Leave the Night On

by Laura Trentham

  “Did you want to talk about it?” she asked softly. “Your father, I mean?”

  The way she said it made him think she already knew, so what was there to say? But then her hand snuck across the neutral zone of the table and covered his. He shifted his hand so their palms slid over each other, his rough and callused from his work in the garage, hers soft and feminine.

  “Pop died a year ago today.”

  Her fingers knit between his, and she squeezed. “I’m sorry. I wish you’d told me last night.”

  He shrugged.

  “Where are your brothers? Why aren’t you all together?”

  “Jackson’s racing. Mack is probably sitting in the dark with a beer. Ford was a no-show today.”

  “Would you rather be alone?” She shifted as if she was pushing up, and he tightened his hold on her.

  “No.” He half-closed his eyes and took a too-big sip of the wine. “I cancelled earlier because this isn’t what you signed up for.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know what I mean,” he said softly, forcing himself to look her in the eyes. He could say more, but it would be the opposite of fun and flirty and superficial.

  “I’m not going anywhere.” She didn’t flinch.

  He dropped his gaze to the purple depths of his glass. “Pop’s ghost hung over the shop all day, but we kept our heads down and worked.”

  “Did you and Jackson talk about it?”

  “Jackson is a lot like Mack. He doesn’t need to talk. Doesn’t need people. I’m not sure he even needs me.”

  “That’s not true.”

  Wyatt made a scoffing sound and took another sip.

  “Tell me more about your dad.” Her gaze was on the play of their fingers.

  “He was…” He sighed. “Everyone’s friend. Lovable. Always laughing. He was the glue that held the family together.”

  “Just like you, then.”

  He was ready to protest, but her smile silenced him, her eyes trying to strip away his already shaky defenses. He killed the rest of the wine and set his glass down with a thump. “I like to have fun. That’s why you propositioned me, right? Nothing special about that.”

  “Oh, Wyatt.” The slight exasperation in her voice was tempered by humor and something else he couldn’t put his finger on. She disentangled their hands and rose to stand in front of him. He shifted to accommodate her between his knees, and she lay her hands on his shoulders.

  She leaned in, and he took a sharp breath, thinking—hoping?—her destination was his mouth, but instead she veered to whisper in his ear. “You are the most lovable, amazing man I’ve ever met.”

  When she lifted her hands from his shoulders, she took a weight he’d been carrying around so long he didn’t realize it until it was gone. Her words circled his head. She thought he was amazing? And, lovable? What did that even mean? Stuffed animals were lovable. Dogs were lovable.

  He shifted to watch her take out the casserole with a singed pair of oven mitts. The domesticity of the scene made him reel—off-balance and unsure and searching blindly for his next move.

  He was the one supposed to be teaching her how to loosen up and tap into her wild side. Instead, here she was, soothing his demons and tempering his grief.

  She spooned portions onto their plates, hers with a modest helping and his plate piled high with an Italian looking mishmash of meat and noodles, and added two pieces of buttery looking bread tucked to the side. His first bite registered as a religious experience. With his second, he was sure Sutton qualified for sainthood.

  “You like it?” she asked.

  His grunt was caveman-like.

  She took a bite around a smile. They made small talk for the rest of the meal, mostly about the travails of owning businesses in a small town. The conversation waned as they split the rest of the wine.

  The night was at a crossroads. He swirled the wine and watched it lick the edge. Without looking up at her, he said, “I want you to stay with me tonight.”

  “Are you sure?” Her voice was tentative. She was doing her best to be wild and reckless, but she was nice and sweet and everything he’d ever dreamed of finding in a woman.

  “So sure that it’s scary.”

  A hint of sadness colored her smile, a forewarning of what was to come. She didn’t speak, only stood and held out a hand. He blew out a slow breath and rose to meet her.

  “You left me in a bad state this morning. Why’d you do that?” The change from serious to teasing in her tone was abrupt and wasn’t the real Sutton. It was someone she thought she should be for him.

  He should play along and be the guy she’d recruited for her endeavor, make her tell him all her fantasies, but he couldn’t. Not today. “I didn’t want to take advantage of you. Needed to make sure you really want me.”

  Her face softened. Weaving their fingers, she molded herself against him and wrapped her other arm around him in a hug that was close to a stranglehold. Except everything about her was soft and feminine.

  He nosed into the hair at her temple. Already her scent was summoning memories of kissing her and teaching her to play pool and dancing around the bonfire.

  “I do want you,” she whispered.

  He felt as much as heard her words. It was enough. It would have to be enough. He swept her into a cradle hold, and the noise she made was half-shocked cry, half laugh.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Sweeping you off your feet?” He smiled, but the sentiment took a skimming hit at his heart, leaving a painful crease. If he’d been a rabbit or squirrel, he’d advise putting the creature out of its misery.

  He dropped her across his bed and came over her on his elbows, brushing her hair back from her face. Diffused light from the setting sun filtered in from the skylight and windows, broken up by fast-moving, dark, storm clouds. It made sense the weather would mimic the complicated nature of their relationship.

  He needed to keep this simple. Except her eyes pulled him in like a hypnotist, and his heart spun out of control. She cupped his cheeks and lifted her head to reach his lips. The moment they met, his existence narrowed to that moment. Nothing else mattered.

  He took control, pressing her into the mattress and taking the kiss to the next level, touching his tongue to hers. Her slight gasp spurred him to take the kiss deeper. He lifted off her enough to work her T-shirt up and over her head, tossing it over his shoulder.

  He leaned down to nip at the soft, white skin above the white lace of her bra. Her nipple received the same treatment. She grabbed his shoulders and tried to pull him back on top of her, but he resisted. As much as he wanted to bury himself in the comfort she offered, tonight had to be about her, and if he kept his hips pressed between her legs, his resolution to be unselfish would get voted down by more primal instincts.

  He stood up, his gaze trailing over her body. “Take off your skirt.”

  She shimmied off the skirt and kicked it to the side, a touch of shyness giving her movements an endearing awkwardness. He peeled off his shirt, and it landed on top of hers on the floor. One of her hands came up to cover her chest while her legs cut against each other. A natural seductiveness lurked under the trappings of what she’d learned was proper, and he would be the man to set it free.

  He might not be her first lover, but he’d be the one she remembered forever, dammit. His good intentions were dented when she propped up on an elbow and ran her fingertips over the prominent erection next to his zipper. She tugged at his belt, and he grabbed her wrist.

  “Not yet. First you.” He was dimly aware he spoke like a man whose native language wasn’t English.

  He squatted down, hooked his hands behind her knees, and pulled her to the edge of the bed. Her gasping yelp turned into a breathy moan when he ran his tongue along the center of the impractical scrap of lace she called underwear. He hooked them to the side and did what he’d been thinking about since forever.

  His emotions were raw from grief over his father, wo
rry over the garage, and frustration over her. Being between her legs and hearing his name on her lips soothed the rough edges of his spirit even as his body clamored for more. She was already hot for him, but he wanted her wild.

  When her hands speared into his hair and drew into fists, pulling at his scalp, he glanced up to find her watching him. His tongue stilled. The moment was more intimate than any they’d shared, the barriers between them demolished.

  * * *

  Sutton had assumed sex with Wyatt would be fun and light and satisfying, similar to their interlude on her couch. This felt more like life and death. Like she might die if she didn’t get him inside of her.

  “Please, I need…” Was that her voice?

  “Tell me. You have to tell me.”

  She again propped herself up on a shaky elbow and reached between his legs. If anything, his erection had grown bigger and harder. “You. Inside of me.”

  He didn’t say anything, but reached around her to unhook her bra and draw it off. She’d purposefully worn sexier-than-normal underwear, half hopeful, half scared they’d end up exactly where they were—in his bed.

  Yet the urge to cover herself like a prudish heroine from a Victorian novel was undeniable. That wasn’t the kind of heroine she wanted to be. She wanted to take charge and be bold, but couldn’t quite put a stamp of ownership on her sexuality. She half covered her breasts with an arm.

  He leaned over her and dropped a simple kiss on her lips. “You’re beautiful and sexy and perfect.”

  Truth smoldered in his eyes. Courage. He gave her courage. She put her hands on his bare flanks, the skin hot and smooth, the muscles taut. Her reward was a smile. In a quick move, he lowered his head and took one of her nipples in his mouth.

  Her eyes might have rolled back in her head for a second. The mind-blowing pleasure was short-lived. He stood, unbuckled his belt, and pushed his pants down and off with a feline grace.

  His erection bobbed at eye level, and her courage went on hiatus. She scooched back on the bed, but before she escaped his reach, he grabbed her panties and yanked them down.

  He crawled to join her in the middle of the king-size bed and came over her. This was it. Tensing, she closed her eyes, spread her legs, and waited. Nothing happened. She opened one eye to find him looking at her, his head tilted.

  “What are you thinking right now?” His voice held all sorts of questions.

  “I’m ready for you to … do it.”

  “Why is your face all scrunched up like you’re preparing for a flu shot?”

  Oh God, she was blowing it. And not in the sexy sense of the word. She attempted to smooth her expression. “After this morning, I figured you’d want to, you know, get yours. I’m ready.”

  “You’re not nearly ready.” He rolled them so she straddled him and pushed her to sitting. The position startled her into indecision. What did he expect her to do?

  He circled his hips and ground his erection against her. She undulated involuntarily. It felt so amazing, she did it again. And again. Her head fell back, and she stifled a moan. His hands spasmed on her thighs, and she stopped, worried she did something wrong.

  “Don’t stop, babe,” he said gruffly.

  “I don’t know what to do.”

  Instead of making her feel foolish, his slow smile made her confidence bloom. “Do what feels good. And don’t worry, we’re both going to end up with a smile on our faces.”

  The flash of self-consciousness at her position—naked and dimly backlit by the lights from the kitchen area and the setting sun—was seared away by the intensity of his gaze. She continued to grind along his length until she wasn’t only ready, she bordered on frantic.

  He slid his hands from her thighs, up and over her hips to circle her ribcage. The calluses along his palms rasped pleasurably along her nerve-endings, and his thumbs brushed the underside of her breasts. Her nipples peaked, and she arched into his touch.

  “More, please.” The words emerged from her strangled throat on a shallow breath.

  As if he’d been waiting for her cue, he maneuvered her as if she weighed nothing to pull her nipple into his mouth. He reached for a condom and rolled it on, brushing the most sensitive part of her with his knuckles. She couldn’t wait a second longer.

  She shifted back, and his erection pushed inside of her an inch. They moaned in tandem, the hum vibrating from her nipple to between her legs, and he moved his hands to her hips. She was thankful, because any sort of physical coordination was beyond her.

  Slowly, his grip firm, but not biting, he guided her until he was buried deep. He felt perfect inside of her.

  “Are you good?” The breathlessness in his voice was gratifying.

  “So, so good.” She peppered his face with kisses until her lips met his, and he assumed control. Even though she was the one on top, he possessed her. Any vague worry over her easy surrender disappeared with his first thrust.

  The rhythm he set was slow, each glide deep. The chase to orgasm was on, and her body responded by picking up the pace, no longer needing his hands for guidance. He pushed her to sitting, interrupting her rhythm, but the position moved him even deeper. She braced herself on his chest, his muscles tensed.

  “Go on, take what you need,” he said in a guttural voice she barely recognized as his.

  The concept was foreign. She’d never been given freedom in bed. Sex had been an orchestrated, textbook affair. But Wyatt had turned everything she thought about herself on its head. The freedom was intoxicating, and she rose and fell on him, not worried about whether or not he was enjoying it or how she looked doing it.

  She moved her fingers to where they were joined, and he whispered encouragement. Her orgasm swept over her, turning her movements clumsy, but his hands were there to steady her and keep the rhythm intact.

  His thrusts became harder, lifting her up, until he too succumbed, his body bowing inward. As soon as he turned lax underneath her, she collapsed to his chest, her face buried in his neck. Their breathing slowed together.

  She wasn’t sure how long they lay there. Minutes, hours, a lifetime. Her thoughts were scattered and varied, but the one that jumped out was a silent call of thanks to Andrew. Without his betrayal, she would have never had this experience with Wyatt.

  The question that jabbed at her was whether their explosive passion was like two chemical elements that were inert until combined or whether it was all Wyatt. Was sex always like this for him? Did it matter?

  It shouldn’t, but it did. Still, she wasn’t naïve enough to ask him if she were special. The dissection of truth and lie would take her out of the moment, and the moment was very good. That’s all the new and improved Sutton wanted to concentrate on.

  He shifted her to his side and rolled over to dispose of the condom. Too relaxed to cover herself, she ran her fingertips over the muscles of his back. He gathered her in his arms and tucked her against him.

  With their legs tangled in the sheets and Wyatt tracing masterpieces on her back, Sutton felt like she was floating as close to heaven as she could get without actually dying. Although that orgasm … she might have seen God. She had definitely called His name with more emotion than she’d ever used in church.

  A premature darkness had snuffed out the dying light. Lightning flashed, followed seconds later by rumbling thunder. The storm was still miles away, but getting closer. She was thankful for the excuse to stay a little longer.

  “Storms terrified me when I was little. I used to crawl in bed with Mack.” His voice was faraway and dreamy.

  “Not Ford even then?” She explored his body in a way she’d never been comfortable doing with Andrew. One of his hands was tucked behind his head, and the bulge of his biceps inspired awe.

  “Ford was the reason I was so scared. Told me stories about how a hurricane blew through and drowned half the parish. It’s why I took the top bunk and made Jackson sleep under me. How’s that for brotherly love?”

  She laughed softly. “I don’
t remember stories of a flood like that.”

  “That’s because he lied to scare me. Of course, I had put a salamander in his bed earlier that week. Too bad I was too dumb to connect the two incidents.”

  She chuffed a laugh and nuzzled at his neck. “Not dumb. Young and innocent. Did Mack tease you too?”

  “Naw. He’s an old soul as Aunt Hazel would say. Always been too serious. Not sure he knows how to have fun.”

  “What about Jackson? Does he know how to have fun?”

  “A different kind than most people are used to. He loves to race. Not sure what he’s chasing out on the track or if he’ll ever catch it.”

  His heart beat under her ear, a soothing tempo that urged hers to match. “My father and Bree came to see me today.”

  “Busy day. What did they want?”

  “Apparently, Andrew isn’t giving up on getting back together. Bree told me she was jealous of me, and that’s part of the reason she took up with Andrew. She apologized, and it felt real this time.”

  “Did you accept?”

  “I didn’t not accept.” She explored the thick dusting of dark hair on his chest and followed the line down his belly to the sheet. His torso was solid and thick, with muscles earned through hard work and not in a gym.

  He grabbed her hand, his body rumbling with laughter. “Is this the turn-around you threatened me with this morning?”

  She tilted her head back to see his face. His eyes were closed, his smile sultry. If he wasn’t bothered by the temporary nature of their relationship—maybe hook-up was more accurate—then she’d try not to be either. People did this sort of thing all the time.

  “You can forgive her that easily?” he asked.

  “We’re not friends, but not enemies either. I don’t know what she is or what she’ll be to me in the future.” She slipped her hand under the sheet to his hip and explored the curve of his buttock. “Daddy’s worried you’re using me.”

  “Did you tell him that you’re the one using me?”

  Her heart stuttered, no longer synchronized with his, and she propped up on her elbow. “I’m not using you.”