My legs slide off his back, propping my feet on the bed. I use the position to leverage myself, and Chet growls. He’s a sensual man, turning me upside down and inside out with his experienced touching and kissing. Sex with him is on a level I’ve never had, so I’m empowered by the gleam in his eyes and the desperation in his clutching hands. He wants us as close to one another as we can get.
“Darlin’,” he groans. Then he shifts, lifting himself in a way so that each drag of his length rubs my clit, and I see stars. I scream, despite having never been a screamer during sex. I’ve never been this enthusiastic about it either, or let a man do all the things Chet’s done to me. Tongue. Lips. Fingers.
Not to mention, when his amazing appendage fills me, it brings me to a peak so high I can’t catch my breath.
My fingernails dig into his firm backside, holding him to me, but he resists. My body rattles under him as he pumps faster, harder, deeper and then . . . he stills. His head tips back. His neck strains. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. He’s the most beautiful man I’ve ever known.
He collapses over me and shifts a bit to my side, so he isn’t squishing me. He breathes heavily against my neck, and I close my eyes, tightening my arms around him. I’m overcome with emotion and a tear leaks from my eye. Then another. And another.
His lips press against my jaw, and he lifts his head.
“What’s this, darlin’?” His typically rough tone softens as the thick pad of his thumb brushes my cheek.
“I don’t know,” I whisper, so uncertain of myself. I feel bare, laid open to him in a way I’ve never been exposed to anyone before, and I don’t know what to do with the emotional overload.
“What are we doing with each other?” I question, keeping my voice quiet. Chet’s eyes search my face as he brushes back hair stuck to the edges.
“I don’t know, darlin’.”
For some reason, I want him to ask me what I want us to be, and I want him to agree with my opinion. I want us to be together. I want someone to belong to me. I want him to be exclusive, only us, only him and me. Yet it’s not something I feel comfortable asking of him. I’m demanding and domineering in all things but asking this man to be only mine feels daunting. I’m afraid he’ll say no, and the rejection would crush me.
I shake my head, chewing at my lip while my eyes look everywhere but directly at him. Another tear slowly seeps out of the edge of my eye and rolls down my face toward my ear. I hate that I’m crying in front of him, but I’m so overwhelmed between the robust sex and the tenderness afterward. Every time he calls me darlin’, I should demand he correct the slang and add a “g,” but I don’t. I like it as is. After years of being called dear, like a patronizing slur, I like how Chet’s voice shifts when he speaks an endearment toward me.
He slips out of me and stands from the bed. “Be right back,” he tells me, stepping toward the bathroom attached to my bedroom. I was a little nervous about bringing him here, to this room, the same place I’d spent more than two decades sleeping next to a man who wasn’t fully mine. In one night, another man has obliterated all those memories with his vigorous sexual energy.
When he returns to the bed with a small towel in his hands, I take it and excuse myself. I need just a minute of separation to gather my wits because I’m all over the place. My body still vibrates with what we’d done, even though we’ve been together a few times already. It’s my heart that can’t seem to settle and accept this for what it is.
I don’t know.
Are there three worse words? I can think of three better ones, but we aren’t at that point. Do I love him? Could I love him? I’m not certain I know exactly what love should look like, feel like, sound like, but I also realize it comes in different forms. I have yet to experience it on the level I’ve longed for most.
I stare at my reflection in the mirror. Hair askew. Makeup melting near my eyes. Lipstick completely removed. I’m a mess. I look ravished, and my body feels amazing. After swiping my fingers through my hair, I grab a robe off the back of the bathroom door and return to the bedroom. Chet sits on the side of the bed, his pants back in place.
“Are you leaving?” My heart hammers in a different pattern.
“Do you want me to leave?” His head slowly lifts, and those deep, dark eyes question mine.
“Only if you want to leave,” I reply, wondering why I’m not asking him outright to stay. That invisible mask is itching to be pulled upward and protect me.
“You’re doing that thing,” Chet warns, lifting his hand and pointing toward my face.
“I don’t know what you mean.” But this man reads me so well, he isn’t missing the hidden effort.
“That thing where you start to lock up on me.” He pauses, observing my expression, which makes me anxious. He sees all of me. I purse my lips, twisting them this way and that as if I can change what he sees.
“It’s a bit of a habit, I guess,” I say, lowering my lids, relaxing my face, and brushing my hair over my ear. I look at my toes. His feet are bare, and I’m relieved to see them. It means he isn’t rushing to escape me.
“Is it so hard to be open with me?”
“Are you always open with me?” I question. I didn’t intend to be defensive, but as we’re trying to be open, I’m curious about him.
He softly chuckles and swipes a hand through his hair. “I guess not.” He shifts his gaze from me, looking at my nightstand, which is now devoid of a photo of Karl and me I once had perched there. Darlene no longer lives at home and Karl’s been gone for long enough, so I’ve removed most of his pictures throughout our home to make this house more my own.
“I’m honest when I say I like you a certain way.”
My attention is drawn to his face. “There are times you don’t like me, though.” I recall his response when I argued Henny was a gold digger or even when I snapped at my sisters. I’m still a work in progress.
“Times you don’t like me either, darlin’.” His face softens under his beard, which grows unruly and then is trimmed back to his jaw with no pattern of consistency. “Thing is, we’re gonna fight and disagree, but as long as we come back to each other, as long as we have times like this.” He nods at the bed. “Then I’m going to like you all the time, darlin’.”
My answer is quick and eager. “I like you all the time.”
“What about Big Poppy and the bus?” A bushy brow arches.
“Yes.”
“And we’ve already established Chester Chesterfield is a hit with you,” he teases.
I chuckle softly and then cup his cheeks with my hands. “I think I prefer Chet, the man somewhere between the two. The man with the heart to take in three boys not his own and give up his home for them. The man taking on other children along with those boys. The man who owns a million-dollar corporation and a motorcycle bar and motel because he’s full of drive and determination but not uptight in those traits. The man who sees me. Has faith in me. Won’t give up on me. Not yet at least.” Hesitantly, my eyes search his as he stares up at me. His soften.
“Darlin’, if I hadn’t just had you for like an hour straight, I’d take you on my lap again.” His hands move to my hips, and he drags me closer to him, pressing his head into my belly. My fingers comb through his hair, pausing on the back of his neck.
“Tell me you want me to stay,” he mutters to my cotton robe.
“I want you to stay,” I whisper.
His head lifts, and soulful eyes look up at me. “Was that so difficult?” He slowly smiles and I’m reminded of what Gideon said earlier about being genuine.
“It wasn’t that difficult.” I grin. Being honest with Chet wasn’t so hard because if anyone understood me, it was him. With his relationship history, he’d know how nerve-wracking asking someone to stay can be. And he wasn’t going to leave.
Reaching up for the back of my head, he pulls me down to him, attaching our lips and winding us up once again.
The light of day brings new persp
ective and awkwardness once more. The morning after is usually our hot time, but today, I wake to see Chet dressing at the end of my bed. The scene reminds me of our first morning when we remained quiet after the craziness of two strangers discovering one another. He dressed in silence then. I watched him move.
I do the same now.
The buttoning of his pants. The buckling of his belt. The tug of his T-shirt over his head. Him dressing feels like a curtain call. The show is over, and the audience is stunned for a moment before the applause. He watches his own fingers as he buttons his shirt.
“We should probably go on a proper date one of these days.” He smirks, and I suppose it is funny we haven’t been out to dinner or to a movie or whatever people do nowadays for a date.
“We don’t need to do that,” I say, dismissing the implied invitation as if I don’t care when, in reality, I’d really like that.
“Still don’t want to be seen in public with me,” he teases, but the tightness of his tone suggests he isn’t joking.
“We were in public last night, even if I want to keep you all to myself.” Thinking I’m being coy, something in his expression tells me I’m not. I swallow around the intensity of his gaze.
“Like a dirty secret,” he quietly retorts. “I’ve already been one of those.” He roughly tucks his shirt into his pants.
“That’s not fair,” I defend. I’m nothing like the woman who has caused him to keep his walls up over the years. His words cause me to pull the sheet tighter around my breasts. I’m not one to sleep in the nude, but whenever I’m with him, I do, loving the feel of his warm skin against mine.
“What’s not fair is being a secret.”
“I’m not keeping you a secret. I want everyone to know we’re together.” I feel vulnerable and raw with the admission, but if I expect him to read into what I’ve said, I’m wrong.
He huffs, turning his back to me to reach for his socks on the floor. He sits on the end of the bed.
I hate how he’s hinted at Henny, bringing her into this bedroom and between us. He’s the one who said he didn’t want to fight about her. And as much as I think he should handle her, I can’t seem to let this unnerving feeling about her go. “What do you plan to do about that woman?”
Chet freezes. His back straightens. His hands still as his sock only covers his toes. “What do you mean, what do I plan to do?”
“She’s obviously connected to Malik somehow. What are you going to do about her?”
Tilting his head over his shoulder, he doesn’t directly look at me. “I’m not going to do anything about her.”
Anxiously, I swipe fingers through my messy hair. “What do you mean? You have to do something. For Malik.”
“Look, there’s nothing that says he and Henny have a link. He got spooked coming out of the bathroom. And she’s . . .” His pause raises the fine hairs on my skin.
“She’s what?” I question, growing more defensive. Does he know more about her than he’s letting on? Has he seen her other than just the night when he had drinks with her? Why is he protecting her?
“She’s just in a fragile state right now.”
“What does that mean?” Our entire conversation feels defensive and vague. Our opposing positions is reminiscent of so many disagreements with Karl.
“It means I’ll handle Henny.”
“How?” The question is quick and sharp, like an arrow spiraling toward a target. What will he do with her? What will he say?
“Darlin’, as I told you last night, she is not your concern, and I don’t want to fight about her.” His use of the endearment reminds me of Karl calling me dear. Yes, dear, I called so-and-so. No, dear, I did not take out the trash yet. Yes, dear, I’m going out again.
“I disagree. I’m very concerned because of Malik.” That poor child needs some answers, and he needs reassurance. He’s more than spooked. It’s her. I just know it. “And that Botox Barbie-wannabe was something to him.”
Chet abruptly stands, turning to face me, no longer concerned about the sock covering just his toes.
“Scotia, I don’t need your assumptions, especially when it comes to Hennessy. I do not like you like this.”
“Why? Are you still in love with her?”
The silence that follows could be cut with a knife. The air is as thick as a cake layered with his anger.
“I will not dignify that question with an answer.” His eyes roam down the bed, taking in the sheet-covered length of me.
“Then tell me what you’re going to do with her.” My voice cracks. Tears of frustration will not fall. Other than last night, I’m a master at controlling them. The daylight restores my willpower. Mask back in place, Scotia.
“I’m not discussing her with you.” His tone brooks no argument on the subject, but I won’t let it go.
“There’s an open investigation into Malik’s background. If you have the slightest suspicion about her, you have to report it.” I watch his face for a hint he’s considered my concerns, but he’s also a master of disguise.
“Why didn’t you report it, then?” he snaps. “When you first saw her?”
“I did. I told the man in charge of Malik’s care and well-being. You.”
The comment stills him. I don’t think he’s even breathing, but his face colors a touch. Chet stares back at me, and then he bends to grab his other sock and his shoes. He straightens and turns to the door, and my heart drops to the pit of my stomach. Clutching at the sheet, I hold it tighter to my chest.
I take a risk and softly say, “Chet, tell me three things.” I need reassurance from him that we’re okay, but his broad back says all I need to hear.
“I’ll call you,” he grumbles without a glance back and exits my bedroom with a sock still half on.
Those are not the three words I wanted to hear.
Chapter 26
Investigative Affronts
[Chet]
Scotia can be the most frustrating woman. I hate to admit it, but the seed of doubt has been strongly planted against Hennessy. Her storyline isn’t adding up for me. When I think about Malik and his silence, I hate to consider what Henny might be to him. Is he her child? Did he run away from her? If so, why? And why hasn’t she mentioned it?
Even though I reported my inconclusive information to Deputy Boone, I decide to do a little sleuthing myself.
“Whatcha doing?” Todd asks me as I sit in the bar later that same morning. I decided against calling Cletus Winston for investigative assistance, instead giving in to the urge to search the internet on my own. People pry into my life, as Scotia admitted she’d done with the Fortune 500 tribute. Henny is clearly aware of my current corporate status as well. But it doesn’t make me comfortable to look into other’s lives. Still, I need answers on Hennessy, and the internet seems like the first place to start although less than half of what’s found might be true. I know I should call the authorities again, but I’m still spiraling a bit with my doubts and want to do this search on the off chance I’ll find something to exonerate Henny immediately.
“I’m researching someone.” There’s no point in hiding what I’m doing from my best friend.
“Scotia Simmons,” he teases, finding my new obsession with the Green Valley socialite rather interesting. I’m perplexed by my attraction myself until I consider how well our bodies move together. Scotia lets me do what I want with her, eager to experiment. The way I slide into her heat. The way she holds me in her depths. The way she doesn’t want me to leave her body. Her responses to our experiences are unparalleled for me. A cold sweat breaks out on my body.
I also consider how vulnerable she is. The softness in her voice when she asked me to stay last night. The tenderness in her touch as she held my face and told me Chet was who she liked best—the man between two others who actually embodies all my parts. Her honesty when she’s genuine and real.
Damn, that woman is under my skin.
“No, actually. I’m looking up Hennessy Miller.”
/>
“Why?” Todd groans. “I thought you weren’t seeing her again.”
“I’m not, but I ran into her last night at Genie’s in Green Valley, and things aren’t adding up. That kid Malik I told you about had a strange reaction to her, and I’m just curious . . .”
What exactly am I curious about?
I’m staring blankly at the screen before me as if it will provide immediate answers.
“Move,” Todd demands, reaching across me for my laptop and taking a seat in the chair next to mine. With some quick work of his fingers, he reads what he finds.
“Hennessy Miller marries Nashville royalty Jeffrey Heiner.”
“Information already known.”
Todd keeps clicking away. “Two children. Timothy and Brandon.” He’s muttering as he reads something before he clicks hard on the keyboard.
His eyes drift over the laptop. “Her husband died.” This confirms what I already know. “So did her children.”
“What?” I shift on the seat, pulling the laptop to face both of us. Todd clicks a link to a news report.
“Prominent businessman and CEO of Miller Energy, Jeffrey Heiner, died in an automobile accident late Friday evening. Heading southbound on US 72 near Green Valley, Tennessee, Heiner collided with an oncoming semi tractor-trailer on the winding mountain highway under less than favorable conditions near eleven p.m. Icy roads and poor visibility caused the semitruck to lose control and crash into Heiner’s SUV. Pronounced dead on the scene, Heiner’s two sons, aged five and eight, were also present in the vehicle. One child died on the scene shortly after emergency assistance arrived while the second son was taken by helicopter to Knoxville, where he died two days later.
Heiner was the son-in-law of Arthur Miller, having taken over the CEO position when his wife’s father died of a heart attack seven years ago. Under Heiner’s rule, the company was rumored to be up for sale in a major takeover by Overseas Electric. Since its inception, Miller Energy’s focus was the use of the Little Tennessee River for hydroelectricity. The Chinese buyers completed the transaction shortly after Heiner’s death in a controversial buyout.”
Love in a Pickle: A Silver Fox Small Town Romance (Green Valley Library Book 9) Page 24