Last: A Copperslane Romance Novel

by Garnet Christie

  My pulse beats out of sync, hammering in shortened tempo even as he resumes pumping in me, and this round he serves is hard—our skin clapping each time he fills me, my legs trembling as he lifts them so they’re straight up, resting against his chest. When I try to close my eyes, I can’t.

  Fuck. Like he said earlier, I can’t look away, even though I want to. Now there’s a connection, a string binding me to him—knitting me to his body, his soul . . . to him. The link creeps into my chest, threatening to snatch my heart right out of its cavity before passing it to him. The only way I can stifle the overwhelming sensation is by slapping my hand over my ribs. It only releases me when Brett’s eyes darken and an order barks out.

  “Cum, baby. Say my name louder than ever before.”

  I do it, triggered by his order, eyes sealed shut—spasming in waves. A limpness trails through me, clouding my mind and words to where I can’t even grasp what I’m saying. And I barely comprehend his own shout of release when it happens.

  It takes me several moments to gather my surroundings and find the bottom of my swimming head when it’s all said and done.

  “Holy shit.” Brett pulls out, panting. He smirks, looking far too happy with himself. He leaves his jeans pooled around his ankles and comes over to the side of the table. Bending down, he kisses me, just grazing his tongue against my teeth, and I realize we haven’t exchanged a kiss this whole time.

  “Inspiration,” he repeats. “I hope it helps, because, fuck . . .” Cupping my cheek, he plants a gentle kiss on my forehead. Breaking it, his lips rest on my skin and my senses sink, falling into him as he murmurs. “If you knew the ways you inspire me, you’d never doubt yourself again.”

  “Me?” My brows knit together. “I’m not inspiring.”

  “Yes.” He threads his fingers through the back of my hair, forcing our eyes to meet, his powerful grip matching the intensity in his voice. “Yes you are. Now, write a fucking book and use this for some direction.”

  “I . . . I will.” My heart flutters in uneven beats.

  “Good girl.” Backing away, he winks. “I’m going to clean up. Join me if you’d like, for a shower.”

  He’s a few steps away, swaggering as he heads off for my bathroom, when the connection from moments ago reawakens, surging up and down my skin.

  “Brett?” Goosebumps rise on my arms, trailing into my nipples while he turns around.

  He wipes a bead of sweat away and softly smiles. “What?”

  “What was that?” The question sounds so vague, but his eyes round. The tenderness in them reaches out, drowning me in a riptide that renders me lightheaded—feeling like I haven’t come up for oxygen in a lifetime.

  “That,” he says, in a tone much too gentle “Was me helping you forget you don’t do serious.”

  Chapter 21

  “Are you sure you want some of your things here?” My voice wavers toward the end of the question as I smooth my finger over the edge of my mother’s initial.

  “Absolutely.”

  Crap. I wasn’t expecting his response to fire back so fast. The further Brett strolls into my house, the more I clutch at my necklace. By the time he’s walked past me, I’m twisting it so much it’s a wonder the chain doesn’t snap.

  Two weeks have passed since he blew my mind with the ice cubes, and damn if he hasn’t changed my mind about a lot of things. Last week I was ludicrous enough to suggest him keeping a few items here, a thing I’ve never allowed for any guy, and it’s catching up with me now. At first he hesitated, but now I can’t see any of that. His steps are confident and bold as he walks across my house.

  A pit rips open in my stomach the closer he draws to my bedroom. The sickness inside corrodes any remaining confidence, eating through my calmness till my palms are clammy.

  Watching him, I realize that for the first time since hooking up, we won’t be going in there to screw around. He’s using my room to unpack his things. Shit. His things. My joints are rigid, taking over my feet, tacking them to the floor.

  It’s like he senses what’s come over me. He slows his pace. Glancing over his shoulder, two dark eyes study me. “Nervous?”

  “No.” Ice travels up my body, coating over the sound of my voice. I grip the necklace tighter and sew my brows together. “Why?”

  “'Cause you have a death grip on your necklace.”

  My hand falls away, taking my posture with it. I’m slouching. “Sorry. It’s just . . .”

  “It’s okay to be nervous, Bianca.” His brow lifts. “I haven’t done this before either.”

  A barb of irritation pokes at me from his assumptions. “I didn’t say I’ve never done this before.”

  “You don’t have to. I can see you haven’t.”

  “Brett—” A warning tone hits my vocal cords.

  He chuckles, holding one hand out. “Come on.” He winks. “Help me unpack.”

  I’m across the room, interweaving my unsteady hand through his in a flash. Damn it. My teeth grit at how easily I crumble to his requests, especially when he says it so sweetly.

  Chewing on the inside of my cheek till I think it will bleed, I sit on the bed, watching him lift the suitcase onto the bed. Silence clouds in the room but it feels like so much more, and my body tingles from the vibrations. Brett orbits around me like he’s becoming part of my life, universe. Crap. Not good. Each day he sticks around, I discover my soul has sunk another inch deeper into him, and that wasn’t in my plans when we started doing this.

  Fuck. He was supposed to be simple. Easy. A quick fix to kill the hormonal overload he initiated in me, but now with him moving in his items, the primitive part of our arrangement is washing away. I’m worried about the floodgate this will unlock and I don’t know why I suggested it in the first place.

  We’re going to crash and burn, and I never should have said yes. To any of this.

  I force a deep breath. At least he’ll be going home soon. All he needs is his property and then this idea is over.

  “. . . Hello? Earth to Bianca?” Brett’s deep voice raises in volume, shattering my wandering thoughts. A smirk spans across his mouth. “Have you heard anything I said?”

  “Sorry.” I rub at my arm, my cheeks flashing with heat. “I spaced out.”

  “Obviously.” His shoulders lurch with a chuckle. Directing his attention to the black suitcase, he plucks up a pair of jeans and places them down on the bed.

  I fixate on them. It’s the same pair he was wearing at the lounge when I ran into Lance. My heart thrashes away at my chest walls. Each violent bump coils down my body, making me stiff. I never would have thought a pair of simple black pants could act like a wire stripper to my composure, clamping and tearing away at my nerves till I’m sick and jumbled, yet here I am. Raw. A fine tremor vibrates through my hand as the truth sinks in harder. He’s really doing this—moving his things in.

  Watching him place a shirt on the bed, I take a hasty gulp of needed air. “Why do you want to bring your things here, Brett?” My shaky question sounds so simple, but there’s more weaving through it. Things I can’t utter—a question of his truest intentions, a wondering of his motives and how deep they go . . . the inner workings of his heart. All those topics thread through my words.

  From the way he smiles, and the gentle way he answers, I think he knows it. “Because you’re different from everyone else, and when you meet someone different, you do something different.”

  I shake my head, expelling a huge breath of air. It depletes my lungs and I’m praying it pushes out all the uncertainty riddling me today. That doesn’t happen. Hugging my arms around my middle, I rock in small back-and-forth motions. “Brett, I know you’re trying to help me forget that I don’t do serious relationships, but I don’t think it’s going to work.”

  “And how will we know that unless we try?” His question is pointed, yet comes out so soft that I’m not given the chance to be offended or afraid, just timid.

  “But why should I try?” I barely
hear the words; however, I do feel my pulse. It springs to life, rapping against the veins in my wrist as Brett rests his weight on the bed and smiles.

  “Aren’t you tired, Bianca?”

  “What do you mean?” Each fiber in my shoulders tightens, drawing them up to my ears.

  “I mean, look at our lives.” Dark eyes which lack their usual hardness today drop to the bedding. He draws a deep breath and slowly reaches his hand out, taking his time toward his destination. My hand. I’d like to pull it away, but I can’t. All I can do is draw a ragged inhale when he connects and gently traces his fingertips over my knuckles. “We’ve both been driven by revenge, anger, and things that don’t last. Don’t you want something more?”

  The question shoots up through my arm like glass, slicing me wide open before it lands in my heart. “No.” I jerk my hand out of his, not able to stop the coldness in my voice. “Honestly, I need those things to fuel me and my writing.”

  “I disagree.” He moves closer to me, never allowing the distance I need. There’s a rasp laying deep in his voice. “I’ve been thinking a lot lately, and I’m wondering if not letting go of our hurts is fucking us up.”

  My brows pull together and my head jerks back. “You don’t mean that.”

  “Yes. I do.” More vigor returns to his voice as he speaks. Arching a brow, he stares into my eyes. “Revenge is a confession of pain.”

  My eyes widen while a lump forms in my throat. The conviction in his utterance feels so right. Something about it worries me. No. I’m not going to give into his words. Whatever I do, I won’t feel them. I narrow my gaze. “I think revenge is needed. Necessary. Good.” There’s calculation in my voice. Something that hasn’t come out since I spoke to Dad. “Without anger, where will my inspiration come from?” All I’m used to is thinking about disobeying Dad when I write, or at least try to nowadays. Not having that behind me sounds so odd.

  He rubs at his nape. “A healthy source. One that won’t have you rubbing gangrene in your heart.”

  “What?” I wrinkle my nose, head swimming in a sea of confusion. Eyeing him up and down, I curl my shoulders away. It gives me the space I’ve been looking for. “I don’t understand.”

  Gangrene. The word strikes at me with long fangs, digging into my heart till I feel ugly, and for whatever reason it shoots a bolt of guilt down my body. Clutching at my necklace, I’m yanking it hard. It can’t funnel out the hot shame, and soon my skin is slicking over with sweat.

  “I can’t be so sure you’re right.” A grumble scrapes at the back of my throat. “I need it and so do you. Without revenge, we’re screwed.”

  “Is that so?” His voice is calm, but challenging. “Answer this.” Serious lines course his face.

  I freeze, gripping the hem of my shirt.

  “When did your dad die?”

  My eyes widen at the question. “Three and half years ago.”

  “Mm-hmm.” He leans forward. “When did your last bestseller drop?”

  “Three and half years ago.” My heart drops into my stomach. Why does the time frame seem to justify his ideas? No. I pucker my lips out, forcing a bored face. “That’s only a coincidence.”

  “It’s not.” He’s across the bed in seconds, capturing my chin with his thumb and index finger. “And you know it. Let it all go, Bianca. Let it go with me.” His head lowers and his eyes dip for my mouth.

  “Where is all this forgiveness stuff coming from today?”

  “It hasn’t been simply today. I’ve been thinking about this for a while.”

  “I don’t believe it.” My gaze studies the perimeter of his face—one that’s looking less harsh. Confusion twists across my mouth. “This isn’t like you. You’re not the type of guy who forgives.”

  “Not the type? What gives you that impression?”

  “Well, just . . . just—” I gesture at his clothing.

  His brows lift so high they hit his hairline, and he huffs out a breath like he’s just been punched in the stomach. “You’d seriously shoehorn me into some idea of what you think I should be? Based on what? The way I look? The way I cuss?” He frowns when my mouth snaps shut, admitting my guilt. “That’s disappointing, Bianca.”

  Shit. I can’t think of what to say. Not while shame slices at my core.

  “Don’t let my tattoos fool you, kitten. Of course I can forgive, and I know you can too.” Reaching out, he bundles my hand in his, giving it a firm squeeze.

  I can’t pull away. Maybe it’s his gentle tone, the glow in his eyes, or how right he feels while holding my hand, but there’s something here. It lessens the uncertainty that roiled in me moments ago, leaving me parched.

  A thick swallow washes down my throat as I lift my gaze to stare at him through my lashes. “How do you know I can forgive?”

  “Because I see you.” He’s on his knees, over me, cupping my face. One flick of his tongue to wet his mouth, and my heart roars to life, striking at my ribs so hard I wonder if he hears it.

  “Brett . . .” I pant out that one word.

  “Fuck.” He scans my face, leaving me emotionally naked. “I see you, Bianca.” Peppermint breath trails into my mouth while his lips brush mine. I shudder. “Always have.” His fingers grip into my hair. “Always fucking will.”

  His mouth seals over mine and he groans. The sound hits the back of my throat, piercing right into my chest. I’m climbing to my knees, fisting his hair and tugging on the roots. Brett works me, kissing me, nipping my lips and neck in the ways he knows I like. Much too soon, I’m falling apart, in his arms, and we lie back.

  “Fuck, Bianca.” He positions his wide frame between my legs, peppering kisses up and down any showing skin. “I love the way you fit against me.”

  “Mmm.” My nerve endings alight on fire when his finger slips under my shirt and I peel my spine off the bed, pressing myself against him, delighting in that perfect fit he’s just mentioned as the air swirls around me.

  He chuckles, holding me tight, stroking his fingers through my hair. “Are you sure you don’t do serious?”

  Fuck. Panic rolls down my limbs. I’m rigid, not even able to draw a breath.

  “Because with you like this—” He sucks at my earlobe and moans. “Jesus, you’re so sweet I want to fucking die.”

  Damn it. I freeze, overloaded by everything circling around me tonight. Him challenging my viewpoints about Dad. Him wondering if I can’t do serious after I promised myself years ago that I’d never try again. Brett is flipping my whole way of thinking onto its head, and he’s almost winning—sweetly coaxing me to fall into him, trust him. Crap. I’m not sure if I can. Panic crashes over me, stealing my oxygen. I can’t even get lost in his sizzling kisses. My body stiffens.

  “Bianca?” Brett’s deep voice calls me back to him. Pulling away from him, our eyes meet. His gaze tightens, brows matching the same pattern, almost meeting in the middle. “What’s wrong?”

  “I . . . uh . . . nothing.” Patting him on the chest, I convince him to sit up and smile. “I need to check on dinner.” More like I need to get out of here and steal away a few moments to think. Hard.

  Sliding off, I’m out the bedroom door faster than he can say anything, making sure my head is high.

  It’s not till reaching the kitchen that I scratch my head and suck in some needed air. Clutching my necklace, I close my eyes and sense my pulse slow. Can I do this? The serious things in life?

  Part of me wants to run from Brett, but not only does it feel wrong, I’d also be ditching the most amazing sex on earth and that’s dumb.

  But maybe I don’t need to worry about any of that.

  Thinking of his property, my limbs loosen some. I think he’s told several people he plans to leave after he gets it.

  It’s only until he’s gone. The words loop in my head a few times. It’s only until he’s gone. Soon, he’ll have his land and me losing control won’t be an issue. For now, I just need to enjoy the hell out of his body, because it can’t last too much l
onger. Nothing fun ever lasts. Nothing. And for the first time in my life, I’m looking forward to something not lasting—that something is Brett.

  Chapter 22

  Damn. If I ever thought I would die from extreme pain, today would be the day. The curtains to my room are drawn together, blacking out the room. It’s still not enough. The horrendous split occurring behind my eyes and encasing my head leaves my vision blurry while blotches of white snow dance outside my field of view.

  This headache is the worst one to date and even I’m wondering if I should go to the doctor.

  Not that I could go right now, even if I wanted to. A fraction of light is too much, making me think my head will crack in half anytime a beam slips through.

  I’m reminded of this very fact when Brett taps on the door and enters, allowing a small sliver of brightness with him. Fresh pain slices through my head.

  I moan and toss the comforter over my face.

  “Bianca?” His deep voice laces with concern and while I find it sweet, I’m too absorbed with the pain to get lost in the sentiment of it.

  “Mmm.”

  “Baby.”

  His footsteps drag on the carpet, a slide occurring with each step he takes. The sensitive state I’m in heightens each sound, allowing me to pinpoint the way the wood under the padding creaks from his weight, and how his socks cause static on the thick pile on top. I swear I can even detect the moment he kneels down by my side of the bed. It’s like I can hear his joints bending and folding to allow the motion.

  The blanket falls from my face, and he extends his hand. I instinctively nuzzle into the palm cupping my cheek. His large thumb strokes over the same area in gentle back and forth, and he sighs. “Bianca, let me take you to the hospital.”

  “No.” I want to say more, but it’s the only word I can manage. My voice is hoarse in my throat, tricking me into thinking I haven’t talked in a hundred years. This headache is no joke.