by Pam Godwin
“You’re killing me.” He attaches his lips to mine and kisses me angrily yet achingly slow.
Then he pulls back and spends the next thirty minutes telling me exactly what to say to the detectives.
He and Jake refuse to leave until the fire roars out the windows. When they finally drive away in Lorne’s truck, I sit on the front lawn and wait.
But the real wait is over.
I have amends.
Family.
Love.
Lorne.
I have the better that comes after the worse.
TWO MONTHS LATER…
Emotional growth is a lot like learning to shoot a gun. Some days, I kick ass. Other days, I suck it. But the more I practice, the stronger and more confident I become.
My mistakes are many, and I’m learning from them, learning how to be a better half of the whole I share with Lorne.
When I met him, I was emotionally fractured and guarded. I didn’t know how to trust or open up, and looking back, I can see how unhealthy my perspective was on sex and intimacy.
Lorne’s helping me through the things I don’t like to talk about—my sister’s death, John’s abuse, my history of neglect and prostitution—and I’m learning how to ask for help when I need it.
It’s a no pain, no gain effort, because it forces me to look inside myself and make the changes I need to make.
This doesn’t mean everything is love and peace. Lorne and I challenge and argue and say things we don’t mean. But in the end, we always find a solution together.
We always listen.
It’s important to pause sometimes, in the midst of a great, big, scary, wonderful life, to take a look around, feel the wind, and heed the silence.
“I hear you.” Lorne sits beside me at a picnic table, bending over a plate of Indian tacos and licking his fingers.
“I hear you, too.”
I’m not the only one working on self-improvements.
He hates crowds and public places, yet all around us are the mesmerizing colors, scents, and soulful music of Native American festivities.
He surprised me with this weekend trip. At the crack of dawn, he put me in his truck and drove three hours to attend the annual festival hosted by the six north-central tribes of Oklahoma.
We’ve spent the day watching inter-tribal dancing, browsing eye-catching paintings, pottery, jewelry, and clothing, and sampling traditional food.
I knew events like this existed, but I’d never been to one. The only exposure I had to my heritage was through my grandmother.
Being here among the culture and people, I feel a sense of belonging. It’s peaceful and eye-opening. But more than that, it’s nice to just let go and have fun. And boy have I had fun teasing my cowboy about his rugged, booted presence in a sea of tomahawks and feathered headdresses.
It’s been the best day of my life, and I owe it all to him.
He planned this trip for me.
And maybe for the tacos.
He bites into the fried bread and chili with a groan. His strong jaw flexes as he chews, his tongue darting out to catch a drip of salsa.
That sexy mouth is a potent, erotic power tool. Whether he’s eating, barking orders, or kissing me senseless, I’m captivated and shivering in ways I’ve never felt before.
There are a lot of things I never experienced until Lorne, like dancing under the stars, holding hands in the grocery store, romance and feelings, tender and slow, whispering, cuddling, and other giddy nonsense.
I used to grimace at the notion of making love. But that was before I understood the profound bond and commitment it requires.
Anyone can fake sex.
No one can fake making love.
“You’re smiling, shivering, and stroking your throat.” He watches me from inches away, his green eyes dancing in the sunlight. “You better be thinking about me and not the half-naked men on the stage.”
I drop my hand and glance at the traditional dancers as they stomp and twirl to the intoxicating beat of drums.
“Always you.” I cherish every second I share with him. “Are you enjoying yourself?”
He wipes his mouth on a napkin and sets his empty plate aside. Then he leans in and runs his nose along my neck. The masculine essence of him saturates my senses, and the intensity of his love fires my pulse.
“I love watching you smile,” he breathes at my ear. “The way your eyes glow as they take everything in. The way your entire body comes alive amid the colors and music. All of this…” He motions at the sights around us. “It helps me understand the magic that lives inside you.”
“You’re part of that magic.” I trace a finger along the sharp line of his jaw. “Thank you for this.”
“You’re welcome.” He laces his hand with mine and sits back to watch the dancers.
He still wears my necklace on his wrist, and I treasure the guitar strings on mine.
Maybe it’s morbid to wear a murder weapon on my body. But after he scrubbed the strings and wove them back into a bracelet, he slid it onto my wrist and said, “This symbolizes the strength in our survival.”
I love that.
We survived so much just in the past two months. There were doctor exams, police interrogations, and plenty of gossip surrounding the death of Sandbank’s sheriff. But the skeletons John and Fletcher kept in their closets burned to ash along with their bodies.
The night they died, I was detained for hours of questioning, along with the rest of the family. By morning, we walked away with our freedom.
“You want to stroll through that section?” Lorne points at a row of tents on the far side of the festival.
“I’ll go anywhere with you.”
We spend the rest of the day perusing Native American crafts. When nightfall casts the streets in shadows, he drives me to a one-room cabin he rented for the weekend.
Isolated in the woods, it overlooks a pond that twinkles in the starlight. He builds a fire in the outdoor pit, plays mellow country music on his phone, and sprawls in an oversized wicker armchair like a lazy lion.
I sit beside him, close enough to touch, and wait for him to make his move.
What will it be tonight? A little spanking? Some growly dirty talk? Bondage with rope? Wild and urgent? Slow and torturous? Anything is possible as long as he’s the one commanding and restraining.
For a moody, complicated man, his sexual proclivities are straightforward. He simply wants to be inside me, in any hole, any time, any place, and any way he can get me.
As I watch the flames dance in the fire pit, my skin heats. It’s less from the warmth of the fire and more from the predatory gaze caressing the side of my face.
His silent assertiveness thrums my nerve endings and melts my blood into lava.
“You’re staring.” I draw my bottom lip between my teeth, eyes on the crackling flames.
“Take it off.”
“Take what off?”
“The clothes you don’t need anymore.”
My heart sprouts wings as I rise from the chair and stand before him, just out of reach.
He loves to watch me undress, especially when I tease.
I start slow, inching fabric, tracing buttons and clasps, sliding fingers along skin, and subtly swaying to the gentle music.
His moonlit eyes glint in the shadow beneath his hat, his jaw a rigid slope of self-restraint. He sits in a reclined position, arms and legs spread out in a relaxed and confident way, taking up space and owning the air.
His chin angles down, and a hand rests beneath his mouth with fingers loosely curled. It’s a pose of casual indifference, but there’s nothing casual or indifferent about the way he stares at me.
I remove the last of my clothes and stand before him, a little lust-drunk and totally nude.
He makes me wait through a long, lingering perusal before his gaze meets and holds mine.
“Touch me.” He removes the hat and sets it aside, his hooded eyes soldering our connection.
&
nbsp; My nipples pucker in the night air, and a sublime quiver ripples through me.
Three unhurried steps bring me into the V of his legs. I place my hands on the armrests and bend in to gently graze my lips across his forehead. Then I slowly veer over to his temple and down to his mouth, trailing the kiss as lightly as possible while stirring the barely visible hairs that cover his face.
The sweet, subtle brush of lips makes his breath hitch and his dimple pop. I nip at the sexy rivet and glide away to his ear, hovering there while releasing a languorous sigh meant to tantalize.
“You drive me crazy.” He groans, sinking deeper into the chair and stretching his legs out around me.
“You love it.”
“Fuck yeah, I do.”
His head falls back, exposing the sensitive tendon that runs from his ear to his shoulder. I go after it with my mouth, starting at his earlobe and working my way down the ridge, randomly alternating between languid licks, nibbles, and flicks with the silky underside of my tongue. The constant back and forth keeps his senses on maximum alert.
By the time I reach his shoulder, his breathing is shallow and fast. He yanks off his shirt and returns to his sprawl, his gaze demanding and possessive.
With a smile, I trace my mouth along the alluring lines of his muscled torso. He doesn’t move to grab me or rush this. He loves to prolong the agony as much as I do.
“You’re stupid sexy.” I nip and tongue every hard, sweet spot from his throat to his eight-pack. “I lose brain cells every time I look at you.”
“Less talking, more licking.” His growly bedroom voice curls pulsing heat between my legs.
His eyes haven’t strayed from mine once, his body tight and hot beneath me. Each of my featherlight kisses makes his pecs twitch and bounce, and he clenches his hands around the armrests.
I edge toward the hand with the scar and touch the tip of my tongue against the webbed area between his strong fingers.
His grip relaxes, and I lick along the sides of each digit, stimulating sensitive nerves.
His eyes briefly close, lips separating, and the denim between his legs tightens around the hard, swollen length of his arousal.
I use only my mouth, my hands never leaving the chair, as I roam to his buckle. There, I lightly blow on the treasure trail of sparse hair that leads to where we’re both aching for me to go. It’s a prize-worthy trail, and I show him by licking the spot below his belly button, drawing some of those soft hairs between my lips, and pulling, just hard enough that he feels it.
Right about now, pinpricks of edgy pain are sending jolts of electricity through his abs and low below his belt.
His hips shift beneath me, and the cords in his neck strain beneath his five o’clock shadow.
From under his tousled black hair glows eyes the color of the forest in the moonlight, like the greenest leaves absorbing bits of the stars from the night sky.
I know what he’s thinking. He wants me to yank down his zipper and suck him to the back of my throat. I want that, too, but I also want his mouth.
Sliding up his body, I straddle a rock-hard thigh and angle toward him. With my hands on his jaw, I steal sips of virile breaths from strong lips.
The taste of him stirs something wild and instinctual inside of me. “I love to kiss you.”
His arms come around me, and he presses in, taking over.
He draws my bottom lip between his and sucks aggressively, bringing blood to the surface of my skin and making it even more sensitive.
I do the same to his top lip. Then we switch. Back and forth, we roll into a sensual glide of mouths and tongues, tangling and gasping into a steamy fog of hunger.
We kiss to the easy-going music. Our hands wander with the heat of the campfire. Hips rocking, reaching, wanting, we melt into flesh and soul and breath.
When the song changes, something completely unexpected thumps from the speaker.
“You have Lady Gaga in your playlist?” I stare into half-lidded eyes.
“The song’s called John Wayne,” he says, as if that makes all the sense in the world. Then he reclines in the chair, reaches out, and tweaks my nipple hard. “Ride my thigh.”
I’m already straddling it, and damn if it doesn’t feel like a steel bar wrapped in denim.
The song is racy, the beats high-powered and vibrating with energy. I let it guide my movements and pull my hips into a slow-building grind.
The twisting, rubbing stimulation swells a greedy spasm between my legs, soaking his jeans and working me into panting, needy mindlessness. I slide my hands through my hair and let go, rippling and rolling my body on his leg, my nipples taut and begging.
But he doesn’t touch me. Instead, he drinks me in with a look so potent, so gripping, I feel him inside me with phantom fingers, curling and stroking and propelling me toward the edge.
With a moan, I yield to the command in his eyes, falling against his chest as whirls of orgasmic bliss smother me in electric sensation.
Before I can catch my breath, he repositions my legs around his hips while unfastening his jeans. He fumbles with the buckle and zipper and shoves his clothes down his legs.
The hot, hard length of his cock presses against my center, his hips rolling, angling him into the right spot.
He grips the back of my neck, and his other hand wraps around my hip. Then he wrenches me close, our mouths open and touching.
Sinking his velvet tongue past my lips, he flicks it in an arc along the roof of my mouth, once, twice, then he drives his thick cock inside me.
“Fuuuuck.” He plunges to the root. Then he thrusts, clutching my neck and hip and using my body to jack off. “Christ, Raina. I love your cunt. You’re so tight. So fucking wet.”
The space between us detonates. He devours my lips ravenously, licking the hollows of my mouth, his fingers rough and possessive in my hair.
My heart spins, and my breaths try to keep up. He adds pressure to my throat, holding my face an inch from his as he slams his hips, thrusting and forcing himself into me, so hard, so fucking perfect.
“Give it to me, Raina.” His eyes glare, his voice an unraveling rope of breath.
“Almost there.” I’m falling, trembling against the incoming waves of pleasure.
“I want all of it. All of you. Marriage. Family. Forever.”
“You have me.”
I surrender to my cowboy, lost in his eyes, wrapped in his love, as he rides me toward a million sunsets.
ELEVEN YEARS LATER…
Under a sky of midnight satin, beneath stars so luminous they light up the field, the musical laughter of children overruns the ranch and nestles against my soul.
It’s the best sound in the universe.
We’ve added a lot of seating to the back porch over the past decade. It took a few years for our family of six to grow to seven. A year later, we expanded to ten.
Raina sits beside me on the outdoor couch, with a long sexy leg slung over my knee and huge brown eyes fixed on the never-ending energy of the five- and six-year-olds buzzing through the field behind the estate.
A year after John died, we married right here. Three weddings. One joyful day. Just the six of us and the wedding officiant.
Raina wears my mother’s ring. Conor wears Julep’s, and Maybe has the one Jarret designed for her all those years ago.
On the other side of the porch, Conor perches on Jake’s knee, strumming her guitar while he sings The Rest of Our Life by Tim McGraw and Faith Hill. It’s the song we played at our wedding.
Today’s our ten-year anniversary, and good God, it’s been a busy decade.
We dedicated the first few years to growing the cattle operation. We knew we’d eventually have children and would have to enlarge the estate to accommodate our combined families. Four years after we married, we finally had enough time and money to build a third wing.
Jake, Jarret, and I finished the construction just in time for Jake’s and Conor’s son, Landon, to arrive.
; A year later, Maybe gave birth to fraternal twins. Jonah and Jace, now five years old, remind me so much of Jarret and Jake, from their dark eyes and brown hair to their protective rowdiness.
When Maybe isn’t chasing them with a paint stick, she’s fussing around in the extravagant chicken coop Jarret built for her. While she pampers and coddles her rescued poultry, her white heifer, Chicken, is right there with her.
“Daddy! Daddy!” In a swirl of long black hair, my daughter scampers onto the porch and throws herself against my chest, her arms curling around my neck.
Whenever I hold Julep, I experience a feeling of weightlessness in my lungs that spreads through my limbs. Raina and I made this precious being, and the notion still floats around me like a dream.
She leans back, and I stare into eyes that look so much like my wife’s it takes my breath away.
Raina says Julep resembles Tiana. Same sweet temperament, thick inky hair, and bright smile.
But right now, her smile’s hiding behind a quivering chin.
“What is it?” Raina bends toward her and sweeps tangled black strands from her teary eyes.
“Jace says…” She sniffs and crosses her little arms. “He says he won’t marry me.”
“Not this again.” I rub my forehead and meet Raina’s eyes.
She grins.
Jarret ambles out of the field, steps onto the porch, and makes a beeline for Julep.
“Boys are dumb.” He crouches beside her. “Give him time. He’ll come around.”
”But I want to get married today!” She stomps her boot.
“How about instead, we go inside and tear into your mom’s biscuits and chocolate gravy?” He stands and holds out a hand.
Her eyes light up, and in an instant, her tears are replaced with a toothy grin. “Yes!”
I shake my head as he leads her inside. He and Jake indulge her the same way they did with Conor.
Across the porch, my sister plucks the song to a close and turns to press a kiss on Jake’s lips.
The stars are out, and the night is gleaming with possibilities. Maybe’s in the field with the boys. Jarret is occupying Julep, and I have a beautiful woman staring at me with a suggestive smile.