Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 72853 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 364(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72853 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 364(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
He sweeps me up in his arms and carries me across the backyard, up the deck, and back inside. Right inside the back door that we came out of, he sets me down and tries to pull away like this is the end of whatever moonlit spell happened out there, but I won’t let him.
I drag my T-shirt up and over my head, and I swear his eyes nearly pop out. He looks like he’s going to pass out or have a stroke. The light further down in the hallway does wonders for him. He looks like a bronze statue. So astoundingly beautiful. He’s still frozen, breathing hard. I take his hand and skim his rough fingertips up my belly, up my ribcage, up to my breast. I make him cup it and guide his palm up to my nipple. I arch into his touch, closing my eyes as the raised callouses on his hand scrape against my already hard, oversensitive skin.
“Oh god,” I moan.
“Oh god,” he echoes. He sounds panicked.
I need him to stay with me. He needs to get over the best friend’s little sister business. The dirt business. I’m my own person. I’m more than just that label. It’s not wrong. Not the years between us, not the life we’ve lived, nothing. There is nothing wrong with us taking pleasure in each other. There’s nothing wrong with making ourselves feel good. No one even knows I’m here. I’ve struggled with that—how this has an expiration date written all over it—but it doesn’t make this wrong either. If we’re both consenting and we both want this, then…
Jesus, I want that to be enough.
I don’t want to think about how incredible it would be if we could do this more than once. More than just one night and more than the time we have left. I don’t want to think about how a real marriage would look between us. This man isn’t mine. He’s not going to be mine. Not even the last will and testament of my brother or legally binding marriage vows can tie him to me.
I start to feel Rick pull away. Like, mentally. Bodily, he’s right here. His hand is still cupping my breast, and his erection is still throbbing against my hip. I need to keep him here with me. I need him out of his head where he keeps counting and cycling through all the reasons this could be wrong.
“I’m—”
“Shh.” I take his hand and guide it from my breast to my mouth. I unfold his fingers and suck on the tips of two of them. “What did I say about that nonsense? You aren’t allowed to speak those words anymore. Don’t even think about them. Don’t go back there. You aren’t doing that job anymore. You’re now here in this beautiful, cold, empty house.”
“I’m cold and empty too,” he mutters.
“No.” I lick at the underside of his fingers before I kiss his palm over and over again until he makes a noise he can’t control. He sounds like a wild animal.
“Please don’t…don’t touch my hands. They’re not good hands. They’ve done—”
“That’s right. They’ve done things. Things you can’t talk about. But it’s over, Rick. It’s over. You can’t change it. You might regret it for the rest of your life, but you can’t change a single thing. The only thing you can do is move forward now. Start living right here, right now. There can be good things, even if you don’t feel deserving. You’re going to be okay if you want to be. There is forgiveness. There is some amount of absolution.”
“Your brother—”
“My brother would never, ever have sent the letter if he thought you were a bad man. You were his best friend, and he knew you better than anyone. He knew your heart, and he handpicked you for me.”
“We’ve both said it was a mistake.”
“I think it’s definitely possible both of us could have been wrong,” I say.
I kiss his palm again. Then, I bring his other palm up and paint it with kisses too. I feel the way his hands start to shake, but he doesn’t pull them back. He doesn’t try to hide from me. The tremors pass through them and work their way into his whole body.
“You’re tired,” I point out.
“I’m fine.”
“Exhausted.” I let his hands go, but only so I can plant my palms flat on his chest. He’s definitely trembling. So warm. I run my palms down, feeling every hard muscle beneath the thin cotton. I need skin. His shirt has to go. If I can’t feel him, taste him, and make him mine, even if it’s just for tonight or a few nights, then I’m going to die.
I grab the hem of his shirt and work it up over washboard abs that make my mouth go dry, over tight pecs and a broad chest, and over huge, muscled shoulders. By the time I get his shirt over his head, I’m the one who is trembling.