The Hero of Hope Springs

by Maisey Yates

  “Sammy?” His voice was rusty from sleep, and there was something in his tone that made it sound like he thought he might still be dreaming. And so she just did what she’d done so many times before. She crept over to his bed, lifted the covers and climbed beneath them with him.

  His body was stiff beside her, and he was rigid, looking up at the ceiling, and not at her.

  “If you think that you’re going to climb into bed half-naked with me just so we can lie together...”

  “That’s not what I’m here for,” she whispered.

  She put her hand on his chest. His bare chest.

  He had always worn clothes to bed before.

  And then... Then she wondered.

  “Do you always sleep naked?” She assumed he was naked. Suddenly, it was like a torment to keep her palm still where it was on his chest when she wanted to let it drift down, explore more of his body.

  “Yes,” he said gruffly.

  “So when I used to get in bed with you...”

  “When you started coming to my room I made sure that I was always dressed. I slept that way until after you quit coming.”

  She blinked into the darkness. “For me?”

  “I always wanted you to trust me, Sammy. But this... We can’t share a bed like that. Not now. It’s too late. It changed already and it can’t go back.”

  “Well, I didn’t take my clothes off for fun,” she said. Then she laughed. “Actually, I did.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “No one’s ever made me feel like that before. And I want to feel it again.”

  “I’m not just going to give you an orgasm and let it be done.”

  “I didn’t expect you to.”

  “Sammy...”

  She scrabbled across the mattress and threw her thigh over his body, so that she was sitting on top of him. The hard length of him was settled between her legs, and she gasped.

  She had a much better idea of his size in this position than she had last night. But then, she had barely touched him last night. And she could touch him now. All over.

  She had never... She had never been with a man like this.

  And moreover, she had never been with her friend. Both of those things combined to make this feel entirely new and different. Frightening and exciting and exhilarating.

  She slowly let her fingertips drift across his chest. Across his chest hair. And she shuddered.

  His hands came up, grabbing hold of her hips, holding her steady against him.

  And his eyes blazed up into hers.

  He was so handsome, her friend.

  She had always felt a sense of pride about that.

  That her protector was such a beautiful piece of art.

  A man carved from stone. That perfect, square jaw and blade of a nose. His intense eyes and large hands. Broad shoulders.

  He was wonderful. Wonderful in every way.

  But she had never appreciated him physically in quite this way before.

  And again she had to wonder at the inevitability of it.

  She imagined most people would have thought that they’d done it a long time ago.

  But it really hadn’t been about this. Because then it couldn’t have been.

  And now it felt like it had to be.

  So who was she to deny either of them?

  She leaned down, ready to kiss his mouth, when he shifted his hands, bringing them behind her to cup her butt, squeezing her hard. She gasped. Then those big, rough hands started roaming over her bare body, her back between her shoulder blades and back down again. She gritted her teeth, trying to keep herself still. But her hips were rocking involuntarily, and it was difficult for her to keep herself steady.

  “Let me,” she whispered.

  He growled, and suddenly she found herself flat on her back with him over her, his eyes looking into hers.

  “No,” he said. “Let’s get one thing straight. I held myself back for a lot of years. And you bringing it here like this... Baby, I am not going to sit back and let you take control. You chose this. You’re here. That was your power move.”

  “I knew you wanted me,” she whispered, not quite sure what possessed her to say it out loud. Except that she wanted to find her own a little bit, and with him so hard and dark and powerful above her it was difficult to do that. It was difficult to breathe, much less feel power.

  “Hell, yes,” he said. “I want you. And I did my damnedest not to. Because you used to climb in my bed like this when you were sixteen years old.”

  “And you think I didn’t know what happened between men and women back then? I wasn’t a virgin.”

  What would she have thought if Ryder would have looked at her this way then? If he would have touched her then?

  “I know that,” he said. “But that wasn’t the point. You came to me for protection. You trusted me. I would never have done anything to violate that. But now you’re here.” He planted his palm firmly between her breasts, let one finger drift over and touch her nipple. “You’re here and you’re like this. So you’re the one that made it...”

  “I want you, too,” she said.

  “You better the hell,” he said. “Because I don’t want you here just because you’re trying to manipulate me, or say sorry to me, or whatever else this might be.”

  “No,” she said. “That’s not it. I would never take a risk with our friendship for those reasons.”

  “Nothing’s going to risk our friendship,” he said, his voice rough. “We’ve already been through all the hell a person can go through.”

  She found that comforting in a way. More than a way.

  Because if they couldn’t be broken outside this bed, through all the things they’d been through in life, then how could they possibly break in it? They were too strong, their friendship was too real. Ryder was and had been everything to her for seventeen years. There was no more defining relationship in her life. He was a man who had moved her from the darkness and into Neverland. But what she was discovering was that eventually everyone had to grow up. And why shouldn’t he be the man to help with that, too? Why shouldn’t he be the one to help her with that here?

  It could just be part of who they were. And maybe part of who they were always meant to be.

  She had to believe in fate. In the good of the world working to create a better end. That the hands of time had a point and a purpose, and that they were driving everything toward that inevitable place where love would conquer all.

  Because wasn’t that every story? Wasn’t that the essence of faith?

  A deep, real belief that seemed to grow from the center of the earth and up through the ground. The roots of humanity.

  And there were villains; there always would be.

  Men like her father who were selfish and wanted nothing to do with the good or beautiful things in life.

  But it wasn’t what the world was made of. It wasn’t the deep essence or truth of what it meant to be a person.

  And believing that like she did, she had to believe that her life was headed somewhere good.

  That it had been from the moment Ryder had reached his hand out to her in that stall all those years ago.

  It had to be.

  He pulled the covers off them and switched on the bedside lamp.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’ve waited seventeen years for it, Sammy. I want to see this happen.”

  “You really wanted this?”

  “Yes,” he said. “But I didn’t let myself.” That big, heavy hand rested on her breast, slid down her waist, to her hip bone. He moved his thumb up and down slowly, the callus scraping over her tender skin.

  “You trusted me then,” he said, his voice rough. “You trust me now. I’m going to take care of you.”

  Of course he was. That
had always been true. Ryder had taken care of her from the moment she had passed into his sphere. From the moment she had become his responsibility, because it was who he was as a man. She loved that about him.

  She squeezed her eyes shut tight, and then opened them again.

  He was naked, but she couldn’t see him, not in the position they were in. She could see the cords on his neck standing out, showing all of the self-control it was taking him to hold steady now. She could see the flex of the muscles in his shoulders, his chest. The intensity in his face. The deep grooves between his eyebrows, the firm set of his lips.

  She couldn’t see all of his body, but she could see him.

  In a real and intimate way. In a way she had never seen him before.

  And she could feel him.

  The hard ridge of him pressed between her legs, against where she was throbbing for him.

  It was such a foreign feeling, this deep, aching desire shared with another person.

  She knew about arousal with a man in a bland way. It wasn’t that she didn’t get excited in this kind of situation. But not like this.

  Not need that seemed to fill her to overflowing while hollowing her out all at the same time.

  It was different, and so was he. Different as a lover, and different because he was him.

  If she had been asked to imagine what it would be like to have sex with Ryder only a week ago, she would have said that it would be awkward.

  That she might giggle and laugh because he was her friend, and what business did they have seeing each other naked?

  But there was nothing funny about this moment. And sex for her often had a bit of lightness infused with it. But not this.

  Not now.

  It felt momentous and potentially altering, and normally she would have wanted to run from it. She didn’t, though, not now. Because it felt essential to who she might become as a person.

  Because it felt like a reclaiming of something she hadn’t even known she needed.

  To have a man look at her like this. Like he was starving for her. Like he was so hungry he might devour her completely. And maybe that was the real issue. She had never had a man look at her like this before because she had never been ready for a man like this.

  She had never been ready for the commitment that was required to feel these things, to give back what needed to be given in order to create a connection like this.

  Because it was so big, so intense, and there wasn’t another man on the planet that she could’ve ever trusted to hold on to these feelings. Except she could trust him. Because he was Ryder, and he was wonderful. Because he had always taken care of her. And he would even now.

  He hooked his finger into the waistband of her panties and started to pull them down her legs, revealing that last secret from him, even though he had tasted her intimately last night.

  She knew he hadn’t seen her. Not like this.

  He let out a curse. Short and sharp, and somehow, it sounded more like a prayer.

  Especially when he whispered her name at the end like a hallelujah chorus. Especially then.

  He pushed himself up then, on his knees in front of her, looming above her where she lay. And she could see him.

  Her mouth went dry.

  She had never, ever thought of herself as the kind of woman who cared much about things like that. The size of a man, when after all, weren’t there endless articles on the internet talking about how size didn’t matter anyway? And that whatever women thought they might feel they were wrong, because the scientific fact was you couldn’t tell, etc. etc.

  But her whole body tensed with excitement looking at him. Hands down the biggest man she had ever seen.

  Big all over. And on some level, she had figured that he must be proportionate, and it wasn’t like she hadn’t thought about it.

  She was human.

  She often pondered, in a passing sense, the penis size of the men around her.

  She was curious by nature.

  But this was visceral, and it was real, knowledge that hit her deeply and was extremely relevant to what would be happening to her soon. Very soon.

  His body was so beautiful, sculpted, perfect, and she had the desire, almost overwhelming, to worship it.

  So it was her turn to get up on her knees, and when she did she kissed his chest. His neck. Migrating along his hard-cut jaw until she captured his mouth. And when she slid her tongue against his he growled. She could feel the heavy length of him twitch against her hip bone. Reflexively, she reached between them, curling her fingers around that hardness.

  So smooth and hot and heavy in her hand.

  “You’re beautiful,” she whispered. “Like art. Like art I want to lick.”

  A growl rumbled in his chest as she kissed her way down his body, angling herself in front of his masculinity and flicking her tongue over the head of him.

  Salty and musky and wonderfully him.

  It was such an absurdly intimate thing to do to her best friend, and yet it never felt wrong.

  He had been there for her all this time, this wonderful, incredibly beautiful man. And he had existed like this during all those years.

  Just this beautiful. Just this incredible, and able to give her pleasure that no other man ever had.

  And she felt nothing but wonder at that. And what was there to do but take him in deep and express that wonder with everything she had.

  He pushed his fingers through her hair, holding on to her tight, and the hollow ache between her legs intensified. Grew. Expanded.

  How was it that pleasuring him only increased the desire in her?

  She didn’t understand how it worked.

  And she wondered if he felt this last night, felt it and then had to leave without any kind of satisfaction.

  It made her believe what he’d said about walking away.

  That he’d really done it because of her.

  Because he was worried that she was afraid. Because he hadn’t wanted to take advantage of her or the moment.

  And that only made her want to pleasure him all the more. But she was feeling restless.

  She pressed her own fingers down between her legs and tried to ease the ache as she worked him with her mouth.

  “Don’t,” he said, his voice rough.

  He grabbed hold of her hand and took it away from herself.

  “That’s for me to do. You have to wait.”

  She was ready to call him out on his extremely unfair behavior, but the problem was, he probably had a point considering she was one up on him in orgasm land.

  Though he was probably a great many up on her when it came to having them with someone.

  But not with each other. That was the thing.

  This whole thing that was happening with each other was singular and different, and she didn’t want to sully it by bringing in other people. Not at all.

  So she obeyed, which was uncharacteristic of her, but felt right in the moment.

  And she continued to pleasure him with her mouth until he moved her away and lifted her against him, kissing her mouth and sliding those rough fingers down between her thighs as he kissed her deeper and deeper still. As he stroked her, light and teasing, then firm and intense, pushing the pleasure that centered there into a white-hot inferno. One arm was wrapped around her like a steel band, pressing her breasts against his hard chest as he continued to kiss her; the other hand relentlessly teasing her between her legs. And when he pushed a finger inside her, his eyes were blazing into hers.

  She couldn’t breathe. And for a moment she felt like splintering glass. The cracks growing and expanding until she shattered completely. And when she did, he caught her in his strong arms and laid her down on the bed.

  He was poised above her, positioned between her thighs.

  And suddenly, she couldn�
�t breathe.

  The blunt head of his arousal pressed against the slick entrance to her body, and he began to fill her. Ryder.

  Him.

  Inside her.

  And it was like the air changed between them, like he could feel the difference, too. Like the whole world had tilted on its side, and whatever roots she had been so certain were there only a few minutes before were twisted and gnarled and unfamiliar to her.

  Like she didn’t know who she was or where she might be going. Or which way the world spun or why.

  He was inside her.

  And it was almost too much to take. Too big to breathe around.

  He was over her, in her, breathing her same air. And when he lowered his head, a shudder racking his big frame, something inside her cracked.

  Because he was shaking.

  Her mountain.

  And if even her rock could tremble, she didn’t know if they could survive.

  She had been so certain that neither of them would break here in this bed, but suddenly she wondered if this was the very place they might.

  But then she couldn’t think at all, couldn’t breathe.

  Because the pleasure that she felt was so deep, so all-consuming. And it was something other than pleasure. Something more. And it was something different than sex in the way that she understood it. And it wasn’t just because he was so large, so big that he seemed to touch every part of her. It wasn’t just that the way he moved seemed to touch her in amazing ways that she hadn’t realized existed.

  It was more. It was him.

  They were skin to skin in a deep and real way she had never been with anyone, because of course she had always used protection in the past, and they weren’t using it now. But it didn’t feel like it was part of the whole baby situation. Instead, this felt entirely separate. Like it was something just between the two of them and whatever happened after would simply be.

  Because maybe when this was all finished they would know.

  Maybe it would shift everything, change everything, and maybe then she would understand. What to do and where to go from here, what it meant for them, meant for everything.

  But then he began to move. And there was nothing. Nothing but the moment. Nothing but him. Nothing but this.