The Bequest

by Hope Anika

  “Tell me,” he grated, and a tremor rippled through him, and some part of her understood she wasn’t alone in the maelstrom. He was there, too.

  “Pain in my ass,” she said huskily. “Didn’t miss you for a minute.”

  A smile she felt against her throat. “Liar.”

  “Yes,” she said, her fingers digging into him.

  His lips brushed her bruised cheek, so careful she shivered. “Should have killed them for this.”

  “Sweet nothings,” she murmured. “Kiss me again.”

  He did, his mouth hungry, the leash slipping as he angled her head and plundered. Cheyenne slid her hands into his hair and gripped him hard, raising up onto her toes to press herself against him, and the hard plane of his body made her thighs clench, the hollow, aching pulse he always sparked growing until it was a drumbeat in every cell. Hard, callused hands traced her shape, stroking down her back to curve over her bottom. His fingers clenched into tender flesh as he lifted her against him; wicked bolts of white heat arrowed straight to her core. His cock was like granite against her, and she squirmed to get closer. She stroked his tongue with hers, swallowing the rough sound he made, hungry for every bit of him. She had thought—stupidly, foolishly—that she could somehow let him go, deny herself this wild, beautiful thing that lived between them, but she couldn’t. Wouldn’t. Not without at least one taste.

  One memory.

  Will lifted her onto the hay bale stack; Harry jumped down with an annoyed mew. Rough hands slid down her thighs and spread her knees, and as Will stepped between, Cheyenne clenched her fingers in his hair. She made a sharp sound of protest when he tore his mouth from hers.

  “Slow down, baby,” he murmured, his hands stilling her when she rose against him. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  Cheyenne stared at him, her breath breaking from her in unsteady surges, blood a dull roar in her ears.

  “And neither,” he added darkly. “Are you.”

  The possession in him should have made her angry, should have stiffened her spine and her resolve. Instead, it made her clench her thighs again.

  “Rafe?” she asked.

  “With Brodie. My man will keep him occupied.”

  “Then I want this,” she said. “I want you. Here. Now.”

  His hands stroked up her thighs, and heat lashed through her veins, heady and intoxicating, as befuddling as any illicit high. “No.”

  His blunt rejection made her jerk, and her heart fell, an endless descent that felt like death. Her hands curled into fists and slid down his chest to push against him.

  “Let go,” she snarled softly.

  “Not in this lifetime,” he replied, unmoving. “I’m keeping you.”

  She jerked again, and a million butterflies took flight beneath her breastbone. His eyes glinted in the dim light of the single bulb that lit the barn, pale blue topaz so beautiful it hurt. “I love you, Cheyenne.”

  “You don’t,” she denied, the words an instinctive, knee-jerk reflex. “It’s just sex. Just fucking.”

  Some part of her recognized that she sought to make him angry, to push him away, to scoff at his unbelievable declaration—because very, very few people had ever loved her—but she couldn’t seem to reach out and stop that part of herself, too old, too ingrained to silence. But he didn’t get angry. Instead, he leaned down, tucked a strand of wayward hair behind her ear and said, “Every mulish, brave, foul-mouthed hair on your head, baby.”

  Tears burned, and she blinked against them, words a jumbled mix in her throat. She wanted to repudiate him; loving was far easier than being loved. And when she’d thought he was dead…such eviscerating devastation…she wasn’t sure anything was worth that. But to be the one he reached for, relied upon; to be the one at his side always…it was the greatest temptation she’d ever faced. Still, she wasn’t certain she could be that for anyone.

  What do you think you are to Rafe?

  A bar she was still unsure she could meet. Not that she would stop trying…

  So what’s the difference?

  “I can’t give you babies,” she whispered, the words razors in her throat. “Not ever.”

  “I. Don’t. Care.” His voice was hard, his gaze unflinching.

  “You will,” she whispered. “Every man wants a son.”

  “And I will have one.”

  When she realized he was talking about Rafe, a tear escaped, and the pressure in her chest welled unbearably. “Are you sure?”

  “This is the only thing I’m sure of.” He leaned closer and rubbed his cheek against hers, his bristle rubbing her scar, making her shudder. “You and me and Rafe.”

  Something she had not let herself imagine. Something in the scope of her existence—her survival—she’d never envisioned for herself: a family of her own. Another tear escaped, and her fingers twisted into the dark gray button-down shirt he wore as though it were a lifeline.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  “Balls,” Cheyenne whispered.

  For the first time in her life—she was going to lie down. She was going to let it happen. And to hell with the consequences.

  Fuck it.

  “I want my ring on your finger,” Will continued roughly.

  “Ring?” she repeated, and the butterflies swarmed frantically within her, a thousand wings fluttering against her heart.

  “Wife,” he said succinctly and nipped at her mouth. “That’s what I’m going to call you.”

  Cheyenne could only stare up him stupidly. Ring. Wife.

  Mrs. William Blackheart.

  A wild, crazed laugh caught in her throat. “Did you get hit in the head?”

  He didn’t smile. “I’m fucked up and broken in a thousand different ways, but not in this.”

  “You’ve gone crazy,” she said in a muted voice. “I’m not wife material. It’s only been ten days. I don’t even know where you live.”

  “I have a place in San Diego, just off base. And you’ll make as good a wife as you are a mother.” He swept another strand of hair up and tucked it behind her ear. “I told you, life happens fast, baby.”

  “That’s why you have to hold on tight and enjoy the ride,” she said, remembering.

  His hand brushed her scar, his thumb tracing its shape. “Yes.”

  “Will you leave again? To fight?”

  “No. Pierre cleared my AWOL status—hell, they’ll probably give me a goddamn medal of honor for getting that cache back—but I’m done. Honorable discharge; officially retired.”

  “Does that make you sad?”

  “No. I’m ready to move on.”

  Cheyenne gazed up at him, her ears buzzing. “You really want to get hitched?”

  “Hitched,” he repeated and smiled. Dimples slashed his cheeks. “I really do.”

  Cheyenne couldn’t look away from the glitter in his eyes. His certainty emboldened her. And for all of the fear crowding her, the doubts, the cynicism that had scarred her effectively as the flames, she knew it was a simple thing. Just one more leap of faith. Like she had with Hank, with Rafe. With every good thing she’d ever had.

  “I love you,” Will said again, his smile fading, his eyes searching hers. “I just need you to give me the chance to prove it.”

  But he already had. With her, with Rafe…again and again. No matter how broken he thought he was. How damaged. He’d sheltered them, held them together; he’d stood in front of them, ready to take every blow aimed at them, over and over. And she knew he would do it again.

  “Okay,” she said.

  He blinked. “Okay?”

  “Yes, I mean.” Color rushed into her cheeks, so hot and fierce it was a wonder she didn’t pass out. “Isn’t that the right—”

  He swallowed her words with a hungry kiss that was certain of his welcome, and Cheyenne, lost in the dark heat of him, responded wholly, gripping his fine shirt, meeting every thrust of his tongue, demanding more.

  Always more.

  “Here,” she gasped when he released h
er mouth to exploit the sensitive line of her throat. “Now.”

  Sharp teeth sank into her earlobe. “Patience, baby.”

  “No.” She reached up and ripped his shirt open; buttons flew, and then the roped muscle of his chest was bare to her touch, and she ran her hands over him, tracing the slender silver bar that pierced his left nipple with her finger.

  “Fuck,” Will hissed, a violent tremor making the hands on her thighs clench.

  “Yes,” Cheyenne said. “Please.”

  He shuddered when she tugged gently at the bar, and her nails scored into the thick pad of muscle that covered him. Then she leaned in and put her mouth on him.

  “Cheyenne, baby, stop,” he gritted, but one of his hands lifted and wound in her hair and held her to him. The other slid up her thigh until his thumb was nestled in the tender crease where her leg and pelvis met, where he stroked her, making her breath catch sharply.

  “Why?” A hushed question as she met that pale gaze, like shards of ice washed in the softest blue.

  The hand in her hair tightened. “You aren’t ready to do this.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  His mouth hardened. “What happened to you will affect us, will affect this. You have to be sure and even then…” He shook his head. “I don’t want to hurt you or scare you. I can wait.”

  Cheyenne tilted her head, studying him. She’d always known the rape she’d survived had the ability to reach far beyond the single night in which it occurred, that what she didn’t remember about that event might suddenly emerge and shred her from the inside out…that having sex—with anyone—would test her nerve and her resolve and could, quite possibly, break her.

  But this was Will…and she wanted to try.

  “I trust you,” she told him. “Please.”

  Another stroke along the seam of her thigh, barely skimming the flesh that wept for him, and a sound she couldn’t halt broke from her throat. He stared at her, and she knew he was fighting himself, that he would do everything he could to cosset and protect her from the reality they faced, but Cheyenne would only accept that shield if and when she needed it.

  And now was not that time.

  “I want you inside me,” she whispered to him.

  He shuddered against her, his jaw as hard as stone. Cheyenne saw his resistance, that damned white knight streak that plagued him, and her hand lowered to the hard, blatant line of his cock, straining the zipper of his faded jeans. Deep inside, she was melting, hot and wet and throbbing for relief, and when she traced a finger down the tensile steel of his erection, her womb clenched in need.

  “You’re killing me here, baby,” he ground out, but he pushed into her touch, and his thumb stroked her again, a slow, deliberate sweep that made her shudder in pleasure.

  She rubbed him with her palm; he was thick and long and hard, and she wanted him inside her so badly she ached. His gaze held hers, an intense, erotic connection that made her breath wedge in her throat.

  “Now,” she said.

  “Be very sure,” he said, his voice rough, his eyes hooded.

  In response, Cheyenne reached down and pulled off her hoodie and the thin t-shirt she wore beneath it. The dim light turned the yellow lace bra she wore into gold, and her nipples protruded through the lace, tantalizing hints of flesh peeking through the delicate nap. She was aware of her scars, the scattered pattern of smeared flesh that traced its way down her left side, but Will looked at her with such dark hunger she felt no hesitation, no fear.

  “So beautiful,” he whispered.

  But he was equally so, the sculpted plane of his chest revealed by his open shirt, his face taut with desire. Cheyenne wanted to devour him.

  His head dipped, and he pressed a soft kiss to the waxy flesh that trickled down the curve of her shoulder and pooled in the hollow of her collarbone. His tongue flickered against the sensitive skin, and Cheyenne gripped at his shirt in effort to stay upright. He followed the trail of scars down to the slope of her breast, his mouth tender in a way that made her chest tight and her throat thick. She knew it was deliberate, this gentle worship, a symbol of acceptance.

  Love.

  If she’d thought sex powerful, it was nothing compared to the giant swell of emotion within her, utterly inexplicable, and yet so powerful she would follow—no matter the risk. And she understood, then, why some people believed life was only about love. Everything else paled in comparison.

  “Do you know what I see when I look at these?” Will murmured, tracing her scars with the lightest brush of his thumb.

  Cheyenne shivered. “What?”

  “Strength.” Another press of his mouth, the flicker of his tongue teasing the edge of lace that cupped her. “Perseverance. Survival.”

  He slid her bra strap down and bared her to his gaze. The pale surface of his eyes shimmered as they traveled over her, as potent as a physical touch. Her breasts seemed to swell beneath his look, her nipples hard, aching points she wanted him to taste.

  “Quit lollygagging around,” she told him. “And touch me.”

  A low laugh rasped from him, and she felt it resonate deep inside.

  “So impatient,” he whispered and spread his hand between her breasts, pushing her to lay back atop the hay bales, where the rough grass poked at her. She didn’t notice, not when he followed and kissed the silky plane of her belly. “So much to learn.”

  “Later,” she said and thrust her hands into his hair. “Right now, I’m ready.”

  His eyes lifted and met hers; hunger and amusement and something darker churned there, something she wanted to feed. “Are you?”

  “Yes,” she ground out, her thighs clenching at the glints of white heat running through her like live current.

  Will turned his head and licked her nipple, a wet, teasing touch that made a low sound murmur in her throat. “I’d better check.”

  He popped open her jeans and pulled them from her legs in the space of a heartbeat. Her panties were gone a second later, and then he was pulling her knees open with gentle but unrelenting insistence. For a moment, Cheyenne resisted, vulnerable in a way she hadn’t expected. But then his gaze met hers, and he said, “I want to see you. Show me,” and she yielded, letting her thighs fall open, baring herself to his gaze. He looked his fill as she watched, fascinated by the hunger she saw; his lust, open and unadorned.

  “You make my mouth water,” he murmured, his hands gliding from her knees to her inner thighs, a teasing rasp of skin against skin that stole her breath. “I want to taste you again.”

  “Later,” she gasped.

  His thumb swept through the weeping, silken flesh that throbbed for him, and she arched, her entire being focused on his touch. He circled her clit, possessive and far too skilled. She was so wet, she blushed, but it felt so good, she didn’t care.

  “Like fucking silk,” he muttered and leaned down to suck her nipple, the sharp edge of his teeth grazing her in a way that made her shiver.

  Cheyenne moaned, trying to press closer. “Please.”

  “You deserve more than this.” But his fingers joined his thumb to rub at her wetness, spreading it in a delicious slide that made everything within her clench. He nipped the side of her breast. “More for your first time.”

  “It’s not my first time,” she argued, inhaling sharply when he teased the tip of one finger into her, the intrusion thick to her untried body, the pressure exquisite. “Oh.”

  “There it is,” he said, and she could hear the satisfaction in him. “And it is your first time.”

  Her gaze met his. He was right; what she’d experienced before bore no resemblance to what she was experiencing now. But before she could tell him, he was pushing that finger deep into her body, and she was stretching and waking around him. His eyes grew dark as he watched her assimilate the sensation of him inside her.

  “Do you like that?” he asked in a low, rough voice, his gaze locked with hers. Her body clenched around him.

  “Yes,” she w
hispered.

  “You want more?”

  The challenge in him thrilled her, and she licked her lips, a deliberate, sensual act she would have never thought herself capable of. But his sharp, indrawn breath pleased her, and she realized she enjoyed the power she had, something she’d always shied from.

  For him, she was someone else.

  A second finger joined the first and pushed slowly into her. Her breath punched from her lungs, and Will bit her nipple again, harder this time. The whip of pleasure/pain made her groan. When he suckled her, his reward flooded his palm, and he stroked her from within; the friction of his fingers against her most tender flesh took her higher, made her body shudder around him, and her legs lifted to wrap his, her heels pressing into the backs of his thighs. Her fingers clenched in his hair, holding him close.

  He was so big, he dwarfed her, but she felt no fear. If anything, his size only enflamed her further, and she wanted to climb all over him and test with her teeth the muscle that roped him. That he so carefully controlled his strength spoke to who he was—but she wanted to test that, too.

  He ran his free hand down her body, over her breast, the gentle slope of her belly; his skin was darker than hers, rougher, lined with small scars and calluses. The sight of it aroused her even more, and when the fingers inside of her began a slow, wet glide in and out, she moaned softly, her legs tightening around him. Slow and steady, gentle thrusts that built an unbearable tension within her, and she couldn’t get close enough, she needed more—and then he was plunging in and out at a pace that stole her breath, and the pleasure that tore through her was incendiary; sudden, shearing, flinging her into orgasm before she knew what was happening.

  “Look at me,” he demanded, stroking harder, making the orgasm deeper, longer, his pale eyes locked on hers.

  Cheyenne couldn’t catch her breath, her limbs shaking with fine tremors she couldn’t control. The pleasure was intense, unexpected, heightened by the hunger he wore like the finest suit. The intensity of his gaze drove her higher; such dark, uncompromising possession. Everything she once would have fought, in this moment, she reveled in.

  “Now you’re ready,” he rasped. He leaned down and suckled her neglected breast as he pulled his fingers slowly from her, making her shudder.