Page 14 of Texas
“Harder,” she pants. “Please.”
I give it to her. Deep, hard thrusts that rock the bed, my grip bruising on her hips with the sound of skin slapping, of her cries echoing off the walls, and it’s all I hear. All I want. I reach down and rub her clit with my thumb, fast and tight, and that’s all it takes. She explodes. Her whole body locks up, her thighs clenching, her mouth open in a silent scream. I fuck her through it, gentler, letting her ride the waves until she collapses against the sheets. I slide out and drop down beside her on the bed, pulling her into my arms.
She curls into me, her face buried in my neck, breath ragged. And then I feel it. The shake in her shoulders. The soft hitch in her breath. Kristin’s crying. Not loud. Not broken. Just quiettears, like something inside her finally cracked open and let go. I hold her tighter with one hand stroking her hair, and the other wrapped around her waist. I don’t speak. Don’t offer bullshit comfort. I just let her cry. After a few minutes, she pulls back, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.
“Sorry,” she whispers, and I recognize it’s not weakness that causes her tears. It’s release. It’s the weight of holding everything together finally letting go, and I know that kind of cry because I’ve buried it in my own chest more times than I can count.
“Don’t be,” I say, brushing a thumb over her cheek. “You needed that.”
She nods, eyes still red but clearer now. “You make me feel good,” she says. “Safe.” That’s not just a compliment. That’s a responsibility. And I’m not sure what scares me more, the fact that she said it, or how much I want to suddenly live up to it. The reality hits me harder than I want to admit, but I push it away to examine later.
She leans in, presses a soft kiss to my jaw, then stands slowly, wrapping the sheet around her body. “Come to the main house,” she says, voice steadier. “I’ll make us breakfast. Something big. Bacon, eggs, maybe French toast.” I watch her move across the room, her back straight, her steps sure. Like she’s put something down. Like she’s lighter. Freer. I watch the door click shut behind her, the room going still in her absence.
The sheet she left behind is still warm where her body was, and I sit there a moment, the scent of sex still thick in the air. I should follow her, but I don’t move until my phone buzzes on the nightstand. I reach for it. One new message. Matt.
Swiping at the screen, I read his text. “You alive, Holliday?”
I snort. That’s him. Always straight to the point. I tap out a reply. “Breathing. Still in Texas.”
It takes him less than ten seconds to answer. “Still? Thought you’d be halfway to somewhere by now. Anywhere but Texas.” I stare at the screen. He’s not wrong. I was supposed to be. That was the plan.
Until Kristin. “Something came up.”
“Something with great legs and a name?”
I smile because the bastard knows me too well. “Maybe.”
“You good?” Reading his message, I hesitate. He means it. Matt’s not the kind of guy who throws questions around only to fill space.
He was there when they pulled me out of the sand, blood pouring from my side, screaming through my teeth while he held pressure on the wound and promised me I wasn’t going to die. “I’m good. I’ll tell you more later.”
“You always say that.”
“And I always mean it. Eventually.”
There’s a pause and then one more message. “Don’t disappear on me. You’re still one of the good ones.”
I stare at the words for a long time. Longer than I should. Then I tap out the only thing I can say. “I won’t.”
As I set the phone down, the screen dims to black, and I think about my friend. Matt’s got a job as a city cop in Seattle now. A wife. Two kids. A house with a porch and a swing. He sends me pictures sometimes. Like his daughter in a Wonder Woman cape, or his boy covered in peanut butter. He’s got roots, and I love that for him. He earned it. But me? I’m just not ready for that. All I’m ready for is living in the moment, and this morning, having Kristin’s French toast.
Ten
Kristin’s clearing the breakfast plates, and I see the tension in her shoulders. It’s subtle. Just a little tightness in the way she stacks the dishes, or the way her fingers grip the edge of the plate. She’s quiet, focused, a robe tied loose at the waist, a soft tank top clinging to her skin underneath and I take a second just to watch her. She moves like someone used to being alone, and not only alone in the room, but alone in the fight. I know that rhythm too well.
I’m sitting at the table, in my jeans, T-shirt, with my coffee cooling in my hand. Maybe I should be up helping her, but I don’t want to break the moment. She’s humming under her breath, something low and wordless. Maybe jazz. Maybe grief. I can’t tell. “Thank you for breakfast,” I say, finally breaking the silence.
She glances over her shoulder and smiles. “Trust me. It’s my pleasure.”
“That so?” I say with a smile. Setting the last plate in the sink, Kristin wipes her hands on a towel. She leans back against the counter, arms crossed, the soft cotton of her tank pulling across her chest.
She’s not trying to be sexy, but Jesus, she doesn’t have to try. “I’ve got a couple of patients coming this morning,” she says. “Here. Not the clinic.”
That makes me raise a brow. “You running a black market out of your kitchen?”
Shaking her head, she gives me a look. “No. But there are women in town who can’t be seen walking into a clinic,” she says. “Not when their husbands are on the city council or their pastor’s wife is their neighbor. So they come here. Quiet. Safe. No questions.”
I realize this is a town runs on secrets, and Kristin’s the woman who dares to turn on a light instead of locking the door. The kind of courage doesn’t get parades but instead gets warnings and whispers and threats delivered with a smile.
