Last: A Copperslane Romance Novel

by Garnet Christie

  He shrugs, a half-cocked grin on his face. “Then she goes to her husband. What the hell am I supposed to do about that?”

  “Is that all you have to say?” My eyes widen a fraction, barely showing the surprise coursing through me. “Won’t you be upset? Surely her husband won’t sell you the land.”

  “Probably not, but why worry about it before it happens? We still don’t know if she’ll say anything.”

  Shock at his easy dismissal sends my jaw to the floor. “Brett, you’ve been fighting for this. Aren’t you mad or concerned?”

  “Some of my priorities have changed.” A glimmer takes over his gaze and he stares at my breasts. “And besides, sometimes there are more important things to worry about.”

  The air thins, my blood thickens, making me aware of how hard it pumps from the look on his face. He looks starved, and dark, like he wants to eat me alive—which I’m too happy to oblige.

  I release the spoon, placing it on the stove, eagerness driving me to tease and prod him until he shatters and consumes me. “Really? And what concern could be more important?”

  My core tightens as he picks up his glass and reaches me in three solid strides. Craning my head back, I want to sway forward, lean into him, and I’m licking my lips expecting the most sin-filled words as he gently wraps his fingers around my throat, lowering his head for my ear.

  A rumble comes up from the back of his throat and he strokes his thumb against the front of my neck. “I’m worried you’re not adding enough salt to the water and that you’re overcooking our noodles.”

  Stillness drapes over me and my want smashes to the floor, swiping down all the sweltering heat swirling in me. A sense of disbelief floods downward when he drops his hand, and his broad body shakes with a laugh.

  I snap into action, swatting at his buff arm when he laughs harder. “Awful.” My brows come together, but a giggle slips out. One I try to hide. “You’re awful.”

  “What?” Leaning his backside onto one of my counters, he grins. “Were you expecting something else?” He tsk’s. “God, you’re dirty.”

  “I am not.” Defensiveness seeps through my voice as I snatch up my spoon. “Besides, how much can you expect out of me if you’re going to stand there and get me excited?”

  “Excited?” He snorts. “You want to talk about someone getting excited, then why don’t we talk about me? Last time I checked, you were the one leaving me with not one, but two hard-ons at a restaurant.”

  “Two?” My nose wrinkles up when he nods. “Giuseppe’s?”

  “That was the second one.”

  The statement has my head jerking back, because I can’t think of how I would have missed the first one. “And the first time?”

  “During the cabin retreat with Cora and Lizzie.” He rakes through one side of his hair, biting on his lip in a way that has me mad he’s not rolling my lips through his teeth. “The moment you said you were going to kill me in your book and then looked up at me with those innocent eyes, asking me if I’d read it, was the sexiest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.”

  I choke in total surprise as my mouth hinges open. “You liked me talking about killing you?”

  “I told you.” He shifts one shoulder up and drops it. “I like a little bit of pain. Either way, that’s when I understood how fucking screwed I was with you. I already couldn’t stop watching you, but that’s when I knew I wanted more, even though it pissed me off.”

  “Did it now?” I cock a brow, loving the smugness in my tone, adoring the way his confession sounds.

  “Of course it did.” He twirls the tumbler, letting ice mingle in with his drink of choice. “I wanted a little fun with someone, no doubt about that, but I didn’t come here to get tangled up with a smartass author who always mouthed off to me.” He raises his glass up in a toast, smiling. “I’d read that book by the way. You made it sound good.” He lifts the edge to his lips and begins to drain the remaining whiskey.

  All the happy feelings welling up inside puff out and die—Brett’s meaning to compliment me, but he’s accidentally served up a sad reminder that I can’t write, and that I wasted many hours trying to write while he was away.

  Whipping out a hot glove, I tug it on, ignoring the sting festering in my chest, and throw the oven door open.

  With my back to him, I sigh. “Then you’ll be waiting a while.” I set the pan down hard on the stove top, letting the loud bang of the pan voice my brewing frustration and spill out the sad facts. “My last bestseller was years ago, and after its success, all my good ideas dried up with it.” Losing the glove, I grab at my pendant and give it a firm squeeze.

  “Are you talking about Play Me, Love Me?”

  My blood stops and the air captures my limbs, making my one arm dangle out in the open while I reach to turn off the oven. He’s just named my top bestseller like it was resting on the top of his head. Slowly, I swivel on my heel, eyes wanting to bug out of my head. “How did you . . .”

  “I read your books.” He rubs at his nape, a slight redness pooling in his cheeks.

  “You . . . you what?”

  “All of them.” He shifts his weight to the opposite foot, maintaining eye contact. But his stare is void of the usual sinful flames. Soft embers smolder instead.

  The look, knowing he sought out all my books. It sears right through me, charring through every fiber of my being, creating an ache for more than all the hardcore sessions. It leaves me with a desperation for something lasting. Permanent—and that’s dangerous. Dangerous since I know Brett has no intentions of staying here. I douse out my own desires, while trying to wrap my head around the notion that he’s read every single one of my books. That he’s learned about me. Because that’s what my writing is. Pieces of me strewn out in broken fragments for everyone to see.

  Arid breath collects and holds in my lungs. When I finally speak, it’s one word, croaking out from the deepest part of my throat. “Why?” I wish I could sound sexier when I say it, but I can’t—not when I’m starting to crave more and refraining from testing how deep our connection can go. Also dangerous.

  “Why?” He repeats the question I’d almost forgotten I asked. “Because I couldn’t stop thinking about you after I left. I tried.” He lightly taps the base of his glass on the counter in steady beats. “Trust me, I tried. But it wouldn’t fucking happen. I didn’t know how to get you out of my system, so I picked getting you into it instead.”

  I want to swallow but I can’t. I want to cry. Nothing. A head shake that almost doesn’t exist happens, but that’s it. Something in my chest collapses, concaving against my heart as he stares into my eyes—into my depths.

  “You can write, Bianca.” Cradling his glass in one hand, he strides toward me. Steady. Slow. Each step matching the slams of my heavy pulse. His touch is pure fire as he skims the back of his knuckles across my cheek. “I don’t know what this road block is. Mental? Emotional? But you can write. I read your stuff, Bianca, and I’m sorry for all the shitty things I said.” His voice dips low, flaring up the most carnal needs which begin to bloom in the lowest parts of my stomach. “You can do it again. We’ll get you through it.”

  “We’ll get you through it.”

  Words no one man has ever said to me before—and there’s no way for me to respond. The phrase breaks me, churning my mind into a whirlpool of blankness. I blink several times, unsure if I’ve heard anything right. Asking for a repeat isn’t out of the question either. I find a way to steady my voice. “Brett—”

  The question is stolen away when he pulls up one brow, a slyness tugging at every feature of his handsome face. “Maybe you need a little inspiration.”

  “Inspiration?” My head tilts.

  “Yeah. Like something to fire up your imagination?” He studies me for a moment before one silent chuckle animates his shoulders.

  “What?” There’s a tease streaking across his gaze, one I’m not sure I want to open, but still, I have to know.

  “I was thinkin
g about one of your implied scenes. The one with Shane and Julia in Play Me, Love Me.”

  “Oh gosh.” I cover my hand with my mouth, wondering which scene he’s referring to. Most of my stuff is PG in writing, rated R in implication—and I’m sure laughable to someone like Brett. I prepare myself for some serious teasing. “Don’t keep me in suspense. Tell me which one.”

  “The one where Shane puts an ice cube in his mouth and tells her to lie down on the table.” The joke I saw dancing in his vision a moment ago diminishes as he closes the statement.

  I cinch my arms across my chest and throw the verbal ball back in his court. “What about it?”

  A ghost of a smirk presses up his mouth and he brings the tumbler to his lips once more, pausing just long enough to ask his question before taking a drink of whiskey that’s no longer there. “Have you ever had that done to you?”

  “Well, um . . .” I haven’t, but my answer delays at the sound of rattling ice as Brett tilts his glass back almost all the way. Shaking the sound away, I briefly flick my eyes to the floor and finish the reply. “No, I haven’t. But I thought it would . . . be . . .” Looking up, the words die in my throat when he pokes his tongue out, displaying a cube of ice on it.

  With a sly curl of sin and heat mixing across his face, he pulls it back in, flicks off the burner to the stove and speaks through a voice that sounds parched. “Perfect. Go lie on the table. Spread your legs.”

  Holy shit. My hands go limp and the spoon slips from my grasp, falling to the floor. I love it when he goes alpha, and it’s just what I need to stamp out the useless remaining feelings of wanting a deeper connection. Of wanting something to last. I’m realizing how twisted my thought process was moments ago. I don’t need more of him. All I’m in need of is a hard and proper lay—which I’m obediently going to give in to.

  Starting now.

  Scuffling backward, my heart pulses so hard my knees vibrate against each other.

  Brett wastes no time stalking after my steps in slow, methodical strides, primal hunger shooting from him and crashing over me like a tidal wave. It’s lessening the oxygen in my already spinning head, and I’m dying for him to kiss me and deplete the supply even more.

  I squirm when my backside hits the table. My fingertips rotate, clenching into the lip of it as he stands a few feet away and stares with an intensity that makes me want to crumble. It’s like the old days. He almost looks pissed. A hard swallow captures in the middle of my throat and I can hardly speak. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “Like what?” His reply reverberates low in the room.

  “Like you’re irritated.” Pulling back my shoulders, I try to straighten my spine while saying it. If anything, for my own resolve.

  “Because I can’t fucking look away.” His eyes hood over, covering all the browns, and I’m already panting from the pressure in his voice. “Even when I want to, I can’t look away and sometimes that annoys me. You have me, Bianca. Did from the start. Now . . .” The white T-shirt hugging his body conforms to each muscle as he takes a deep breath. “Lose the top. Lie on the table.”

  Peeling my sweater off, the room circles around me, going black in my peripherals like a tunnel, forcing my eyes to stay locked on the man watching me strip. He licks his lips, and except for the frantic beat of my heart and his staggered breaths, sound hones out. Goosebumps trail from my arms to my tits, pebbling my nipples at the upward sweep of his scorching gaze.

  He tilts his head and cocks a brow. “Ass on the table and lie down. Now.”

  Obeying, I use my hands to shove off my feet and prop myself on the glass table top. A chill pricks at my ass cheeks. I know damn well it’s a small prelude to what’s coming—my lungs hold, air weighing my sternum down with torrid anticipation. As I relax my spine, shivers roll down my vertebrae where my back kisses the glass. Suppressing a squeal, I arch, seeking relief.

  “Don’t fucking move.”

  My eyelids roll to a close and at his voice, my body glues itself in place. I can’t move, even if I wanted to. “Yes, sir.”

  “Good girl.” He purrs it in the way only he can.

  I moan as his large and powerful hands coast up my thighs and grab at the waist of my clothes—I rock my hips to aid him in deftly removing the lower contents of my garments, and I smile at the sound of denim from my loose-fitting jeans brushing to the floor.

  With my eyes still sealed shut, both ears perk up at the singing of glass and the gentle clanking of more ice being removed.

  “Ahh!” My once-settled spine lurches off the table and my eyes flick open at the sting encasing my nipples. I look, and Brett rests a cube over each one. Slowly melting, chilling me, yet stoking each nerve ending on fire. A gasp slips out when they linger against my flesh longer—their frosty nibble growing into a bite. “Brett . . .”

  He guides my hands one at a time, securing the small squares against my breasts, then brings a finger to his mouth. “Shh, kitten.” He’s Sin. “Don’t let them slide off. Understand?”

  An unsteadiness strikes at my vocal cords. “Brett, it’s cold.”

  “Yes it is.” He grazes a long index finger along the inside of my thigh, then his zipper drags down. Unleashing himself, his cock springs out in attention.

  I gyrate my body, desperate for him to fill me, even though I know he has other ideas in mind.

  Resting his knuckles on the table top, he licks at his mouth. “And it’s about to get colder.” That’s a promise—a beautifully delicious one. “Remember how I told you I love the cold?”

  I nod.

  “I chase it, Bianca. I only live in cool climates. It’s what I love.” He laughs once, deep and husky. “Lucky for you I’m about to show you how fucking hot the cold is.”

  The urge to speak is there, but the glass clinks again. More ice is being removed.

  “Shit, Brett.” Ice cubes descend on my inner thighs. I buck one time, then my hips snap down with a slam from Brett’s heavy-handed strength. His fingers enclose around my thighs, the only barrier between his palm and my flesh being the chunks of ice which press harder into my skin as his grip tightens.

  “Stay still, little one,” he grunts. “It’s hard to control you when wet.”

  I gulp back a moan. “You seem to be doing just fine.”

  Those are my last coherent words. His head ducks in between my legs, his chilled tongue finds my clit.

  “Oh, shiiit!” I’d move, if I could to recoil from the freeze. Yet the cold from the ice and the heat of his breath creates a beautiful, twisted marriage. One pass of his tongue, and my eyes roll to the back of my head.

  My hips lift, he shoves them down, confirming the thought I had in the lounge that night. He can hold me down with his hands. Stars flash behind my vision as I willingly become a slave to this man, letting him devour me however he pleases.

  He sucks me, drawing my tender flesh between his teeth. My thighs clench around his head, squeezing tighter than a vice while I holler his name. More flicks send me writhing against the table. His unshaven stubble rasps against my skin, unleashing a delicious volley that travels up my thighs to land in my pleasured center. My nails pinch into my breasts, my teeth gritting in euphoric overload.

  “Holy . . . Brett.” I buck, successfully this time, not recognizing my own voice. It’s too dark and raspy.

  He comes up, breath stolen, panting hard and fast. “Fuck, kitten, you’re sweet.” He lays a half-melted ice cube on my clit, ignoring my shrill. “Next time I do this, I’ll use my fingers. I’m going to pump you so hard, and make you feel so fucking good, your neighbors will call the police.”

  “Holy fuck,” I say it raw—his dirty, grimy words undoing me, breaking me of obedience. I toss my arms overhead, dropping the ice cubes from my breasts. My spine arches when he smacks the inside of my thigh.

  “Bad. I told you to keep the ice in place.”

  For once, I don’t fucking care. “Brett.” My voice whimpers out. “Brett, please. Please?”


  “Fuck.” He rips away, dropping the remaining ice from his palm, spitting the mostly melted one from his mouth. “You only have to ask once.”

  He lines up, stroking my drenched opening, and slams into me. Backing out, he slams in again, making breathing an impossibility as I gasp with each stretch of my walls.

  “Shit.” His voice is gruff. “I need you closer.” Securing his elbows under my knees, he yanks me further down. We’re flush, skin to skin, and he growls, unraveling before me. I relish the sight, at the way emotions play openly on his features.

  His brows pull together, his face straining, changing color, and when I think he’s about to combust, a string of words roll off his lips. “Inspiration, Bianca.”

  Inspiration. My eyes widen and while I want to echo him, I can’t. Instead, I listen to a speech that comes out broken in between huffs, puffs, my shouts, his groans, and the table that’s starting to scrape across the floor. A fresh assault unleashes on my heart and I can’t stop it.

  “Mine.” He breathes. “God, Bianca, you’re . . .” He drives himself deeper, to my breaking point.

  “Brett!” I shift my hips up, aligning to better clench around him, which forces his head back.

  “Fuck,” he growls, expanding in me. “So good.” A deep breath sucks in, and he pushes it out through rounded cheeks, increasing the fortitude of his stance by widening his legs out. “Like you’re made for me.”

  “Oh my God . . .” I prop up on my elbows, my heart thumping so fast I wonder how it remains encased inside. Tears spill out the corners of my eyes as my head dangles backward, accepting the way my body surrenders to his thrusts. My nails screech against the glass as I dig for something, anything to ground me.

  Because I need it. Demand it as he plucks at the closed seams of my scarred up, disbelieving heart.

  My head snaps up when he stops thrusting, eyes opening.

  “Bianca.” He’s staring straight at me but the burn in his gaze is still present, his chest rising and falling in rapid beats. His voice is calm when he speaks, and it’s laced with fire. “You’re going to put me in your next novel, and it’s going to be your new bestseller.”