by Lydia Rowan
“Vern, we’re here,” Blakely said.
She hadn’t even noticed they’d moved, but she nodded and grabbed the door handle, preparing to leave. Blakely’s hand on her forearm stopped her.
“Call us, call me, if you need me,” she said.
Verna nodded and whispered a good-night before she walked up the driveway and unlocked the door. She waved out at the cab once she’d stepped in and after it pulled off, she closed the door and relocked it.
And then, as she leaned against the front door, she let the tears come.
Chapter Fifteen
He’d fucked up.
Bad.
Really bad.
Epically bad.
Whether it was so bad that she’d never forgive him he wouldn’t know until he saw her. Which was why, as soon as she’d headed out of Mason’s and into the taxi, he’d been hot on her heels, cursing himself for even being there tonight. The trip hadn’t even been planned. Poole had called and told him that some of the guys were getting together, and given the choice between sitting at home alone or going out, going out had won. If he’d stayed home, he knew all he’d do was think about Verna, wonder what she was up to and who she was up to it with, so catching up with the guys had been a reasonable alternative. Sure, it had sucked when he arrived and saw Westmore, one of his least favorite people, there but still, it was good to see the team again, to feel like he was back when he’d been fully a part of something.
And it had been good, at least at first. He wasn’t plagued by thoughts of Verna or worries about what he was going to do with himself. In fact, he’d been so distracted that he hadn’t even noticed her there with her friends. Which was surprising. The woman seemed to have a homing device inside her set to a frequency that he couldn’t escape. He couldn’t remember a time when he’d been that close to her and been unaware of her presence, and now, as he hurriedly drove home, he wished he had never even seen her. It would have made his life a lot easier now. But he’d caught sight of a woman out of the corner of his eyes, and on second glance, he’d realized it was her.
He’d tried to ignore how seeing her made his heart pound, how, with every fiber of his being, he’d wanted to go to her, pull her into his arms, and hold her tight. Though he, with great, great effort, had kept himself rooted to his seat, his gaze kept straying to her over the hours, the sound of her laughter, the open, unrestrained expression that had been plastered on her face the entire night, making his heart as light as a feather and his cock as hard as a stone. It was a terrible, wonderful, confusing set of emotions, emotions he’d never felt before. Somewhere along the way, the infuriating woman had wormed her way under his skin, into his soul, and he had no fucking clue what to do about it and sitting with a tableful of SEAL buddies certainly wasn’t the place to sort it out.
So he was powerless, stuck feeling things that he couldn’t examine and tortured by the knowledge that she was there, sharing a space with him but not with him as he’d acknowledged, with no small degree of discomfort, he’d wanted her to be.
And then she’d smiled at him, her eyes light with friendliness that he wanted to replace with the desire and affection that so often filled them when they were alone. He’d nodded at her, trying to communicate his happiness to see her, his desire to see her later, while not giving anything away to the rest of the room. But Poole hadn’t been fooled. The man had looked at him with knowing eyes, and that he hadn’t said a word reminded Joe of why he counted him as a friend. He couldn’t say the same about Westmore. Apparently, Joe’s little tip of the cap to Verna had attracted the other man’s attention, and when he’d looked over at the table at Verna, he’d released a snort of derision.
“Ugh,” he’d said.
Joe’d tried to ignore him, so he took another sip of his water and looked at the other guys. Westmore had been undeterred.
“That’s unfortunate,” he’d said, and when no one had followed up with a question, he’d just continued on, “the other three are okay if you’re into that sort of thing, but that one”—he gestured toward Verna—“there’s not enough lipstick in the world to gussy up that pig.”
Joe’s fists clenched and a look over at Poole had showed that the other man’s eyes had gone flat and his shoulders were tense; he appeared ready to speak, and swing if need be, not that Westmore, idiot that he was, had noticed. But Sommers, who’d tagged along though he hadn’t known many of the others, and was smarter than his youth and cocky, carefree demeanor would suggest, had, and he’d smoothly redirected the conversation to another topic.
After a few beats, Poole relaxed, and Joe gave him a commiserating head shake. Joe figured Matt’s concern was probably more directed toward one of Verna’s companions, but Joe had appreciated it anyway.
And he’d been royally pissed at himself for letting the insult go. He’d wanted to bash Westmore’s face in, but something, confusion about his feelings for Verna, unwillingness to examine what such a strong reaction revealed about them, hell, probably all of the above had kept him still. But as the minutes had passed, he’d felt himself loosening, letting the camaraderie distract him.
And then he’d sensed her moving toward them, but he’d kept his gaze trained away, hoping she wouldn’t stop and hating himself for it. Wishful thinking because in a blink of an eye, he felt her hand on his shoulder and heard her cheerful greeting, one he’d never tire of and one that he missed when he was forced to go without it.
But he’d been frozen. Torn between what he wanted to be and what he thought he should be, somehow suddenly convinced that if he turned toward her and kissed her as he normally would have, that if he’d even done anything to acknowledge her, he’d be shutting the door on the man he used to be.
So he’d done nothing, and it had only been after she’d walked away that he’d realized that he wouldn’t have been shutting a door but rather opening one that led to his future.
She’d been gone by then, and the moment had passed.
One of the guys had cracked some stupid joke, and he’d laughed mechanically. And then he’d looked up and directly at Verna, catching her eyes just as she’d turned away. The shock in them had been quickly covered, but he hadn’t missed it. He’d imagined that to everyone else she’d looked collected, but he’d seen the pain that marked her. It had been evident in her face and in that nervous way she’d smiled, the left side of her mouth a touch higher than the right—that expression almost always gave her away when she tried to hide something—in the seemingly unconscious way that she’d wiped her hands against one another and then down her jeans, that fidget a reminder of all the times he’d seen her uncomfortable in her own skin but valiantly trying to hide it.
Then she’d been gone and Joe had wanted to rip his own face off, do something, anything, to take his hateful actions back. He hadn’t wasted the effort trying to pretend that she’d misread the situation, and had instead looked at Poole, who’d given him a hard stare that was equal parts disappointed and angry. Joe would have willingly let his friend beat him to a bloody pulp if he’d thought it would help. He’d have probably let him do it anyway just because he deserved it, and Matt had looked like he wouldn’t have minded doing so at all. After a final stern glare that said they’d discuss this topic again, Poole had looked over toward Verna’s table, his gaze following one of the other women as she’d walked to the restrooms and retrieved Verna.
Joe hadn’t pretended not to watch them, but Verna had stubbornly refused to look in his direction, though her demeanor had seemed pretty normal, the overbrightness of her eyes one of the only clues to her distress. When she and her friends had left, he’d made a hasty retreat, making no secret of his hurry. He’d felt the urgent need to see her, reassure her if he could, and he hadn’t let social graces stand in his way.
Now, as he parked in his driveway, he looked over at her house, the dim light from her bedroom shining in the night. He seriously considered leaving it until tomorrow, but decided he needed to talk to her now. He knew Ve
rna, knew that she’d take his words as truth, and the longer he let her believe them, the harder it would be to convince her otherwise. So, tail figuratively tucked between his legs and heart in his throat, he walked across the side lawn that separated their houses and knocked on the door.
And waited.
And waited longer.
After a few more minutes, he stepped back and looked up toward her second floor. The light he’d seen earlier still shined, which meant she was home. And if she was home and not answering the door, she had to be avoiding him. Not that he blamed her, but he couldn’t let her, or himself, hide from this.
He stepped back toward the front door and knocked again, this time harder, more urgently, and in less than five seconds, he heard the lock click and the creak of the door as she opened it. Though the foyer was barely lit, the moon cast a glow on her face, making her dark eyes shine and giving her an almost angelic sheen. She pulled the door open a little wider, but made no move to allow him in. She was clad in the roomy T-shirt and cotton pants she favored for pajamas, and for a moment, he could have been convinced that he’d interrupted her sleep, that this was like any other day and that she’d soon issue a stinging reprimand for him daring to come over so late into the evening that it was now technically morning.
He wasn’t, though. Yes, she had all those familiar trappings, but her eyes were off. They were flat, guarded, suspicious, nothing at all what he’d become accustomed to—what he’d come to crave—seeing when Verna looked at him. Whether teasing or yelling or deep in the throes of passion, Verna’s eyes had always been open, revealing who she was inside, revealing that gentle spirit that the hardness and humor had grown around to protect.
But now, because he’d been so thoughtless and uncaring, there was a wariness in her gaze. While he’d seen a similar look before, back when they’d first met, this look in her eyes now had an alien quality that had his gut churning. He’d lost her trust; he could see so in her hooded expression, could feel the distance between them growing as he stood on her porch as he had countless times before.
“Um, Joe, hi,” she said, sounding sleepy and slightly surprised. “Is everything okay?”
He nodded and took a step closer, but she still didn’t move to allow him in.
“I, uh, it’s a little late, and I’m very tired. Can we catch up some other time?” she asked, her voice still sleepy and slightly befuddled-sounding, like she had no earthly idea what would have brought him to her doorstep at this hour.
“Please, Verna, let me in,” he said, a needy, almost harsh edge in his voice.
Her eyes widened at his tone, and she moved an increment, just enough for him to slide his body into the foyer. He pushed the door closed and locked it, then turned to look at her. Her face still had that confused expression, her full lips slightly parted and a brow lifted in question. Anger, lightning quick and inferno hot, flashed through him at the visible proof of what he’d done to her.
She should have been raging at him, cursing him for treating her so badly, but instead, she retreated into that damned shell, probably thought she was getting what she deserved, and he hated himself even more for not understanding until this very moment that she didn’t believe she deserved better. That she didn’t demand better.
“Please what—”
She stopped abruptly, and then he stared at her, silently begged her to get mad, to do something.
She didn’t. No, she just stared back at him, unblinking eyes wide, and it almost gutted him. He’d done this to her. Arm extended, he approached her and was happy as he could be given the circumstances that she didn’t pull away when he grabbed her hands. Her long fingers were strong, warm, in his hand, and he couldn’t resist stroking the little callus on her index finger from where she’d held her pencil too tight.
She’d once fretted about the callus, said that it made her “big, stupid” hands, as she’d called them, look even more masculine. But he’d just rubbed it and told her that it proved she was working hard for her dream and she should be proud of it. And for one of the few times he could recall, she hadn’t argued. She’d just nodded briskly, a slight smile on her face, and he’d been overtaken with the need to show her just how feminine he thought she was.
The current expression on her face told him that she was remembering that time as well, except now, filtered through his stupidity, it probably wasn’t the pleasant memory of an afternoon together but just another confirmation that his words of encouragement and affection had been nothing but lies.
He laced his fingers through hers and didn’t break eye contact as he lifted her hand and placed a soft kiss on that little callus. But Verna didn’t respond; she stood with that same wide-eyed expression. Joe started getting desperate. He couldn’t let her push him out like that, not now when he’d just started to see how much she meant to him. He kissed that spot on her finger again and then moved to place a kiss on her palm and then one on her wrist, right where he could faintly feel the thump of her heart under his lips.
That got a reaction, faint, but nonetheless present. The little streak of desire that had lit her eyes in the instant before she’d snuffed it was a tiny drop in the ocean of need that usually lit her eyes, but he’d take it. The alternative, letting her go and retreat into herself until everything they’d shared became, at least in her mind, a fantasy, something that hadn’t been real, was no alternative at all. He’d wanted to talk to her, throw himself at her mercy and beg for her forgiveness, but if he had to do it with his body and not his words, he’d do so gleefully if it meant he had a chance to get through to her.
He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her against his body, but she stayed rigid and didn’t melt into him or press her curves against him as she usually did. The weight of her unrestrained breasts pressed against his chest, the soft curve of her belly against his stomach, and when she leaned back, he stared down at her, hoping she could see his remorse and that she believed it. She returned his stare, but her eyes were dark, unreadable, and for the first time since he’d met her, that connection that had always pulled him toward her, even when he’d tried to pretend it didn’t exist, felt as if it had been severed.
That unreadable expression in her eyes remained as she reached up and rested her hands against his shoulders and then stretched up and brushed her lips against his, tentative at first, but then harder, almost frantically, her tongue darting between his lips. He mimicked her actions, returning her fervor with his own, and everything faded. The only thing that mattered in that moment was touching her, being inside her, showing her how much he cared.
As they stumbled their way up the stairs and into her bedroom, her hands roamed over his body, her urgency matching his own. She pulled at his shirt, sighing out a groan of displeasure when he broke contact to remove it. She did the same, and soon both were naked, her body bathed in the moonlight, the shadows and light playing against the curves and shining off the brown of her skin.
He stepped toward her and wrapped his arms around her body, roving his hands over her hips, down the roundness of her thighs. Her nipples were hard little points that poked into his chest, the scrape of the tight buds against his skin setting off little explosions of sensation where they touched him.
After breaking his hold, she walked backward and lay across the bed. Her gaze connected with his and, without breaking eye contact, she spread her thighs and beckoned to him. The hurt in her gaze was as clear as her desire, and he wanted nothing more than to chase it away. That thought in mind, he stretched out atop her, the feel of her soft form beneath him more perfect than it had ever been before.
The warmth radiating from her pussy burned against him, and he stroked his cock between her lips, rubbing his crown against her clit until they both cried out. Cream seeped from her, coating his shaft. More than anything, he wanted to bury himself in her warmth, feel her against him skin to skin. But he knew that he couldn’t, no matter how much he wanted to or how good it would have been.
She
bucked beneath him and traced her lips along his neck and jaw, asking without words for what she wanted. He sheathed himself quickly, relieved that Verna had started to keep condoms in her nightstand, and began pushing inside her, torn between the need to feel himself buried inside her with the desire to make this first entry last as long as he possibly could.
In the end, it was Verna who decided by wrapping her legs around his hips and pushing down, urging him to go deeper, faster, her harsh breaths against his ear and the way she gripped at his sides sending his need into overdrive. He thrust hard, spearing her, and she released a sound that was half moan, half sigh, the relief in that sound mirroring what he felt.
As he moved inside her, he captured her head in his hands and held her gaze with his. She moaned out her pleasure, her murmured sighs and pants impassioned enough to make him forget anything but drawing more sounds, driving that urgency and desire that had her thrashing beneath him higher and higher until she reached her peak. And so he did, thrusting into her with hard, sure strokes, reaching down to thrum her clit, but not for a single instant allowing his gaze to stray from hers.
Her walls clamped down around him, drawing a groan from him, and with one final tweak of her clit, he felt her come apart in his arms, her body taut with her orgasm. He followed her in an instant, his cum exploding from his body, the physical pleasure and the emotional edge mixing to create a mind-blowing sensation. Pulling her closer, he rode the wave with her until they were both spent.
He stayed inside her as long as he was able, a sense of loss piercing his chest when he slipped out of her, noticing she’d closed her eyes. After disposing of the used condom, he reached out for Verna and wrapped his arms around her. He kissed her softly, nuzzled her ear, her neck, her cheek, but she didn’t look at him.
“Verna,” he whispered in her ear, his voice rough with emotion, “I’m sorry.”
She kept her eyes closed.