
No one rushed out with a camera aloft, barking questions.
No.
She climbed out slowly, almost lazily, like a cat unfolding from a sun soaked windowsill nap, head in my direction, gaze direct, but unthreatening.
Rachel.
Nude heels met the gravel of Warren's driveway. She reached to close the door, standing there in an A-line purple dress, her head ducked slightly to the side.
Forget the trolls on the internet.
Forget the roasts by the late-night comedians.
This, this was what I was dreading the most.
Because she went to bat for us, she persuaded her team to take a chance on us.
She thought we were fantastic.
I suddenly felt swamped with guilt for making fun of that term. Because she hadn't just thrown the words at us; she had meant them. Every single time, she meant them. She had faith in us, even when we were bickering, even when we were accidentally creating bad press.
And we'd done nothing but lie to her.
And, now, disappointed her.
Betrayed her faith.
"Rachel, we're so..."
"You know," she cut me off, carefully maneuvering her way toward me on the uneven rocks. "I've been in TV since... well, I acted in a cereal commercial when I was six. I was sold immediately, enamored with the idea that you would be paid to lie for a living, to pretend, to bend the truth. I begged my mom to let me keep auditioning, even when I made that awful transition from adorable kid to awkward in-between. I took stage classes, put on shows with the kids in my neighborhood. It turned out, though, the older I got, the less convincing I was an actress. So, I went to college to work behind the scenes. I might not be able to act well, but I can sure tell when others do. What you and Warren had, Brin, that wasn't acting."
There was no stopping the wave of shame that moved over me, dragged my head down to the ground. "We acted," I told her, shaking my head. "We deliberately decided to deceive all of you, to pretend to be happily married."
"Well, that part, yeah," she agreed with a smile as she leaned on the column that led from the rails of the porch up to the overhang of the roof. "A technicality, really. Looking back, I see why you two wanted to look over your contracts. Not for fine print over how it might affect your current businesses as Andy had suggested, but because you were looking for anything that might suggest your official marriage was somehow a deal-breaker." She paused then, smiling. "I imagine Andy has the lawyers rewriting those documents to include that right now."
"Is he red?"
"He is crimson," she confirmed, nodding, smiling a little, it always being a joke on set about how hard he flushed when he was agitated. "But he likes a good outrage. It reinforces his ideas about the world. Namely that everyone is out to cheat him, and take his money. The paranoid narcissist."
"Except we did cheat him."
"Legally, not really. But you already know that."
"I won't lie. The legality part is something we've been worried about, but that wasn't all I meant. You took a chance on us, and we betrayed you."
"Oh, betrayal. That is an interesting word, don't you think? So dramatic. I don't much care for it. I
t gives away some of your power, your peace of mind. But in this situation, I don't even think the word is warranted."
"We lied to..."
"Yourselves mostly," she cut me off, giving me a keen, knowing smile. "All that bickering. All those sideways looks, the eye-rolls, the arm-crossing, the huffing and chest-puffing. I remember standing there wondering why you two were trying so hard to seem like you weren't mad over each other."
"Mad? Mad, yes. Mad over? Not so much. I mean, not really."
"Tell me," she said, ignoring my comments. "When did you stop pretending? With each other, I mean."
"New York," I admitted since there was no reason to keep any secrets anymore.
"I knew it. Mica owes me fifty bucks for that. She thought it was sometime during that Victorian."
"Oh, well, I guess you both are somewhat right. He kissed me while we worked on that house. Like... he kissed me," I added, giving her a look that she smiled at.
"Like a sailor on leave."
"Better," I insisted even though I had no experience with sailors on leave.
"Whoo," she said, fanning her face with her hand. "So maybe she had a bunch, but things went south after that. That's why you were fighting all the time. She thought it was you two overcompensating a bit. I knew it had to be something other than that."
"So... wait... how long have you two known?"
"We both suspected almost from the beginning, but never voiced it to each other until that news story about the fighting broke."
"May I ask what made you suspect we weren't being truthful?"
"Mica said it was because you seemed surprised when he remembered things like you hating mayo, making sure he ordered you a sandwich without it."
"And you?"
"The way you two looked at each other when you thought no one could see. With a mix of longing and regret."
"I'm so sorry, Rachel," I told her, shaking my head, at a loss for what else to say to make it better.
An apology is all you can do, but sometimes it isn't enough. That was what my mother told me once when I was little and a friend refused to forgive me over a fight we'd had. It hadn't had much impact then, being young and hurt and frustrated. But it became more and more profound as the years passed, as I asked for forgiveness but wasn't granted it, or was begged for it, but couldn't find the grace to allow it.
Fix It Up Page 20