by Penny Reid
“Can’t sleep?” He looked nervous, like he expected me to burst into tears at any moment.
Shaking my head, I darted to the foyer. “No, no. Jethro is coming over. I’ll let him in. Watch your game.”
I paced in front of the door, peeking out the window every five seconds. After an eternity—sixteen minutes—the headlights of his truck appeared, filling the windows and momentarily blinding me. I grabbed the door handle, thinking maybe he wanted me to meet him outside, but then stopped myself.
I didn’t want to meet him outside. I didn’t want to have this conversation in his truck. I didn’t want to make it easy for him to say goodbye, if that’s what he was planning.
Stepping away from the door, I walked back to the living room and loud-whispered to Henry, “Get the door when he knocks and send him upstairs—got it?”
Wide-eyed, Henry nodded and stood from the couch. I jogged up the stairs back to my room and paced the length of it, straining my ears for the sound of Jethro’s approach. Not a minute later I heard footfalls on the stairs. I tried to swallow but I couldn’t. My hands were shaking so I placed my phone on the dresser and turned to face the open door.
And then he was there, hovering just outside my room, his eyes moving over me. He was still gorgeous, dressed in a white T-shirt and dark jeans, boots and no belt. His hair was in disarray, and he looked tired. He’d obviously dressed in a hurry.
But the sight of him filled my heart with impatience and anxious joy.
So, in other words, hope.
“Come in.”
His eyes lifted to mine, and I felt a pang when I saw how guarded they were, how bracing.
“You should probably put a robe on,” he said gruffly.
I glanced down at myself, saw I was in my normal pajamas—pink cotton sleep shorts and a matching camisole. Of course, when Jethro had slept over I’d been naked.
I stuck my hip out and placed my hand on it. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not putting a robe on.”
“Sienna.”
“Jethro.”
I admit, I used my sexy voice.
His eyes heated.
“I’m not putting a robe on.”
And I wouldn’t. I wasn’t going to put a robe on because if he was here to break up for good, I wasn’t going to make it easy.
No. Way.
“If you can’t control yourself, then don’t control yourself. You have my full permission to ogle and/or touch me however you like.” My breath caught on the last word because as I spoke his eyes narrowed, sharp and predatory, and he took a step into my room.
Holding my gaze captive, he closed the door behind him. With his signature unaffected confidence, he crossed the space and stopped just in front of me, inches separating us. I lifted my chin, balled my hands into fists. I had to force myself not to take a step back. The weight and intensity of his stare was almost too much to endure. But I did.
His eyes dropped to my mouth then to my neck, slid along my collarbone, raising goosebumps wherever his gaze focused. He lifted a large hand and placed it on my arm, the heat and strength of him had me sucking in a breath. His fingers pulled the strap of my top to one side, baring my shoulder to his eyes. Tingles raced down my spine, blossomed in my chest, made my heart thunder between my ears.
His eyes on the skin he’d uncovered, Jethro said, “I’m in love with you.”
I blinked at him, at his admission.
“You . . .” My lips parted and I blinked some more. “I-you . . .”
I was well and truly stunned, because those weren’t the words I’d been bracing for.
Meanwhile, Jethro continued staring at my skin, his thumb rubbing a slow circle on the front of my shoulder, as though spellbound. He pulled the strap farther down, his other hand doing the same to the second strap until my chest was bare to his eyes. Bending at the waist, his strong fingers sliding to my back and pressing me forward, he licked a wet trail around the center of my breast, sucking me into his mouth with an abandoned groan.
We were moving.
He was moving us, walking me backward to the bed. My fingers were in his hair, my nails anchored to his scalp, holding him to me. Tingly sparks ignited beneath my skin, racing over my body. Large, strong hands held me in place as he devoured my skin, biting and sucking, soothing the marks with his hot tongue.
And I was moving.
I slid my hands to his jeans, enjoying how the muscles beneath his plain white tee tensed and hardened under my fingertips. Unfastening the button, then the zipper, I reached for him, my fingers greedy. He hissed as I cupped and stroked him through his boxers. The feel of him, so hard and ready, awakened some primitive part of my mind.
“I’m in love with you,” he repeated, but this time I got the impression he was speaking to himself. His fingers dug into my hips, his thumbs dipping into the band of my shorts, hooking in the elastic. “I want to make love to you.”
“Jethro,” I panted, his words sobering me only slightly, the anticipation both sweet and tortuous.
His mouth met mine, and he kissed me tenderly, yet I could feel how he held himself back. Every muscle strained, tight, rigid.
“Silly Sienna, smart Sienna,” he continued on a low growl against my lips, one hand threading through my hair, the other dipping into my shorts and panties, inching them down my hips. “Sexy Sienna.”
I rushed to say, “I don’t want you to do something you’ll regret.”
He hesitated, but just for a split second, and then he was wrapping the bulk of my hair around his hand and tugging, exposing my neck. The action made me arch, my breasts lifting. He lavished the exposed skin with hot, hungry kisses, my shorts and panties now past my hips to my thighs.
I wanted him, badly. Yet even though his touch burned like fire, my blood simmering—my body hot and aching—I didn’t want him for just one night. I couldn’t remove this thought, this worry from my mind.
He loved me.
He loved me and wanted to make love to me. Right now.
Meanwhile, I wanted the forever he’d promised and didn’t want to do anything to jeopardize it.
“Wait.” I withdrew my fingers from his pants and gripped his shoulders. The wet trail he left exposed to the cool air made me shiver as he traveled lower, easing me onto the bed.
“Do you want me to stop?” he asked gruffly, using his knee to spread my legs as soon as my back hit the mattress.
“No. I don’t want you to stop. But I—”
“Shhh.” His hot breath fanned over my stomach, his hands tugging at the camisole around my waist, lifting it so he could tongue my belly button.
I groaned then swallowed, removing my hands from his shoulders, squeezing my eyes shut, and forcing myself to concentrate. And when I did, I said the first words that popped into my head.
“I love you, too.”
By Mothra’s nipples, I LOVE THIS MAN!
It was everything about him, from how he was a truly talented flirt to his epic levels of capability. No matter what it was, he had it handled. Nothing in the world was more alluring than a capable man.
Jethro’s hands stilled on my thighs. In fact, he stopped moving, period. But I heard him breathe, felt his heart beat against my thigh.
“And this isn’t temporary,” I continued abruptly, pressing my fists into my closed lids. “And you made a promise to yourself, that the next person you would make love to would be your wife. I don’t want you to break your promise, but—Godzilla’s modzilla, Jethro—if you don’t stop right now, I will cheerfully contribute to your downfall and then you’ll never be rid of me.”
Saying nothing, he skimmed his fingertips around to the backs of my legs and lifted my knees, placing them over his shoulders.
“Oh. God.” I swallowed the words, gripping the sheets on either side of me reflexively, because in the next second his hot, wet, skillful mouth was on me and my body strained, entirely tuned to that one blissful spot.
He wasn’t quiet either, lapping with his
tongue, sliding his fingers and groaning as my breath hitched. It felt so good, sinful and right. And I kind of hated that he was a master at this. I especially hated that he had me so turned on I couldn’t savor the feel of him. I was coming apart too soon, my body in various states of anarchy.
Unlike the other times he’d brought me to climax, this time he didn’t draw it out, didn’t chase the second release. Instead he let my legs drop, and stood. I opened my eyes, watched as he pulled several condoms from his back pocket and tossed all but one to the nightstand.
Ensnaring my gaze, he dropped his pants, ripped open the square packet with his teeth, and smoothly rolled a condom down his length.
“Do you want me to stop?” he asked gruffly, reaching for my knees again and spreading my legs.
I shook my head, too stunned by what was happening to give voice to my consent. Also, I was impressed at his condom-rolling skills. I mean, he was super fast.
He paused. “Sienna?”
“Don’t stop,” I breathed, choking on desire and amazement.
With sure movements, he placed a knee on the bed and shifted his hands to my hips, lifting me, sliding his length against my sensitive center. I shuddered and writhed, reaching for him, feeling empty. Then, with a graceful roll of his hips, he entered me.
Slowly at first and not all the way. He took his time, torturing me as he stretched my swollen flesh, though his eyes were blazing. Once again, the intensity there burned. And this time I felt branded.
“Jethro,” I moaned, still reaching for him, near panic with my need to touch him.
Finally, finally he bent forward, smoothly lowering my hips to the bed and planking over me. I greedily touched him everywhere, wanting his skin, his warm chest against mine. But he continued to hold himself at a distance, rolling his hips like a gifted dancer. He didn’t thrust. He rocked. His movements were fluid, stroking me with the most intimate part of himself. It was maddening and so unlike anything I’d ever experienced.
It was perfection.
The view of his arms and chest and stomach bracing his weight while he expertly rocked into my body had me gasping and closing my eyes. I felt him everywhere, though our bodies met only where I lay my hands and where he made love to me.
Fuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
He made love like he walked. Like he spoke. Like he lived. With complete confidence and artless self-assurance. It was straightforward, passionate, and beautiful.
It broke something in me, something I didn’t consciously know existed. A wall I’d built with jokes, flippant comebacks, and careless shrugs. He broke my shield against all those who’d ever criticized my inability to fit in or conform.
Because what he thought mattered.
How he touched me, how he saw me, what he said, and how he spoke to me mattered.
I wanted to please him.
I wanted to drive him crazy, open myself to him, trust him completely.
I wanted to be truly vulnerable.
I wanted him to dominate and cherish and use my body.
I wanted him to want me, need me.
I wanted him satisfied but insatiable, always craving more. Always thinking of me.
With those thoughts spiraling through my mind, tears in my eyes, and frantic longing in my heart, I came apart again, his name tumbling from my lips over and over like a plea.
“I love you,” he growled, kissing my face, my neck, my chest. As my body intuitively tightened around his, his movements quickened but were no less graceful and hypnotic.
“I love you,” I echoed, and then repeated, “I love you.”
And then he captured my mouth with his, and he came. Jethro Winston was my forever person. I would never be strong enough to let him go.
CHAPTER 31
“We have faith that there is purpose. We hope for things we can't see. We believe there are lessons in loss, power in love, and that we have within us the potential for a beauty so magnificent, our bodies can't contain it.”
― Amy Harmon, Making Faces
~Jethro~
Everything was going according to plan, just in the wrong order.
But that was fine. I’d arrived with an agenda. I could now cross off the second item on my list.
We were lying on her bed above the sheets, facing each other, kissing, petting, and getting worked up all over again. I was naked, but she still had her camisole around her waist. I wanted to remove it so I could see and touch her entire gorgeous body.
I started lifting the top and she stilled my movements, the look in her eyes snagging my attention. She looked worried.
“You can tell a joke if you want,” I offered, my voice rough because speaking sense wasn’t coming easy, not after what we’d just done. Not with what we were still doing.
Her eyebrows bounced upward. “Why would I do that?”
“Because that’s what you do when you’re anxious about something.” I palmed her breast, loving how it overflowed in my hand, and I had big hands. Really big hands.
Even though her skin held a flush from our earlier lovemaking, the pink intensified, and she ducked her head.
“Does it bother you?”
I lifted her chin, forcing her to meet my eyes. “No. I love it.” I brushed a kiss over her luscious lips and whispered, “I love everything about you.”
She sighed, and it sounded wounded, sad.
I shifted back so I could see her, noticed she had tears in her eyes. I pushed my fingers into her hair and held her face so she couldn’t hide again.
“Sienna, honey, what’s wrong?”
“I care what you think.”
I lifted an eyebrow at this. “And that’s making you cry?”
She nodded and wrapped her leg around mine, like she was securing our bodies together.
I grinned at her and her beautiful face, and said, “I care what you think.”
She sniffed. “Please don’t regret a single thing that just happened. It was so beautiful. I think I’d have to murder you if you regretted the hottest lovemaking of all time.”
Shaking my head, my eyelids lowered as all parts of my body recalled each exquisite moment. Each hitch of her breath, each reflexive movement. The moment she admitted her love might never be surpassed, but the feel of her supple body, her heat, her submissive, greedy arousal came in a close second.
A very close second.
I’d likely have to take her again soon, just to make sure.
I attempted to soothe her. “I’ll never regret a second of being with you. Being with you is where I belong.”
Her breaths were coming faster than usual; obviously she was still fretting.
“What can I say to calm your fears?” I whispered, kissing her nose.
“I don’t know,” she said, and she looked serious, her eyes darting between mine.
I studied her, wondering if now was the right time to ask her to marry me. But everything was happening backward. She was supposed to be dressed when I arrived. We were supposed to talk, sort through our troubles. I was supposed to make my case.
Then, after she was wearing the ring, we were supposed to make love.
“I’ve been thinking about your proposal,” I started carefully. She was skittish, and I didn’t want to frighten her off.
“Which? Which proposal?”
“That we see each other in secret for a time.”
She swallowed, and her leg tightened over mine. “Oh?”
“You should marry me,” I said suddenly, ripping off the proverbial Band-Aid and nodding at the wisdom of my words. “We should get married.”
Her lips parted, and I was pleased to see most of the anxiety plaguing her expression had disappeared. However, in all fairness, the anxiety was replaced by surprise. She blinked, her mouth moving but no sound coming out.
“Hear me out.” I smoothed my hand from her neck to her hip, tugging her body an inch closer, my grip tightening. “You think we ought to date in secret—”
“
I don’t think—”
“Just listen. I hate that idea. I do. I hate it. Now, part of my hate is because I don’t want to lie to folks. But the other part is selfish. I’m in love with you, and the idea of us being a secret makes me want to break something.” Or cut down all the trees on the mountain.
Her gaze turned warm and soft, and her lush body relaxed into mine, making it difficult for me to think.
“I never—”
“Let me finish,” I growled, the words coming out much gruffer than I’d intended because my heart was now beating at a breakneck pace.
And I wanted her again. I wanted her crying my name and losing her mind. I wanted her begging me to do dirty things, hearing her soft moans and watching her body bounce and ripple and yield beneath mine.
So, yeah.
I was gruff.
“So what I propose is that we do this in secret, at first. We do this slowly, and I work with someone to help lessen the fallout.”
Her face scrunched. “Like an image consultant?”
“Sure. Fine. Just someone who’ll help soften the edges of my past for general consumption, so you aren’t paying the price for my past misdeeds. And I’d pay for it all.” I had plenty of money. My momma came from money; in addition to the house and land, I’d inherited two million dollars last month when I’d turned thirty-one. I’d done nothing with it. It was in a bank in Knoxville collecting dust.
“Jethro—”
“And I’ll sign a prenup, or whatever. I don’t care about your money.”
“I know you don’t.”
“But we’d get married now, before the movie wraps.”
“Wait—”
“I know it might not make sense to you. And I know this is fast, but I’m certain.”
“Listen for a—”
“I could deal with keeping things secret in the short term, if we were engaged,” I finished, frowning so she’d know I was dead serious and had given the matter serious thought.
I couldn’t see her, not really, because my heart was beating in my throat, and I was nervous as hell. So it took me a full minute before she came back into focus, before I stepped out of my own way long enough to see her soft, wondrous smile.