by Mia Sheridan
I explored for a few minutes longer and then suddenly found myself flipped over onto my back as I let out a startled gasp. Preston came over me, his eyes intense, his jaw rigid. “You’re driving me out of my mind, Lia,” he rasped. My gaze moved over his expression, the way every muscle in his body seemed to be straining. I knew what he meant as I was so turned on myself. I opened my thighs beneath him, and he let out a shuddery breath, guiding himself to my opening and pressing inside inch by inch, his muscles bunching and straining with the apparent effort of moving so slowly. “I love you.”
His mouth returned to mine, and he pressed completely inside, our bodies meeting. I moaned into his mouth, bringing my legs around his hips as he began to move slowly, so slowly, so deliciously. I could feel his heartbeat against my chest and between my legs where we were joined, and it seemed to fill me until my own heart beat in sync with his and we were as one.
Preston rocked into me, moving in small thrusts, and I moved with him, shivers of pleasure bursting through me each time our pelvises touched. We moved together this way for what seemed like a long while, glorying in the connection, in our mingled gasps of delight, in the way our scents merged and became something deeper and sexier, something that was only us.
The bliss swirled through me, reaching higher, but not quite high enough. I broke from his mouth. “Faster, Preston, I need . . .”
He let out a loud breath. “Yes, Annalia, tell me what you need. Oh God.” I heard the excitement in his voice and it added to my own soaring arousal. He picked up the pace, moaning as he brought his mouth to mine again, the movement of his tongue in my mouth mimicking the thrusting movement of his body into mine.
I ran my hands over the damp skin of his back, the pleasure in my core pulsing and climbing. I met his thrusts, gripping the straining muscles of his biceps, loving the hard feel of his male body above me. Pleasure rushed through me in a starburst of bliss as I arched and cried out his name, barely conscious of his own cry of pleasure—a garbled rush of words—as he buried his face in my neck and shuddered with his climax.
My thighs felt like jelly as they slid down his hips. He pulled out of me and I groaned but he brought his mouth to mine and kissed me leisurely for several minutes, finally rolling to the side and bringing me with him, holding me in the warm grasp of his arms as our breathing slowed. My muscles felt languid and I smiled, stretching like a satisfied cat in his arms.
I felt his smile against the side of my neck as he pulled me closer, spooning me tightly. He whispered words of love and devotion, and I whispered them back. We made plans and I shared all the dreams in my heart, for myself, for us, for Hudson and the other children we might have—babies I was no longer afraid to wish for.
I’d always been a dreamer, but now, now I was sharing those dreams with the man I loved, and suddenly the whole world felt so big—big and bright and endlessly glorious.
EPILOGUE
Seven Years Later
Preston
I put my arms slowly around my wife, as she tilted her head to the side, exposing the tender side of her neck so I could nuzzle my lips there. The familiar gesture filled my heart, and I breathed in her scent. Annalia.
I spread my palms over her belly, feeling the small swell of her pregnancy, smiling against her skin with the male pride that moved through me at the proof of my latest efforts.
“This is the last one,” she said.
“That’s what you said last time.”
“I mean it this time, though.”
“Hmm,” I hummed. “We’ll see.”
She laughed a small sound and focused back on the wall of photographs she’d been studying when I came up behind her.
Years ago, she’d written to her aunt and requested any photographs she might be willing to lend so she could have copies made and her aunt had sent back the few she had. Lia had made copies and framed them and now they hung on our gallery wall so our children could see both sides of their heritage represented.
“What do you like so much about looking at this wall?” I asked.
“Hmm, I like to imagine what was in their hearts, what dreams they had,” she said.
I lifted my hand and pointed at one of my grimacing relatives. “This guy here looks like he’s dreaming about racing to a toilet.”
She laughed, slapping lightly at the hand that was still over her belly. “Stop it. Maybe that was just a bad year.”
Ah, a bad year. Yes, we knew about those. But we also knew about seven joy-filled years that could follow one bad one if you were willing to start over, to try harder, to talk more, and to occasionally dance to eighties love songs in the kitchen because you couldn’t come up with any other answers. It turned out that was an answer in itself. Yes, we knew about that, too.
My eyes moved to the small shadowbox on the wall where Lia had glued the two pieces of sea glass together into the original heart shape. I could still see the seam where the crack had been, but it was mended now and the two pieces were together, complete. A lot like us really. Together. Mended. Complete.
I nuzzled the sweet warmth of her neck again. “You make me weak in the knees,” I murmured.
She pulled my arms more tightly around her and leaned back into me. “You make me weak in the knees, too, farm boy.”
I smiled. “Sit with me on the porch?”
“Yes, I just want to check on the kids.”
We went together, tiptoeing quietly into each room and covering up little bodies, lifting limbs that had been flung off in sleep back into bed, and removing books from chests.
Hudson, our eight-year-old daredevil with an easy grin and a heart of gold; Matteo, our serious and far too wise for his five-year-old body sweetheart, and three-year-old Luciana, who ruled her brothers—and me—with an iron fist and a heart-melting, one-sided dimple.
Satisfied that they were securely tucked in, we went downstairs and took a seat on the porch swing, Lia sighing with contentment as she leaned against me, and I put an arm around her, using my foot to move the swing slowly.
The late-summer night was noisy with activity: the chirping of crickets, the rustling of night birds in the trees, the hoot of an owl somewhere in the distance, and the very low hum of the central air conditioning unit I’d finally installed a year after Matteo was born.
The summer heat drew out the heady lushness of the farm smells: fresh-cut grass, the sweetness of the honeysuckle that grew nearby, and even from here, the richness of the soil, and sweet tang of the various plants we grew.
The stars were out, brilliant diamond shards twinkling in the darkness of the night sky. My brother was up there, among them. Sometimes, when I was making a difficult choice, I would feel a gentle nudge inside to go in one direction or another, and I always attributed it to Cole. And it reminded me that stars weren’t only beautiful, but that they could also guide your way.
The chains that held the swing creaked softly, and I rested my hand on my wife’s belly again, feeling the warm swell of the growing life within her. “Think it will be a girl or a boy?”
“A boy.”
I chuckled. “That’s just wishful thinking after Luci.”
She laughed. “Maybe. I don’t know if we can take more than one of her.” But her voice was filled with so much love, I smiled. Luciana was . . . a handful, but the most lovable handful God had ever created.
Lia sighed, the sound as soft as an evening breeze. “I love this house,” she murmured. I kissed the top of her head. I did, too. Seven years before, I had made the decision to build another house on the property, but when I’d told my mom about it, she’d admitted she was seeing a man in town—the man who owned one of the two banks in Linmoor—and he’d asked her to marry him. She’d moved in with him quickly after that, and Lia had moved back in with me.
On a gorgeous summer day that same year, Lia and I were married under the tree by the fence where she used to wait for Cole and me. It had just been Hudson and the two of us, along with the minister, but we’
d felt Cole’s presence, too, and I knew somehow he was there that day, and he was smiling.
Afterward, we’d had a reception at Abuelo’s with my mom, several of her friends, Lia’s mother, and about three hundred of Rosa and Alejandro’s closest friends and relatives. We’d laughed and danced and drank far too much tequila, and they’d all been our family, too, ever since, taking not only Lia and me to heart, but her mother as well who now smiled on an almost regular basis.
I’d helped her with the process of becoming a permanent legal resident when Annalia was pregnant with Matteo. We’d thrown a party when it was granted, and her sister, Florencia, had traveled from Texas to join us. A cheer had gone up when Lia’s mother entered the room, and she had smiled shyly and with a pride that squeezed my heart.
We frequently hosted barbecues at the farm that included hot dogs and tamales, apple pie and churros, eighties music, and Spanish ballads when the sun went down. It was crazy and wonderful, and I always felt slightly stunned when it was all over as if I’d just stepped off a Tilt-A-Whirl of love.
Our new extended family had all descended on the hospital with each birth, setting up base camp in the waiting room with food that smelled so delicious, doctors and nurses from every part of the building showed up to partake in the celebration. And, especially with Matteo, Rosa and Lia’s mother had been there to assist Lia and me with the adjustment of having a newborn and to help Lia recognize the signs of the depression she’d suffered through alone with Hudson. She wasn’t alone anymore, and it’d made all the difference. We’d both missed so much the first time around, and we soaked in every moment of the sweet time with our next babies and navigated the choppy waters together.
The farm had thrived and grown, and we now employed twice as many people as my father had. Lia had become heavily involved in helping migrant farmworkers at the camp outside of town and being an advocate on issues that affected them. It wasn’t our job to make the laws, but we both helped where we could, in the ways that we could—me as an employer, and Lia as a champion for the rights of those who had no rights.
I wasn’t a politician. It was my job to feed people. And Lia did the same, not just with food, but with all the love and courage she’d learned how to set free from the boundaries within herself. She fed people’s hope-starved souls, and in so doing, she fed mine, and her own, and those of our children.
Sometimes I would see her coming toward me in the fields where I was working, a march in her step, her chin held high, and I’d stop what I was doing to watch her approach, knowing one thing or another had rubbed her the wrong way. I’d smile and say, “You’re about to make a fuss, aren’t you?” I’d feel my eyes go slightly lazy because she was damn sexy when something got under her skin and caused her to become so impassioned that she was like a tiny ray of light. And she’d put her hands on her hips and give me a look but then she’d smile and tell me what it was she was going to make a fuss about.
She had always been moved by dreams, not just her own, but those of others as well. It was what made her so beautiful. As it turned out, it was also what made her fierce.
She was mighty and she was strong, and to watch her in action was a sight to behold. But her gentle spirit never ceased to shine, and sometimes I still saw in her the quiet dreamer with a crown of flowers perched on her head and a thousand secrets in her eyes.
And I was the luckiest man on earth, because now she told them all to me.
Acknowledgments
Writing a book is a journey. I am ever so grateful for those who have walked, sometimes limped, sometimes picked me up off the dusty road where I’ve fallen to weep, and offered words of encouragement and wisdom as they traversed with me.
Special thanks to my storyline editor, Angela Smith, for so many things, but especially because you believed in this story first.
To my gracious and brilliant editor, Marion Archer, who makes my stories better and still makes time to provide the therapy I generally end up needing in the writing of every book. You go above and beyond and I couldn’t be more grateful for you.
Tessa Shapcott, who was new to my team this time and whose thoughtful commentary on my story was so very appreciated. You helped give me confidence in this book and I am endlessly thankful for that.
The utmost gratitude to my beta readers who read my scattered ramblings first and gave me their honest and insightful feedback; Cat Bracht, Becky Chatman, Elena Eckmeyer, Michelle Finkle, Lynnette Littles, Renita McKinney, and Heather Weston.
Heartfelt love and appreciation to my cultural betas: Maria Blalock, Sylvia Chavarin, Yvette Falagan, Roselia Gomez, Ginny Rose, and Elizabeth Santiago. Thank you for answering my many questions, for correcting my accent marks, and for your guidance in representing the beautifully rich Mexican culture. There is a small piece of each of you in this story.
Thank you to Sharon Broom for finding those things no one else does. Your ***Totally Picky Alerts*** are the very best.
Thank you to Amy Kehl who proofed Preston’s Honor and gives me more of her time than I deserve. So very thankful to have you in my life. I’m reminded of your support every single morning when I log in to Facebook. Don’t think it ever goes unnoticed.
Thank you to Karen Lawson whose attention to detail, along with Karen's-Book-of-Knowledge, continues to teach me things with every book. You are a font of wisdom and I’m so lucky to have you.
To Katy Regnery who was right beside me every step of the way, cheerleading, inspiring, and leaving voice messages and texts that warmed my heart and provided much needed laughter. This business is often lonely. I am forever grateful for your friendship.
Tina Kleuker, thank you for making me one of your own. Not for one second do I take that for granted. Huge love.
Thank you to Kimberly Brower, the best agent in all the kingdom. Thank you for working your butt off for all your authors. I’m so lucky to be your very favorite one. ;)
To you, the reader, thank you for immersing yourself in the worlds I create. Thank you for opening your hearts to my characters. Thank you for writing reviews, for telling your friends about my books, for sending me heartfelt notes, and for showing me in a thousand ways that you are the best readers in the world.
Thank you to Mia's Mafia for being my people.
To all the book bloggers who spend your valuable time reading, crafting reviews, creating gorgeous teasers, and pimping the books you love. I know what you do is a passion, but it’s also a lot of work, and I recognize the sacrifices you make to do what you love. We authors would be lost without you.
To my husband, always, no matter what. I’d love you in any language, on any shore, and under any circumstances, from now until forever.
About the Author
Mia Sheridan is a New York Times, USA Today, and Wall Street Journal Bestselling author. Her passion is weaving true love stories about people destined to be together. Mia lives in Cincinnati, Ohio with her husband. They have four children here on earth and one in heaven. In addition to Preston’s Honor, Leo, Leo's Chance, Stinger, Archer's Voice, Becoming Calder, Finding Eden, Kyland, Grayson's Vow, Midnight Lily, and Ramsay are also part of the Sign of Love collection.
Mia will be releasing the stand alone romance novel, Most of All You, in October 2017, via Grand Central Publishing. It will be available both online and in bookstores.
You can PRE-ORDER your copy here:
http://amzn.to/2lfC3VJ
Mia can be found online at
www.MiaSheridan.com
www.facebook.com/miasheridanauthor
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