by K. L. Kreig
Shaw’s bed.
I twist my body, reaching for him, only to find his side of the sheets cool as if he’s been gone for a while. I sit up, look around the room, and note the air is still. The bathroom is black. No sound drifts through the dark.
Throwing the covers back, I swing my feet over the edge, letting them sink into the plush carpet. I sit still for another few beats, listening, wondering if maybe he’s on an overseas business call. Hearing nothing, I push myself from the mattress and pad quietly out of the bedroom, into the hall.
It’s not until I’m halfway down it that I shiver, realizing I’m naked. We barely made it through the front door after dinner with his parents and Reid when he had me up against it. In three blinks of an eye, my clothes were off and he was kneeling at my feet, spreading my legs, shoving his tongue inside me until I trembled on the verge of an orgasm. But before he let me fall, he was carrying me through the entry, into the living room, and bending me over that chair. His chair.
He took me from behind with beautiful ferocity, in a way I’ve not been taken before. It was territorial but devout. The whole act was unhinged, but filled with such raw passion I felt his emotions bleed into my pores as he came inside me, whispering my name while he pounded me sore. Hours later, I’m still tender between my thighs, feeling the skillful way he owned every inch of me with every step I take.
I make it a few more feet and come to a stop. The hallway spills out into Shaw’s open living space and from the mouth of it, I scan the entire area, not seeing him here either. Snagging a chenille throw from the couch as I walk by, I wrap it around me, heading toward the opposite end of the house where his office is, fully expecting him to be sitting behind his large maple desk burning the midnight oil.
But when I round the corner, it’s empty. Dark. He’s clearly not there. A quick perusal of the other rooms in this this wing, including the gym, finds them just as vacant.
“Where the hell are you?” I mumble, making my way back to the center of the house. Did he leave? Should I check the garage? Try his cell maybe? The glimmer of the moon off the water catches my attention as I stand there, stumped, racking my brain on what comes next. Where would he go at three in the morning?
Only then do I spot him, lounging on a chaise outside on the deck to my far left.
He doesn’t see me. He’s staring ahead toward the bay, which looks especially picturesque tonight. He brings something to his mouth and takes a bite before setting it back down on the table next to him. I edge closer to the window, attempting to remain unseen, not wanting to interrupt him if he wants to be alone. But when I get close to the glass that separates us, I see something in his posture. The tense way he’s holding himself. The contraction of his jaw. The squinting of his eyes. This isn’t a relaxing midnight snack while breathing in the fresh night air.
Something is bothering him.
I stand there for seconds. So many of them I lose count. Should I go back to bed and pretend I never woke? Or should I go out and see if I can comfort him? If he wanted comfort, though, wouldn’t he have woken me, even under the guise of sex?
I know what a girlfriend would do. What I want to do.
As the sound of the sliding door breaks the silence, he turns his head toward me. His irises glimmer under the night sky as he takes me in, head to foot. His eyes run down me leisurely and when they connect to mine again, even in the dark, I can tell they’ve heated considerably.
I stay still, letting my gaze run the length of him, too. He’s shirtless, wearing only low-slung army green pajama pants with a white drawstring that’s tied in a bow, sitting right below that exquisite line of triangle-shaped muscles that point straight to the most glorious cock I’ve ever experienced.
Not knowing what I should say, if I should even stay, my attention falls to the small stand beside him. I see an open jar of something dark, a dirty knife lying across a plate and what looks to be a half-eaten…cookie?
“Didn’t get enough for dinner?” It’s a stupid question, but the only one I can come up with. I’m losing that under-pressure edge I’d perfected as Summer, having spent so much time with him. I’m not sure I like that, though I wouldn’t change it either as that means never meeting him in the first place.
His eyes follow mine down and he reaches over to pick it up. He takes a bite, chews slowly as he watches me, and sets the remainder down once again. Then he smiles that brilliant megawatt smile of his, rendering me stupid. Suddenly I’m glad I came out.
“It’s an Eleanor special,” he says.
“A what?” I ask, edging ahead, struggling for a closer look. The air is crisp and I try to forget how it’s slipping through the bottom of the blanket I’ve draped around me. I pull it tighter, hooking it under my chin. How is he not freezing?
“Come here,” he says softly when he notices a tremor rack my body. Glad I’m invited to stay, I rush to his side and crawl into his lap when he indicates that’s where he wants me.
I bring my knees up to my chest and snuggle into his chilly skin, hoping I can warm him. “It’s cold out here.”
“I know. Been out awhile.” He brings a hand to my crown, twists a few strands of hair between his fingers, running them through to the ends. He does it a few more times until I stop shivering.
Relaxing into him, I drop my head back to watch him talk when I probe, “What’s an Eleanor special?”
“Hmm…well in simple terms, it’s a waffle with jam.”
There’s more of a story here. A memory that makes him happy. I see it. I want it. Every last detail. “And in not so simple terms?”
His face brightens. His arms squeeze me closer. “This is one of the things I love about you, you know?” My breath catches at his word choice, but I don’t acknowledge it. It makes my stomach flip to even think of acknowledging it. Days ago—hell, even hours ago—I wanted this. Now the thought suddenly puts the fear of God in me. He continues as if he hasn’t upended my world in the most frightening way. “You don’t take what I say at face value. You never do. You hear things others don’t.”
“It’s a curse.” God, I’m breathy. Breathless. All the breaths are gone.
“It’s a gift,” he counters quickly. The compliment makes my blood buzz even more than it already does. By the way he eyes me he’s not oblivious to the way he’s affecting me.
“In not so simple terms, these remind me of my grandmother. My mother’s parents lived in Maine, and we didn’t get to see them too often, but for two weeks every summer, Gemma, Linc, and I would to stay with them and wander around the quaint village of Castine.”
“Sounds lovely.”
“It was.” He sounds so wistful he infuses me with it. And when he describes it in vivid detail, I feel as if I’m there experiencing it right along with him. “I don’t think I appreciated it enough at the time, but grand-mère Eleanor used to let us run wild. I mean, wild. We’d leave at sunup and not come home till sundown. We’d be a dirty, sticky, stinky mess. We’d wander the streets down to the Maritime Academy to watch the cocky college kids try to navigate the Bowdoin schooner. Eat ourselves sick on ice cream from The Mill. We’d kayak and bug the fishermen until they took us out for a spin, letting us cast a line or two.”
I laugh. “That sounds dangerous.”
“Nah. It was just good old-fashioned fun. A small New England village that was safe and harmless. Everyone knew everyone. All the locals were friendly. I even kissed my first girl there. They were some of my best childhood memories.”
“So when does a waffle with jam come into play?”
His lips touch my forehead briefly before he continues. Part of me wants him to forgo the rest of the story and just leave them there.
“Grand-mère was a master jam maker. Any kind of jam you can think of, she’d make it. Jalapeno, blackberry, currant, peach, pepper. She tried hundreds of different kinds. But my favorite by far was her blueberry jam. I ate it on everything. And when Gemma and Linc would fall into bed exhausted, we’d stay
up; sit on her porch, which overlooked the river; and eat homemade waffles slathered with blueberry jam.”
“That sounds amazing,” I tell him, a lump now clogging my throat. “She sounds amazing.”
“She was.”
Was.
Guess we’ve both had our share of loss.
For the first time, I have the urge to talk to him about Violet. To tell him how much I loved her. To share how her senseless death created this blank space inside me I don’t know if I’ll ever fill and how he needs to protect Annabelle from the same demons that took Violet because if they do, he’ll never be whole either. And I simply couldn’t bear that.
But that conversation seems too heavy, too complex for the moment and besides, I think he needs lightening up, so instead I ask, “Who makes your jam now?”
He smirks. “Remember that first kiss I mentioned?”
“Yeeesss.” I may be a teensy bit jealous.
His smirk widens. He sees the green-horned monster behind my eyes. “Her grandma Bessie was my grand-mère’s best friend. Bessie still makes me a few jars and sends them at Christmas. Enough to last all year.”
“That’s nice.”
“It is. Want a bite?”
I nod. He brings the remnants of the waffle to my mouth and I open. “Sorry, it’s cold now,” he tells me as I bite down and moan.
“It’s delicious,” I say once I’ve chewed and swallowed. And I mean it. It’s the most delicious jam I’ve ever tried. Even better than my momma’s apple butter.
“Not as good as my grand-mère’s, but pretty damn close.” With that, he pops the rest in his mouth and finishes it off.
We go quiet, the one thing holding our conversation together now gone. And as the seconds tick by, I build up the courage to ask what I really want to ask.
He’s not out here by himself to enjoy his grandmother’s best friend’s jam. Something is on his mind. Has been for days.
This is the stuff I’ve never been good at. Sharing. Opening up. Trading vulnerabilities. I’ve kept a lot of shit inside throughout the years thinking it’s better served there than out in the open weighing other people down. I’ve done this with my father, with my mother. I most certainly did it with Reid. I’ve done it with nearly every person in my life. I even do it to a certain degree with Sierra. I keep myself closed off and I’ve always thought it’s been for good reason.
Only now I’m not so sure.
I realize I don’t like the way it feels when I’m on the outside and I want someone to let me in.
Setting my palm over Shaw’s heart, I let the tips of my fingers graze his smooth skin back and forth. “What are you doing out here all alone?”
“Couldn’t sleep. It’s my thinking spot.” He says this soft and thoughtful.
“Do you want me to leave?”
“No.” It’s a short waft of air more than a word. When his grip squeezes my arm, I know he means it. He wants me here. Maybe he just didn’t know how to ask? God, we’re two peas in a pod, aren’t we?
“Everything okay?”
He takes awhile to answer. When he does, though, it’s not much of an answer at all. It’s the exact same thing I would do. One recognizes expert deflection when she is an expert herself. “Just some things on my mind, beautiful. It’s nothing.”
I keep moving my fingers in a circular fashion, my touch light, all the while working hard to squelch the hurt feelings his evasion stirs.
Let me in.
It’s completely hypocritical, I know. I want it anyway. Being on the outside sucks ass.
“Does it happen a lot? This witching hour thinking?”
He lightly chuckles and his chest expands as he inhales deeply. Is it as hard for him to talk about what’s on his mind as it is for me? “A little more often than I’d like lately.”
I tip my head back again. He tips his down. We stare at each other, neither making a move to do anything else but let this moment catch us up in it. I’m terrified of being this happy. I’ve never felt more protected yet so exposed in my life.
“Anything I can do?”
He fingers a piece of my hair. “You’re doing it right now. You in my arms like this? In my home? My bed? Honestly, not a better feeling.” His voice is gruff, heartfelt. Sincere. It settles those nerves inside that I’m the one who has him so twisted.
“You could have woken me up,” I offer. I wish you would have.
His lips turn soft, rounding faintly at the edges. He runs his thumb over my bottom lip before he whispers, “I think if I had woken you, I would have lost myself in you, Willow.”
I have no idea what malfunctions between my brain and my mouth, but something misfires when I say, “Maybe you can find yourself in me, instead.”
Silence. How is it you never notice how high-pitched that void is until you’re trapped in it? Until you wish you could take back whatever it is that made it descend in the first place.
In my mind, the silence lasts long enough for me to replay those words a hundred times, but in reality, I think a half second elapses before Shaw fists my hair and tilts my head back severely. His mouth brushes mine when he confesses, “I already have, Goldilocks. I’ve found so much more in you than I ever expected. Than I ever wanted.”
He seals his lips to mine, making my head spin anew. I expect the kiss to be hard and unforgiving. Desperate based on his tone, his confession. It’s not. It’s tender and sweet. Languid. A 180 degrees from the last several times we’ve come together, which have been frenzied and all consuming.
“God help the man who tries to take you from me, Willow Blackwell.” That hot, fervent declaration is pushed smoothly into my ear a second before his tongue starts a path down my throat. His avowal soaks in, drugging all my faculties until I feel sluggish and pliable.
“No one is taking me from you,” I assure him in a whispered voice, moaning his name when he dips to continue his wicked trek downward.
My free hand goes to his head to hold him to me but he pulls back, locking his eyes with mine. Fire and blood oaths dance in them when he growls, “Damn straight they’re not.”
He’s talking about Reid, that much is obvious. Yet it’s so much more, too.
Cupping his face, I place my lips back on his. The move causes the blanket covering me to slip from one shoulder, exposing my flesh to the cool night air. A tremor runs through me, followed by a coat of goose bumps.
“You’re cold.” He runs his hands over my arm when he notices something else. “Fuck, I love this,” he groans, skimming the backs of his knuckles over the sensitive tip of my peaked nipple.
I think he’s going to tuck the blanket back around me but with a grin that’s nothing short of sins promised, he reaches over and dips a finger into the open jar of blueberry jam instead.
Balancing the sweet on the tip of his finger, he starts at the top of my breast, draws a line straight down until he reaches my pebbled areola and, moving clockwise, scrapes his way around it, making sure I feel the bite of his nail as he coats every inch of me.
“Oh my God,” I mutter, my blood now running hot.
He circles me again and again, watching me while he teases, studies, bends, and adapts, adjusting his technique for maximum impact. He concentrates on his task of driving me mad, rolling the sensitive tip between his forefinger and thumb until I gasp, letting my head fall back in sublime pleasure. When his wet mouth covers me and his teeth clamp down, a wash of white-hot desire flash fires through me.
It’s cold out. Mid-fifties, probably. I should be shivering. Instead, this serene calm spreads over me while Shaw pays homage to my body as if I’m some sort of sacred place he hasn’t visited before.
“I’m only eating this off you from here on out,” he growls, sucking hard before releasing me with a pop. He licks me clean, drenches his finger again, and goes after my neglected breast, painting me with the sticky substance until my breaths come in small bursts of anticipation. Once he’s satisfied, he lifts me to his mouth, his tongue and t
eeth making me dizzy.
“I fucking love your body, Willow.”
He nips on the fleshy parts of my breasts. The bites are hard. They sting. They’ll leave marks. This is the Shaw I know. The one I need. The one whose will makes mine graciously bow and obey.
“I love the smell of your skin, the curve of your ass, the taste of your pert nipples,” he says, shifting me to my knees until I’m straddling him.
He reaches over and dips a finger in the jam one more time. Hand closed around my hip, he pushes me up until I’m hovering over him, thighs tense.
Smiling mischievously, he brings his sugary finger between my legs and circles my clit, already swollen and ready. My eyes drift shut as he paints my outer lips, one side after the other, taking care to avoid my opening, before drawing a line along my perineum, stopping just short of my sweet spot.
I’m panting, heart literally galloping in my chest because I know what comes next. He reaches back and drops the back of the lounger flat. He lays down and with his hands clamped around my hips, motions me forward.
“I love the taste of this pussy.” That panty-dropping smirk of his grows.
Positioning me over his mouth, my knees bracketing his head, he urges me down. I’m helpless against his mastery. So weak and needy and solely focused on the eroticism of the moment I forget about the cold.
I gasp at the first touch of his mouth, open and probing. He sucks, he moans, he devours me as if I’m a new food he’s never tasted.
“Shaw,” I cry out when his tongue circles that sensitive puckered area, and when he opens my cheeks and pushes the tip slightly inside, it feels dirty and wrong and so absurdly fucking incredible I almost sob. Nerve endings blaze to life as if they’ve been dormant for all of time.
I reach back and grab the arms of the chaise for something to hold me to Earth as he takes me places I’ve never even dreamed of. I moan his name. God’s name. I curse. My mumblings are encouraging but make no sense to anyone outside of us.