A finger slips inside. One makes me want to moan. A second one dares me to whimper in ecstasy. A third one has me biting my tongue to refrain from saying his name.
An earth-shattering pump tests the fortitude of my walls, of my knees, of the lies I feed myself that I don’t want or need Brett. My nails scrape at the flat planes of the drywall as I search for the grounding I need.
“I feel you, baby.” His voice is power, working through the darkness in my head. “I feel how you’re drawn to me.” He pulls a groan out of me. “There’s no way we’re so perfect for each other and not meant to be together. Allow us to be happy.”
No. No. I want to refuse him. I can’t. The pace of his fingers quicken—the slickness of my body acting as its own voice, confessing how subjugated my entity is to this man. Another finger crams inside, and he pumps harder. A crack forms across the barriers I’ve created.
“Brett . . .” His name flows out of me like honey, and I’m stuck to him.
“Fuck yes. Say my name like that again.”
“Brett.” I writhe against the wall. “Brett . . .” More areas of my fortified partitions disintegrating into dust.
“Shit.” He’s on his knees ramming me, siphoning the fear and denial out of me with each draw and push.
“Holy fuck!” His tongue slides across my clit once. I scream his name, my hoarse cry echoing around the house and through the haze of my climax. His deep voice cuts through it all.
“Look at me.”
My eyes snap open on command.
With his pace never decreasing, he licks his lips and furrows his brows. “Do you want me out of your life?”
“Fuck, Brett.” My back arches while another climax builds. Close to the edge, I toss my hands over my head.
“Answer me.” His pace slows.
I grumble in frustration at how my climax ebbs. “Please.” I raise my frame to glide up his fingers.
“No, little one.” He shoves my pelvis back, taking no care to be gentle in the way he glues me in place. “Tell me. Tell me if you want me to leave you.”
Biting my lower lip, I scowl, anger roiling in my veins. “What do you think?” I bite out.
“I think no.” Slow, steady pumps resume, and they pluck at the raw edges of my teetering composure. “Am I right?”
“Yes.” I say it breathlessly and wholeheartedly. “Yes.” I tilt my hips off the wall. “You’re right. You’ve always been right.” Sweat dews on the nape of my neck when he serves a delicious slam. “You’ve always been right.” Fuck. Of course I don’t want him gone. Merely thinking about it slashes an ache through my soul. I’m certain he’s meant to last. I’m just not sure I can verbalize it.
But thank God he understands. At least that’s what it feels like as he moans my name and pleasures me with untamed vigor. Each push inside weakens my knees a little more, and soon I’m slouching halfway down the wall. His name is on the cusp of my tongue when he slows down again.
I squirm in desperation. “Shit. No. Please.”
“One last thing.”
“What?”
“How do you feel, Bianca?”
My eyes flutter open and he’s there. Looking at me, staring into my soul. Beads of sweat climb up my face, kissing my temples, and I’m not sure how to answer.
Smiling some, his voice softens. “With my fingers inside of you, how do you feel?”
“I feel . . .” My legs partially give out. “I feel . . .” Full? Satisfied? No. My eyes widen as the right words landmine through my being. Complete.
“Complete?” He says it so calm and sure, like he knows that’s the word my heart found and settled on.
I nod.
“That’s how you make me feel, baby. Please, don’t take that away.”
“I won’t . . .” Air compresses out of my body. “I promise I won’t.”
“Good girl.” The small smile blooms into a full one. “Now cum for me.”
A single pump and I shatter. Splintering apart, sliding all the way to the floor, uttering his name. I come hard for the man who owns me. I come hard for the man whom I own, and I do it with my heart so full it wants to bust out of my chest.
He’s right. I’m complete.
And that’s fucking terrifying.
Chapter 25
“So how long is Brett gone for?” Cora’s voice blares over the speaker of my cell as I pace the bedroom for the millionth time.
“Till Saturday.” I sit on what’s become Brett’s side when he stays here and trail my hand down the bedding. Terror still taps at my heart when I think of him being a permanent fixture in my life, but slowly I’m learning to accept it. I think.
“Cool. And you’re holding up alright without your beau?”
I scoff. “Oh, come on. It’s not like we’re lovesick high school kids. I’m fine without him here.”
“Sure,” she snips. “And I suppose you being ‘fine’ is the reason why you’ve been calling me every day since he’s been gone?”
“Oh, whatever. I have not.” My eyes go skyward. “I’ve been calling you the same amount of times as always.”
She barks out a laugh, and for whatever reason, a wash of aggravation hits my chest. “Shit, Bee, let me hang up now so the lightning doesn’t hit me through the phone.”
I grumble loud enough so she hears it, letting her know she’s working under my nerves today. She doesn’t care.
“And enough with the grouchy shit.” It’s an order, but I know she’s probably smiling when she says it. “I only see or hear from you these days when Brett is gone, so don’t think you’re going to pull the wool over my eyes.”
“Like you see anything.”
“Ha. More than you. Case in point, Monica the hoe.”
I grimace. “True that.”
A long breath rattles into the phone, and I know she’s going to dive into the bombshell that shook our town. After Monica’s husband left, hell has kind of broken loose. “Can you believe that one dude that came forward? The one who said she date-raped him?”
My stomach churns and a sour taste creeps into the back of my throat. “Poor guy. I can’t imagine the courage it’s taking him to step forward.”
“No joke. I hope that lying slut pays. I mean, I knew she was bad, but holy fuck.”
I rub my finger over my necklace, making small circles. “I hope she hasn’t hurt too many other guys.”
She sighs. “I guess time will tell. If they do, it only goes to show that women can be predators too.”
“Absolutely. I hope Monica never gets away with this again.” My stomach growls. I scooch off the bed, ready to dive into the stew I made earlier this morning.
“Are you still in shock about Brett not taking that property?” I hear some background noise but can’t make out what she’s doing. “I drove by the place the other day and I guess Paul sold it. Looks like it’s being worked on.”
My head bobs. “Saber bought it.” Maybe Brett wasn’t keen on the land, but Saber DuBois is. From what Brett said, it sounded like Saber said yes to the land before Paul even finished making the offer. I sigh, thinking about her second part of the question. “And to say I’m in shock is the understatement of the year.”
“Why didn’t he take it?”
Reaching the kitchen, I go for the cabinets where my bowls are and pull one down. “He had this whole philosophy about not taking it because his motives were wrong and that he thought it was fucking up his life.”
“Really? Wow. Sounds like he had a serious matter of the heart check there.”
“I guess.” I nervously pick at my sweatpants. “Frankly, I don’t understand it.” I’ve been trying to sort out his reasoning ever since it happened, and I can’t draw up any conclusions.
“What’s not to understand?” Cora asks. “He’s giving up something that he thinks is toxic. I think it’s pretty awesome he’s letting something go if he thought it was unhealthy. That shit’s hard to do.”
“It sounds great. I just . . .�
�� My frame sags. “Why do it?”
“Seriously?” she quips back. “You’re seriously asking why someone should be the better person, or grow in a certain area?”
“Possibly. I mean. Ugh!” I tip my head back in frustration and lack of understanding. “Look, this might sound wrong, but I think sometimes you need resentment to act as fuel.” My shoulders rise then fall. “Without Dad making me mad, I never would have had the motivation to write.”
“But where is that getting you now? At first, yeah, maybe it gave you a charge, but when it all built up and your dad died, what were you left with?” She pauses, clicking her tongue a few times. “You haven’t been able to write at all lately. Have you ever considered trying to move on? Have you thought that possibly Brett is right? That past hurts do screw you over?”
My heart beats quicker. Her words build up anxiety. “But without my past motivations, what will I write? How will I write?”
“That’s a silly question. You know how to write.”
Do I, though? I bite down on my tongue, not wanting to voice that logic, and try to focus on anything besides the blood roaring in my ears.
“Gosh, Bee.” Cora’s voice cracks through my drowning head. “I think I can hear your brain processing over the phone.”
I laugh some, but most of it stems from the overload of confusion swirling inside. “I’m just trying to understand.” Also trying to figure out where the hell my new motivations will come from if I forget about my dad. I’ve used the understanding of my writing aggravating his bones as the crutch of incentive for my whole career.
“I’d say that’s a good step. It shows you’re at least open to change.”
Setting down the lid to my Crock-Pot, some annoyance pops up. Cora’s talking like she understands, but I don’t see how she can. Her life has been pampered. She’s never had to go against the stream and struggle. She comes from a solid home, has lots of money at her disposal, and was free to pursue whatever avenues she wanted with full support. Keeping my tone in check, I try to gently remind her that our paths have never been the same. “I think if your family life sucked like mine—”
“That’s an excuse. Don’t give me that bullshit.” She says it kind enough to where it doesn’t offend me. “A whole family doesn’t mean I’ve had a perfect one.” Her tone softens. “Lots of things have gone down in my life that I’ve needed to get past. We all get hurt, Bee.”
Crap. She’s right. I know she’s right, but there’s something more powerful battling my sense of logic. Fear. And fear is an expert at silencing the truth. I wish I knew where this unease and hesitation sprouted from. Maybe it’s because I haven’t known a different path for so many years. Or maybe it’s because anything new in my life has always become disastrous and alarming. I’m not sure. The only thing I do know is that I am terrified. But I don’t know how to tell Cora that, so instead I stand there with my heart twisting into the worst knot of my life.
“Last thing I’m gonna say is that the shit that happened with your dad was awful, but you gotta press forward. The built up animosity toward your dead daddy isn’t doing you any favors.” Her voice drops even lower, and a rawness creeps into her tone. “You’ve had a string of bad luck lately. I seriously think life will only get better once you’ve moved on.”
Damn. I don’t know why, but I feel small—like the room around me is massive, and I’m a fleck of dust locked inside its overwhelming walls. I hang my head, resting my butt against the ledge of the counters. My vision rests on the floor for far too long while I struggle to conjure a response, or an agreement. There’s nothing.
“That’s my two cents anyway.” Her voice is strong again, shattering the muted aura from moments ago. “Take it or leave it. Either way we all have to make our own path.”
Finally, I smirk a wryness springing up inside at her philosophical viewpoint. “Dang. Who’s Confucius now?”
“Ha. Whatever. Bye, Bee. Try not to miss Brett too much.”
“I’m not missing him.” I ignore her laugh. “Bye.”
The call ends and I stand there, staring at the deep aqua hues of my kitchen, getting lost in the color. Cora and Brett’s words repeat in my head. Captions about letting go and moving on float across my mind’s eyes, and while forgiveness seems so right, it also sounds intimidating.
I wouldn’t be a writer if it wasn’t for the grudge against Dad. Each bit of rejection he dealt sunk more fuel into my soul to write better, be better at my craft. Work harder at proving him wrong—so why am I standing here now feeling like the emptiest shell in the world?
Maybe Brett’s right. But I can’t know that for sure, and if I let go, all my writing abilities might die along with it.
Is that worth the risk?
Chapter 26
“So Lizzie isn’t moving after all.”
“That’s good, right?” Brett’s soft laugh fills my ears while he nuzzles my neck while we stand in my kitchen.
“I guess so.” That’s the best answer I have considering she remains a steel trap, but she’s no longer moving. It’s the only thing she’d say. A sigh slips out as I push the thought away. Focusing on it will only lead to more frustration. Instead, I press my body into Brett’s and smile.
I am supposed to be making dinner, but that priority lasted for five minutes after I laid eyes on him.
My hands inch up his torso, breath snagging in sync with every delicious ab ripple. Pressing my tits hard against him, he chuckles again. It switches to a light groan when I plant a reverent kiss on his left pec, my lips leaving an outline on the white, starched article. His large hands clasp around my neck, both thumbs brushing along my jaw bone. “Someone missed me.”
“No.” I mumble the word out, smiling while I say it—but I totally did, and he has to know that. The idea to flick my tongue over his torso and make him my main course for tonight is sounding better with each heated second. My mind zeros in on having him alone as I start to untuck his shirt.
One of his hands clasps over mine, and he smirks. “You’re making me hard.”
“Good.” I yank at the fabric.
“No. Bad.” He stops me, but not before giving me a firm swat to the ass. “I expect to be greeted properly before you break my cock off with your insatiable ways.”
“You?” My brow rises along with my voice. “I thought you would have dragged me off to bed right when you got here.”
“Ah.” He nods slowly. “Well, call me old fashioned.” Backing away, he winks. “I need to be sweet talked before you can fuck me.”
I snort through my nose. “Is that the word you’re using for all the exchanges we had before Thanksgiving?”
“If that’s what you want to call it.” He smiles wide.
I pat him on the chest, brush a finger along his jaw line, and return to the stove. “If that’s the case and we need to talk, then tell me about your trip.”
“Pretty uneventful. I’m trying to negotiate a plot of land. I think Starbucks will grab it in the future. It’s a prime location.” He pauses and rubs at his nape. “Also, I was thinking about moving more items down here from my home in Colorado.”
My pulse bumps harder at the words. “So soon?”
“Is it though?” He stretches out his neck, his brows pulling together. “I mean, if I’m staying . . .”
Every muscle bunches into thick knots. Shit. I’m not as ready as I thought, thinking I was past this—the fear and uncertainty, the fast comprehension that Brett’s uprooting his life and planting himself in mine.
“Bianca?” As if he can sense it, he steps close, coasting his hands up my arms. “You’re too quiet.”
“Yeah,” I sigh. “I’m just thinking.”
“Still nervous?”
“Yes.” The confession is a whisper. One that barely hits my ears.
“That’s alright.” He draws me in, wrapping me in his strong arms. “I’ve never done this either. We’ll get through it together. Fucking terrified and all.”
Da
mn. Every ounce of my blood goes warm, heating my skin as he pulls me tight against his chest. We stand there for several passing moments, a gentle calm swirling around the longer we stand. Eventually my pulse slows and the tightness in my lungs vanishes.
He shifts. Our hips and thighs press into one another, like we’re glued together and not wanting to escape. Like a match, need flickers on, and I’m consumed for Brett to take me. In a silent request, my head cranes back and I stare at his lips.
“Yes, Bianca.” He answers like he’s heard me speak. His mouth captures mine, nipping my bottom lip along the way. I’m struggling not to let my head fall back as he finds my breast and grips onto it through the bulk of my sweatshirt. As he palms my tit with an expert touch, I can’t keep my hands from traveling down the front of his jeans.
He’s hard, ready to go, and I grab onto his length, rubbing at him in crazy desperation, despite the black jeans which block me. My head hums when he hisses at my touch. I smile, his hands coasting down to my legs, drawing us together so we’re flush. Reaching up to my tiptoes, I find an open spot on his neck and suck. Smooth skin tasting of soap and cologne brushes my tongue—my pulse spiking from the way he moans.
“Fuck.” He’s breathless, his heavy pants breaking the silence of the kitchen. “I want you to do that everywhere.”
“Mmm,” A groan spills out against his heated skin, the lingering of his sweet aftertaste causing my center to grow heavy. I move to a new part of his neck, ready to obey.
“But first . . .” His voice is tender. Encouraging me to break the kiss, he strokes his thumb along my cheek. “I have something for you, before we get carried away.”
Slight irritation licks at me, but I don’t let it show. He’s trying to be sweet, and while I won’t admit it, I’m starting to like this surprising side of him.
“Be right back.” He whispers a kiss across my lips and darts off for a moment. When he returns, a long rectangular box wrapped in gold-foiled wrapping paper is tucked under his arm.
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