Page 10 of Texas
“Goddamn,” she murmurs, voice low. “You really are built like a dream.”
Even though I’m barely holding it together, I grin. “You haven’t even gotten to the best part.”
“Oh, I plan to.”
Then she slips onto her knees. The tile is slick, steam curling around us, and her hands part my thighs. Her mouth is hot and wet as she licks a slow stripe up my slit, and I nearly lose it right there. My head hits the glass with a soft thud, my hands braced on the wall. “Fuck, Kristin—” She moans against me, the vibration making my knees threaten to buckle. Her tongue circles my clit, flicks, sucks, then dives lower, teasing my entrance. She’s relentless, hungry, like she wants to memorize every inch of me with her mouth.
“You taste so fucking good,” she murmurs, and her mouth works my clit like she’s trying to ruin me.
The pleasure builds fast, my body pulled so tight it feels like I’m going to snap. “Oh fuck,” I growl. I’m close.
“Let me taste you coming,” she begs, and I do, my whole body convulsing as the orgasm tears through me. My legs threaten to give out, but I manage to stay upright as I ride it out, shaking and gasping. She kisses the inside of my thigh, then rises slowly, mouth wet with me, and kisses me, deep and filthy, letting me taste myself on her tongue.
“You still thinking about sneaking out?” she whispers against my lips.
My body feels like it’s unraveling and rewiring at the same time. Like every time she touches me, something shifts. I shake my head, breathless, and entirely wrecked. “Not a fucking chance.”
She smiles and pulls me back under the spray, her arms wrapping around me as the water washes us clean. Her fingers trace a lazy path down my spine as the water begins to cool. We linger under the spray a little longer, our skin flushed from more than the water’s heat. She presses one last kiss to the hollow of my throat before reaching past me to turn the water off. I lean against the glass, catching my breath, still trying to come down from the high of her mouth on me.
She grabs a towel off the warmer and wraps it around herself, then tosses one to me. “I’m gonna go start some coffee,” she says. “Mrs. Tomas is off today, so no need to worry about running into anyone.”
I nod, still drying off, my body humming in the places she touched. “You make it strong?”
Grinning over her shoulder, she’s already halfway out the door. “I make it lethal.”
I watch her go. The sway of her hips, the way her wet hair clings to her shoulders, the ease in her step like this is just another morning. She acts like we’ve done this a dozen times before and that’s the problem. I stare at the fogged-up glass. My reflection’s a blur, distorted by steam and water streaks, and I don’t look like myself. I look like someone who belongs here. Someone who wakes up slowly and smiles into her coffee. Someone who doesn’t bolt the second things get warm. Someone who believes mornings like this can last. What the fuck am I doing? Playing house with a woman like Kristin? This is dangerous territory, and I know it. She’s too good, too beautiful, and probably too smart. And, let’s face it, I’m not built for this kind of softness. I’m built for war zones and back doors and notleaving anything behind I can’t carry in a backpack. I scrub a hand down my face, trying to shake the feeling crawling up my spine.
That’s when I hear it. Footsteps pounding down the hall. Fast. Urgent. Then the bathroom door swings open and Kristin barrels in, her towel half open, eyes wide and panicked. “Shit,” she says, already grabbing a pair of shorts from the closet. “Shit, shit, shit.”
“Kristin?” I stand, still naked and thinking that’s probably a bad thing right now. “What’s going on?”
She’s pulling a tank top over her head, not even looking at me. “My husband just pulled into the driveway.”
The word hits me like a sucker punch to the gut. Husband. I blink, heart slamming against my ribs. “Your what?”
She finally looks at me, eyes pleading. “We’re separated. He doesn’t live here. I’m trying to get the divorce finalized, but sometimes he still shows up unannounced.”
I want to believe her. God, I do. But trust is hard when it’s been weaponized against you more than once. Still, the fear in her voice doesn’t sound like a lie. It sounds like regret.
I take a step back like the air just thinned. “You’re married?”
“Technically, yeah,” she says, zipping up her shorts. “But it’s over. It’s been over. I didn’t lie to you, Reggie. I just—” She exhales hard. “I didn’t think he’d come back today.”
I’m frozen for a second. Married. Jesus fuck. Kristin steps close, her voice softer now. “You should go,” she says. “Just… for now. Slip out the back, head to the guesthouse. I’ll come find you once he’s gone. Please.”
I look at her and I see the desperation in her eyes. Slowly, I nod, mostly because I don’t want to make a scene, but more because I don’t want to meet her husband in a hallway wearing nothing but a towel and a fresh orgasm.
Kristin grabs my hand, squeezes it once. “I’m sorry.”
I don’t answer. I just grab my shorts, my T-shirt, and slip out the back door with my heart beating like war drums in my chest. The sun’s higher now, burning through the early haze, but all I feel is cold. Every step toward the guesthouse feels heavier than it should. This was supposed to be simple. Just another night. But I’m learning quickly that nothing about Kristin is simple.
Eight
To kill time while I wait for the husband to leave, I make coffee. Anything to keep my hands busy enough not to punch a wall. I’m dressed. Packed. Boots laced. Hair damp from the shower. My backpack and saddlebags sit by the door, and I know what I need to do. Leave as soon as he’s gone, before it gets messy.
But I haven’t walked out yet, and that should tell me something, but I don’t want to name it. So I tell myself I’m only being cautious, only waiting for the right moment, even though a part of me knows the moment passed the second I heard her laugh last night. Sitting at the edge of the table, I stare at the wood grain while my guts twist around the word husband. Married. Not separated. Not ex. Kristin’s got a ring she doesn’t wear and a man who still thinks she belongs to him. Incredible.
I hear him before I see him. A man’s voice, carrying across the yard. Not yelling, but clear. The tone is worse. Calm. Flat. It’s the kind of voice that’s used to being listened to. The kind that bends people without raising volume. It’s too familiar. I’ve heard that voice in briefing rooms, in command tents, in the mouths of men who never bled but sent others to. “Kristin,” is whatthe man’s saying. Correction. The husband. “Where the hell are you?”
