Yours: A Standalone Contemporary Romance

by Jasinda Wilder

  I shrug. “Not always. I’d take on a crew here and there, and they’d stick with me until they found somewhere else they wanted to be. There’s always someone willing to work in exchange for food and passage to somewhere else. The itinerant community is pretty solid, actually, once you delve into it.”

  “How’d you end up in Oklahoma, then?”

  Here we go.

  “That’s kind of a crazy story.” I pause, to gather my courage. “I didn’t just end up down here by accident, actually—”

  “HEY!” A gruff, loud voice shouts from behind us. I pivot, see a flashlight beam aiming at us. “I see ya’ll out here. Ya’ll in my field. This here is private property.”

  I stand up. Wave. “Sorry, we were just—”

  He’s an older fella, standing in the open door of his truck, a shotgun in hand. “I know what ya’ll was fixin’ to do. And ya’ll ain’t doing it in my field. No way, no how. Now get on.”

  “Let’s go, Lock.”

  I pack up quickly, throw the blanket over my shoulder, and we make our way across the field. The owner has one foot up on the running board of his truck, shotgun dangling from one hand, the other gripping the top of the doorframe. A little portly, graying.

  “Ya’ll git. Can’t just go on other folks’ property whenever you want.”

  “We didn’t mean any harm. We were just hanging out,” I say, stuffing the blanket into the basket and tying the basket down into the bed. “Sorry to have bothered you.”

  “Hangin’ out my fat old white ass. Only one thing young folks do out in a field at night.”

  “We’re leaving,” Niall says, hopping into the driver’s seat before I can. “Sorry.”

  I slide into the passenger seat, and once the owner has backed out and turned around, we’re out after him and heading back toward town and Niall’s place.

  I’m stewing, because I was this close to telling her.

  I still could.

  Still should.

  But now the moment has passed, and my heart is pounding.

  Why is it so scary to think of telling her?

  Because it’ll be the end. Once I tell her, that’ll be it for whatever we’ve got going on. And I like what we’ve got going on.

  We talk about my travels on the way back, mostly harmless stories of places I’ve been, things I’ve seen, not really delving into any of the crazy stuff, yet.

  Before I know it, we’re in her driveway. Parked. Engine off, radio on, windows down.

  Stars twinkle above us, crickets call. An owl hoots.

  Sudden silence between us.

  I’m psyching myself up to start over, to get this off my chest.

  Niall is picking at her fingernail, staring down. And then her gaze lifts, finding mine. Her eyes search mine, the way she did before. Looking for something. Seeing into me. Maybe if she looks hard enough, she’ll see the truth, and I won’t have to tell her.

  “Fuck it,” she whispers. That was to herself, not to me.

  And then she kisses me again. Grabs my beard, pulls me close. Buries her fingers in my hair. Reaches down, unbuckles her seatbelt. Fumbles at mine. I hear it click, feel it go slack against my arm. I let it go free, spooling back in against the cab frame. Her lips are warm, wet. She tastes like wine. My head is spinning. I’m telling myself to pull away, tell her I can’t, tell her I have something to tell her, but I can’t. I can’t.

  I fucking can’t.

  I’m not strong enough.

  All I’m strong enough to do is slide my palm against her neck, brush her hair away, brush my thumb across the corner of her mouth. Slide my touch down her shoulder, to her side, to her waist. Pull her close. Kiss her until I’m reeling.

  There’s a momentary break, Niall is gasping for breath, pulling back ever so slightly, staring at me as if stunned by the kiss. Eyes searching mine, fingers in my hair, tracing my nape, feeling the muscles in my shoulder.

  “Jesus,” she whispers. Again, more to herself than me. “So good. I need it—I…”

  Instead of finishing, instead of telling me what she needs, she leans into me. Somehow we’re going horizontal, me on bottom, my back on the bench, Niall above me, one knee between my thighs, hands on my face, hands roaming. Touching my pecs, tickle-tracing the lines of my ribs. And kissing me, Jesus, she’s kissing the ever-loving fuck out of me, demanding this kiss be the most epic kiss there’s ever been. All lips and tongues and teeth, hungry, desperate, devouring kisses. I can’t help but kiss her back, can’t help but respond to the need I feel in her.

  She’s fully on top of me, some of her weight braced on her knee, but most is on me. And it feels so good, so perfect. I cup her nape in one hand and let my other find the center of her back, find the hem where her scrub top has ridden up, the lab coat slipped to one side. Soft, warm skin. Firm muscles, soft skin, lush curves. I’m touching her, find the inches of skin one by one. Up, up, to the lower edge of her bra strap. Down. Back down, closer and closer to the tempting swell of her ass.

  I slide my hand under the drawstring waistband and palm her ass. She groans, murmurs into my mouth, and breaks the kiss. She rests her forehead against my shoulder. I knead the firm, round globe, and she lets out a breath as if this touch is reaching not just her flesh but also some long-neglected portion of her soul.

  She lifts her head, eyes open and on mine. Lips swollen, wet, parted slightly, gleaming in the starlight. And then she slowly, slowly lowers her mouth to mine, and this time it’s soft and delicate and sweet, slow as molasses.

  I’m getting lost to this.

  I want this more than I’ve ever wanted anything.

  But I break the kiss. She’s confused. Lifts up, braces her palm on my chest. And Jesus goddamn, I’ve got a hell of an amazing downblouse view of her perfect cleavage. Hint of nipple, even, the way she’s falling out of her bra. God, I’m hard as a rock, and I know she feels it.

  We can’t do this—that’s what should come out of my mouth.

  “You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.” That’s what does come out.

  Her lip trembles, her eyes close. A tear trickles down.

  Now what did I do?

  The worst me is just a long gone memory

  How could he know? Could he see how badly I needed to hear that? I’m ashamed of my tears, of the involuntary way they squeeze from my eyes.

  I’m on top of this gorgeous guy, kissing him with all the desperation I possess—which is a lot. And now I’m crying. He’s confused, reaching up in that adorably hesitant way he has—as if he’s not sure he’s doing it right—to wipe away the tear.

  “What’d I say?” he asks.

  “The right thing, for once.”

  “Oh. Then why are you crying?”

  I shake my head. How do I explain it? I can’t. It would take too long, and I don’t want to talk.

  I want to kiss him again.

  I want to get lost in it.

  God, I’m already lost in it. I can taste him on my lips, feel his hand on my butt, feel him tracing my curves. And I want more. So much more. It’s been so long and I’ve been so lonely, so cooped up in this little nowhere town, and I’m desperate enough to just give in. I can’t resist it anymore.

  It’s foolish. I barely know him. He’s a vagrant, an itinerant. He’ll move on. But I don’t care about that right now. All I care about is the need.

  I sit up. Pull him with me. Open my door. Get out, turn back and look at him. “Come inside with me.”

  I wait at front of the truck as he slides out through the driver’s side, closes the door behind him. I take his hand, hoping it’s obvious what I mean, what I want. I should be nervous, should be terrified. It’s been a long time since I’ve done this with anyone, let alone with anyone except—no. No thinking his name, not now. It’s been a very, very long time since I’ve done this; that’s enough truth for now.

  But I’m not afraid and I don’t know why.

  I know I’m crazy for this. For Lock. For his h
ands, for his mouth, for how he makes me feel. For what I hope he will make me feel, once we get inside.

  I’m up on the porch, unlocking the door.

  But then Lock’s hands are on my waist, spinning me in place. The screen door slams closed, and he presses me up against it. Cups his hand against my hip and palms my cheek. Feathers his lips against mine.

  “Lock, come in with me.” I whisper it again.

  I reach up, grip his wrist.

  Silver light from the full moon glints off my diamond. I see Lock’s eyes flit from my eyes to the diamond, and just like that the spell is shattered.

  “Fuck.” Lock grates the word, growls it. Backs away. “Fuck. I’m such a bastard.”

  He turns abruptly and jumps off the porch, jogging away.

  “LOCK!” I shout his name. “Wait! Just…wait.”

  “I can’t, Niall—I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” He’s in the yard, backing away, passing his hand through his hair, distraught, angry.

  But not at me, I don’t think. At himself?

  “I can take them off, Lock. Just… come back.”

  He shakes his head. “You don’t understand. You don’t—you can’t. Fuck!” With this last curse, he turns away again and starts running. Literally running away from me.

  He’s right—I don’t understand.

  The only thing I know right now is that I’m worked up, wild, horny, raging with need, turned on and left needing him. And he fucking ran away from me.

  I’m so confused.

  I let myself into the house, not bothering to lock the front door behind me. I stumble mindlessly to my bedroom and flop onto my bed. My fingers find my lips; they’re swollen from kissing. My nipples are so hard they ache. My core is throbbing. My stomach flutters. And god, my mind? It’s manic. Crazed. I keep seeing him, feeling him. In those moments with Lock, before he bolted, I felt so…alive.

  I felt his powerful hands on my ass, kneading and gripping. I felt his lips on mine. I felt his beard tickling and scratching my face, and I smelled the essence of pine he must oil it with—a heady, masculine smell.

  And holy fucking hell, I felt his erection. It was a thick, steel-ridge presence between us. It felt so thick, so hard, and I could almost feel it in my palm. It’d be warm. Soft skin against my palm. I could feel every inch of it, and judging by what I felt in his jeans, there are a lot of inches.

  I tug on the drawstring of my scrubs. I picture Lock naked. I start at his torso, bare, muscular. I picture him peeling his shirt off, crossing his arms in front of him and grabbing the hem of his T-shirt, dragging it off, flexing his pecs and abs in the process. In my fantasy, he swaggers toward me. Maybe we’re out in a field, under the moonlight, like earlier. But alone. Miles from anyone. Shit, we could walk out my back door and be utterly alone within ten minutes; once we got past that stand of cottonwoods there’d be no one to see, no one to hear.

  In my fantasy, I’ve got my back against a tree trunk, watching Lock. He tosses his shirt aside. Reaches down, unbuttons the fly of his jeans. Lowers the zipper. Stalks a little closer. Jeans ride low on his hips, the waistband of boxer briefs showing above. There’s that bulge, thick against the material of his underwear. That V-cut, that sexy indentation of muscle leading down under to the Promised Land. His eyes would be blazing, like sunlight reflecting off seawater. He’d stop a few inches away from me, staring down at me, daring me.

  And you bet I’d be up for the dare. I’d reach out, tug the jeans down. He’d step out of them, kick them aside. Nothing but his underwear. Big bulge begging for my touch. I imagine my own hands reaching out, slipping under the elastic, finding hot thick warmth. He’d moan a little, maybe shift his hips in a silent plea for me to touch him more. Shit, yeah, touch him more. Slide my fist down around him.

  My fingers—in real life, in the sad reality of me alone in my room, lying on my bed fully clothed, my cat watching—slip under my panties, down to my core.

  I imagine Lock with that underwear gone. Standing naked in front of me, his beautiful erection in my hand, and his eyes on me, desperate, pleading. He’s at my mercy. He wants this.

  But instead of giving him what he wants, I make him give me what I want, first. I’d guide his fingers to my aching core. He’d unburden me of my clothes, slowly, his gaze devouring me every step of the way. Maybe pepper me with kisses while he undresses me. And when I’m naked, he’d feather his fingers against me. But that’s not what I want. If I wanted fingers, I’d use my own. I’m doing that now, in fact, touching myself, edging closer and closer to climax. But in the fantasy, I want more than his fingers. I reach up, put my hands on his shoulders, and push him down to his knees.

  Worship me with your mouth, I’d tell him. Like in that book I just read.

  And he would.

  He’d have a nimble, expert tongue. Maybe use those thick fingers, too.

  Tongue and fingers, faster and faster. Warm, wet, strong, skillful. Plying me higher and higher, taking me there without hurrying.

  I’m totally gone for the fantasy. I can picture it, picture that thick blond mane of his between my thighs, can almost feel his fingers inside me instead of my own, can almost feel his tongue sliding against my clit.

  Just like that—shit. Yeah. Yeah.

  Oh god.

  I hear a noise, somewhere, but I assume it must be the cat. I don’t care.

  I’m there, my hips bucking up off the bed, lightning zinging through me.

  “Lock!” I cry out his name, because in my fantasy it’s him giving me this orgasm, my first in well over a year.

  “Niall, I—oh, holy fuck.” I hear his voice.

  My eyes fly open, and there he is.

  In reality.

  In my room.

  Watching me get myself off. He for sure heard me call out his name. Watched me come thinking about him.

  Fuck it: I stare him down, and finish myself off, finger the last few surges of fluttering heat out of myself while holding eye contact with him.

  “Jesus.” He rubs his face with both hands.

  “What are you doing in my house, Lock?” I withdraw my hand, but don’t tie my pants.

  I don’t sit up. I leave them loose and open and shoved down around my hips. My panties show, black briefs, nothing special or especially sexy. But his eyes go to them. My shirt has ridden up, baring my belly, a hint of purple bra.

  Unconsciously, he adjusts himself—his erection.

  “I—I couldn’t just run away like that. Leave you thinking I didn’t want—” He scrapes his hand through his hair, fist flexing, takes a step toward me. “It wasn’t you. I wanted to explain. I knocked, I waited. I was worried about you.”

  “You spend a lot of time barging into the homes of single women you barely know?”

  “No…I—no. I’m sorry.” His gaze, though, isn’t sorry. It’s blazing with potency. Churning brine, storm-tossed waves. Eyes like the angry sea. “You called my name.”

  “You left me all worked up.”

  “I left myself all worked up.” He’s another step closer.

  Chest heaving, eyes narrowed, brows drawn, jaw flexing, fists clenched. Scary, huge, primal masculinity embodied. Hair loose and wild, black T-shirt tight around brawny muscles. God, I can’t get my fantasy-Lock out of my head.

  I sit up, on the edge of the bed. “Why’d you run, Lock?”

  “We shouldn’t—” He’s right here, now. Inches away.

  My knees part, and his hips fit between them. I have to look straight up to find his eyes.

  “Shouldn’t what?” I ask, whispering for some reason.

  “Do this.” He’s murmuring too, as if to speak too loud will ruin everything.

  “Do what?” I’m not whispering, now, but breathless. Unable to speak any louder.

  “This.” He leans into me, presses me backward to the bed. He’s on top of me.

  God, this is even hotter than my fantasy. This kiss isn’t desperate or soft, isn’t hesitant or crazed. It’s
intentional. It’s a promise. It’s a kiss that tells me he knows how to kiss; he knows how to make me wild with just his tongue and lips. And god, does he ever. His tongue flicks and flits and teases, touches my lips, my teeth, my tongue. He breaks away, brushes a lock of hair out of the way.

  “Really shouldn’t do this, either.” He curls the fingers of his right hand under the elastic of my panties and drags them down, my pants with them.

  And just like that, I’m naked from the waist down.

  “Or this.” He shoves my shirt up. Tugs the underwire of my bra up and away to bare my breasts.

  He kisses my lips, once, briefly. And then he’s descending.

  “Most definitely shouldn’t do this to you.” Kisses my breast, suckles my nipple into his mouth.

  “Why—oh fuck—” I arch my hips off the bed as his fingers find my opening and slide in, one finger, a slick slide in and out, and then he adds a second, while his mouth pays lavish, ravenous attention to my breasts. “Why…why not?”

  “Because there’s so much you don’t know about me.” He says this, and then returns his mouth to my nipple.

  “Would it—oh, oh, oh Jesus Christ…LOCK!” I’m right there, on the edge within seconds. And this edge? If the orgasm that I gave myself was me falling off a cliff, this, what Lock is giving me, it’s me about to fall off the edge of the very world. “Would it change how much I want this with you?”

  “It’d change things.”

  “Not what I asked.”

  He returns his mouth to mine, and now the kiss we share is hot and deep and slow. Intimate. Meant to go on and on and on. “I don’t know.”

  “It would change—everything I don’t—oh god, oh my god—everything I don’t know about you?” I’m writhing under his touch, hips bucking, my breath coming in ragged gasps.

  “Yes.”

  “Which means if you shouldn’t be doing this to me—” I have to stop, have to suck in a breath, and focus on holding out, waiting, putting off the climax, so I can savor this, soak this up, memorize every sensation of what Lock is doing to me, the gift he’s giving me.

  I don’t think he understands what he’s giving me, what it means to me, how alive and how beautiful I feel, or how dead and lifeless and unbeautiful I felt until he came along. He doesn’t have to understand. I don’t care if he doesn’t get it. I just need this. I don’t care about anything but finally feeling. And, god, what feelings. He’s every bit as good as I thought he’d be, and more.