by Kendra Leigh
She’s gazing at me, a vague smile playing on her lips, and suddenly I’m compelled to ask, “Could you do it?”
“Be a mother?” The question seems to surprise her, and she shakes her head. “I don’t think it’s written in the stars for me. What about you?”
“Me? Commit to a lifetime of anxiety? My life choices never my own to fuck up again?” I pause for effect. “Hell, yeah. I’d be the best dad ever.”
Her soft tinkling laugh fills the space around us, and it’s infectious. I’m laughing with her, not because I understand what’s so funny but because her features are alight with a sweet sense of something I haven’t witnessed before, and I don’t want it to stop.
“You’re such a contradiction,” she says.
I scowl, not sure how to take it. “Me? How so?”
“I don’t know. Your exterior says one thing and your … inner self says something completely different.”
“Are you saying I look like a thug? Because I thought the saying was ‘never judge a book by its cover.’”
“This is true. I apologize.” She laughs again.
“I accept.” I pause for a second, a question lingering on my lips. “So, at the risk of judging you erroneously, can I assume you wouldn’t quite be prepared to throw yourself in front of a bullet for your husband?”
She looks away and gets to her feet, moving to place her hands on the porch railing to look out across the lake. “Love like that … Well, again, it wasn’t written in the stars. Not for me and not for a lot of people, I expect.”
“You do believe it exists though?”
She shrugs. “For some people, sure. I guess it must if you say you found it.”
“Me? Oh, I see, you mean the gunshot wound. That’s different, though. That was a familial devotion. I’ve never experienced the romantic kind.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, I just assumed.”
“That’s okay. I haven’t experienced it personally, but I’ve witnessed it firsthand.”
“How do you mean?” She turns and hoists herself up to perch on the porch ledge behind.
“I mean I’ve had a front row view of the most perfect love story you could ever imagine.”
For the next ten minutes I launch into the fairy-tale romance of Ethan and Angel, my two best friends in the world. I don’t mention their names or what connection they have to me—that would be foolish—but speaking of them and the struggles they battled through for the sake of their love reminds me that anything in life is possible.
“Honestly,” I conclude, “someone should write a book about them. Their story is nothing less than inspirational.”
When I look across at her, she seems overcome with sadness. A tear rolls down her cheek, her eyes glistening with the threat of more. I’m on my feet instinctively, my hands cupping her perfect face, thumb brushing away the tear.
“Sparrow, what is it? What’s wrong?”
She blinks and it dislodges the unshed tears. Almost imperceptibly, she shakes her head but seems unable to speak, just the faint sound of a single sob escaping her throat. I look down into her eyes filled with emotion, like pools of shattered crystals, and I don’t know why but my heart breaks a little. For minutes, I smooth away the tears and brush her golden locks away from her face. Breathe her in. I’m transfixed.
Our faces are inches apart, and I take a tiny step forward closing the gap. I can almost taste the sweet essence of peaches and cream as her trembling lips align with mine, luring me in. She closes her eyes. I can’t deny this any longer. I can’t. I won’t. I don’t want to.
It’s everything and more. The sweetest, softest kiss I can ever remember—perfectly plump lips melding with mine, our tongues grazing lightly against each other. The effect on my body is unparalleled. Electricity buzzes through me, carrying with it this overwhelming need to devour her. It’s beyond intense—way beyond.
I know that if I don’t stop now, I won’t be able to and she’s not ready—I don’t know how I know, but I do—so I break the kiss. The breath hisses from my lips as I lean my forehead against hers and will my body to calm down. When I open my eyes, I see my own desire reflected in hers, but it’s marred with a sense of uncertainty, and I know I made the right decision to stop.
“Are you okay?” I whisper.
She nods.
“This doesn’t have to be anything you don’t want it to be.” I lean back a little so I can see her better. “You don’t have to explain it, but I see your sadness. I think right now you might like someone just to hold you. Can I hold you?”
Her face brightens, and she takes a deep breath. “I’d like that.”
Gently, I lift her into my arms and carry her inside, laying her down on the bed. When I lie down next to her, I’m reminded again of just how tiny she is. She curls up on her side away from me, and I fold my arm around her, interlinking my fingers with hers and tucking her delicate frame into the curve of my body like it’s a part of me. Tenderly, I kiss the top of her head and inhale.
I’ve never been one to enjoy sleeping alongside someone else, too used to my own space, I guess. But this feels good. Too good. Closing my eyes, I listen to the way her breathing soothes into a restful pattern, her heartbeat slowing and syncing with mine. I wonder about the look I saw in her eyes as she gazed up at me out there on the porch. There was something about it, something I vaguely recognized but can’t quite place, diminished and obscured, no doubt, by the tears.
Savannah Harper is something of an enigma, I decide. I’ve been trying to read her since the second I first saw her, when she walked out of her house shrouded in oversized clothes. What was that? A disguise, a mask? What was she hiding from?
There’s a fire in her, I sense it, but it’s smoldering. No flames. Just smoke and the dull simmer of dying embers.
Chapter Twelve
Savannah
WHEN I WAKE I’M THE most rested I can remember feeling since being a child. Falling asleep in Bear’s arms, my hand enfolded in his, had felt like the safest place on earth. Although I didn’t wake up all night, somewhere in my subconscious I was still aware of his presence—strong and protective and reassuring. It seems nonsensical—ludicrous even—that I should feel like that in the arms of a stranger—one who abducted me no less—but I do, and though there’s a nagging doubt telling me I should be cautious, I ignore it, choosing instead to trust my instinct. Bear isn’t a threat to me; I somehow just sense it. I vaguely recall him getting up a couple of hours ago, pulling the sheet up around me and stroking my hair. The gesture had reaffirmed how safe I was, encouraging my semiconscious mind to embrace the sleep my body still desperately needed. And so I’d slept on.
There’s still a hint of his personal scent on the pillow next to me, a smell that’s become strangely familiar in a comforting way but also a trigger for these raging hormones that have erupted from nowhere. My friends would tell me I’m horny. They’d be right.
Before I focus too much on that knowledge, I get up, eager to discover what my day entails. As I use the bathroom and clean my teeth, I think fleetingly of Nick. Instinctively I fold the towel neatly before replacing it, but just as I’m about to leave the room, I turn back, shake out the towel, and throw it casually over the rail, a triumphant smirk tugging at my lip.
Still dressed in shorts and T-shirt from last night, I wander outside into the glorious heat of the morning sun. Bear is perched on the edge of the jetty, feet in the water, baseball cap pulled down to shield his eyes. Wearing just his jeans, his shirtless chest and back exposes the serpent confidently basking in the rays of the sun. It’s a sight to behold. His back muscles ripple beneath tanned skin as he pulls his arm back and then forward again in a throwing motion. He’s fishing.
Though I’m tempted to just stand and observe the view, I’m also eager to join him, so I stroll down to the lake and sidle up beside him. “Want some company?”
He smiles up at me and waves his hand in a gesture for me to sit down next to him. I do, but instead o
f dangling my feet in the water, I cross them in front of me, brushing the grass and debris from the bare soles.
“You sleep okay?” he asks.
“Like a baby. I’ve never slept so much in my life. How about you?”
“Surprisingly, yes, I slept well. I’m not used to sharing my bed.”
This admission, for some reason, pleases me and I smile inwardly. Then a thought occurs to me. “Anything had to be better than sleeping on the sofa again though, huh?”
“The sofa wasn’t the comfiest, I admit, but sleeping in the bed wasn’t the reason I slept well. I enjoyed holding you. It felt good.”
It felt good to me too, amazingly so, but I don’t say it. Instead, I begin to excuse my behavior. “I’m not usually so emotional.”
“Do you want to talk about it? I mean, I was worried it was something I said that made you so upset.”
“No. Well, yes, it was the story you shared, but it didn’t so much upset me. More … moved. It moved me. Like you said, it’s a perfect love story. Beautiful.” When I look at him, he’s staring at me, his eyes flicking over my face thoughtfully. “What?”
He reaches out, brushing a strand of hair from my forehead. “You’re beautiful.”
It’s not what I’m expecting, and I feel my cheeks heat. “I don’t know about that. My hair is crazy, and I’m still in last night’s crumpled clothes.”
“And all the more beautiful for it.”
For a second, I expect him to start making fun of me for believing I could ever be considered beautiful, but he doesn’t. Nonplussed, I frown and head back to the subject. “Thank you, anyway, for last night. For … holding me. You were right. It was exactly what I needed.”
“The pleasure was all mine.”
Something about the look on his face tells me he means it. He’s gazing at my lips, and I know he’s recalling the kiss. My pulse quickens. “Did you catch anything?”
Confusion furrows his brow. “What? From sleeping next to you?”
I laugh out loud. “No, you idiot.” I nod at the rod in his hands. “Fish.”
“Oh my God, sorry. No. Nothing’s biting. Probably my feet putting them off.” At that, he pulls his feet from the water and standing, hands me the fishing rod. “Here, you have a go. If they’re anything like me, they won’t be able to resist the smell of peaches and cream. They’ll be biting in no time.”
“Wait! What do I do? What peaches and cream? Where are you going?”
He runs off laughing. “Don’t worry, you’ll work it out. I need to get you some sunscreen. I don’t want you to burn in this heat.”
Confused, I glare at the float at the end of the line, bobbing and weaving in the rippling water. Suddenly it dips below the surface and I blink, convinced I’m seeing things. There it goes again. You have got to be kidding me. He’s been gone twenty seconds, at most.
“Bear!” I jump to my feet quickly, but before I gain steady footing, the float disappears again, the line tugging viciously at the rod in my hands. It’s enough to send me off balance and I tumble into the water with an inelegant splash.
My head dips below the surface, and I begin to panic. Arms flailing, I desperately try to find the lake bed with my feet, but it’s too deep. “Bear! Help me!” I shout between mouthfuls of water. “Can’t swim.” My head goes under again, and I kick my legs frantically. The action pushes me to the surface in time to take a breath, but I swallow water with it. I gasp and choke blindly before I go under again. Suddenly an arm goes around me and pulls me swiftly to the surface. Bear. He’s got me.
Within seconds he’s dragging me to the side and hauling me out of the lake. When I’m safely on the jetty, he begins to check me over, wiping my matted hair from my face and patting me firmly on the back.
“What the fuck, Savannah.”
“No names,” I splutter between gulps of air. “We agreed.”
“Fuck that! Why didn’t you tell me you couldn’t swim? I wouldn’t have left you.”
“I wasn’t planning…” cough “…on going for one.”
“What the hell happened?”
“I got a bite. Soon as you left. Must have been a big one—the bastard pulled me right in.”
Suddenly, he’s laughing hysterically, and despite my shock, I’m laughing with him. “See, it’s the peaches and cream. I told you.”
“What peaches and cream? What are you talking about?”
He smooths the hair from my face again and cups my cheeks in his palms. “Are you okay? You sure you don’t need me to give you the kiss of life?”
My eyes search his, and for seconds I don’t answer him. “I don’t know … Maybe. It might help.”
Instantly, his eyes darken, all signs of mirth dissipated. “It might not be enough.”
My heart thunders against my chest, and I begin to tremble. It’s partly because I’m drenched head to toe, but for the most part, my body is reacting to him, every nerve ending screaming for him to touch me. His fingertips lightly graze my lips as if attempting to soothe the uncontrollable quiver—either that or he’s trying to draw the answer I think he’s hoping for.
So without pause, I oblige. “Then do whatever it takes. My life is in your hands.”
Taking my hand, he leads me up the path to the cabin, through the open door and inside, until we reach the bottom of the bed where he turns to look at me, his gaze gliding greedily over the wet clothes clinging to my body.
“You need to get out of those wet clothes.” His voice trembles slightly, this strong, imposing man displaying a nervous, vulnerable side to him.
I nod.
“I can help you.”
I nod again.
“Are you sure? You have to be sure.”
After the third nod of my head, I see him take a breath, a nervous swallow passing over his Adam’s apple.
“If you change your mind—”
“I won’t.” My reaction is steadfast. I’ve never been more certain about anything. I want this man.
Stepping forward, he takes the hem of my T-shirt in his fingertips. His eyes don’t leave mine as he peels the soaking garment from my skin and discards it on the floor. Next, his fingers find the button on my shorts, and he pushes them, along with my panties, to the floor where I carefully step out of them. Without a word he takes a step back, gaze gliding down my body before squeezing his eyes tight shut. It’s as if he’s afraid to look at me. Afraid that he may be disenchanted with what he sees.
The prospect urges me to feel ashamed, caustic words resounding in my head: ugly, disgusting, hideous. For a few short seconds, I want to cover myself, hide my body from his scrutiny, but when he opens his eyes I see only one emotion—and it isn’t disappointment or disgust. It’s desire. A red-hot burning longing. And I feel beautiful. For the first time in … forever … I feel beautiful.
A sudden shift of his body dislodges my gaze from his, and I realize he’s tugging off his jeans. My attention shifts instinctively and brazenly to the summit of his long muscular legs and my breath hitches, my toes curling reflexively into the wooden slats beneath my feet.
Mother of Christ, he’s … blessed.
In a second he’s closed the space between us and heaved me into his arms. My legs fold around his waist as his strong arms snake beneath mine and up my back, one hand at the nape of my neck to hold me firmly. Hungry brown eyes seem to penetrate my very soul as his mouth finally closes over mine. Unlike last night, his kiss isn’t tentative and gently probing; it’s urgent and passionate—claiming me, consuming me. The effect on my body is extraordinary. I’ve waited to feel like this my whole life, and if I had to stop right now I’m convinced I’d rather die. I want this man. I need him. Need him inside me like my life depends on it.
Impatient, I search for him, shifting my pelvis until I feel the tip of him at my entrance. His hand moves to my buttock to support me, to guide me. Our breathing is jagged, filled with anticipation, our eyes wide and dark with eager expectation. Slowly, gently, he lowers m
e onto him, entering my body, my world. I welcome him in as if he’s made for me, my entire being unfolding and opening up until he fills me entirely. I’m astounded at my ability to accommodate him, and I begin to move.
From deep within him, I feel a guttural groan transpire and rumble in his chest before it escapes, hissing through his teeth as he closes his eyes against the ecstasy. I rock in time to his thrusts as he holds my weight with ease, controlling our union with supreme precision. It’s then I realize I’m not taking the whole of him. He’s afraid to hurt me.
“Deeper. I want all of you,” I whisper breathlessly.
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You won’t. I know you’d never hurt me.” I’m more confident in my words than I can remember ever being.
I watch as he takes them in, his gaze reaching deeper into mine as his hand reaches up to my face, his fingertips brushing gently over my cheek, my lips, and down the length of my neck. Leaning my head back, I close my eyes as his lips chase the trail left by his touch. I feel the cool sheets against my fevered skin as he lays me on the bed, our bodies still united, limbs entwined. A gasp rushes from my lungs as he slides deeper into my core, the rhythm increasing as burning pleasure evolves like a seedling before bursting forth in full florescence, exploding like fireworks in the pitch-black night sky.
My body fragments—every atom, every cell, and every particle shattering into a zillion pieces before revolutionizing into something brand new, more complete, more … me.
This.
This is what I’ve waited for.
This.
Him.
Finally.
Chapter Thirteen
Jackson
SEX.
I’m not one to brag, but I’ve had plenty of it. It’s been a while, granted, but not because I haven’t had the opportunity. I’m just more particular these days.
Do I always enjoy it? Sure, show me a red-blooded man who doesn’t.