Page 19 of Texas
Letting her go, I nod, and she climbs the ladder, water running down her body in rivulets. The light’s fading fast, but I still see the curve of her ass, the muscles in her thighs. She steps onto the dock and turns, offering me her hand. I take it.
The wood is damp under my feet, rough against my soles, as she leads me to the blanket in the grass, dropping to her knees, and pulling me down with her. The air is cooler now, but our bodies are flushed, slick with lake water and hunger. The grass is cool beneath the quilt, and for a breath, we simply stay there, two women surrounded by trees and twilight.
I lie back, and she straddles me, her pussy hovering just above my stomach. She leans down and kisses me, her tongue tracing the seam of my lips before dipping in. Her hands slide over my breasts, fingers teasing my nipples until I’m gasping. “Let me taste you,” I say.
She shakes her head. “Not tonight.” She shifts her hips, sliding her wet center down my stomach, over my ribs, until she’s pressing right above my hard clit. “I want this.” She grinds against me, her breath catching, and her hands braced on my chest. I grab her hips, guiding her rhythm, feeling the heat of her spread across my skin. She rides me hard. Like she’s waited all damn day for this. Her hair falls forward, wet strands clinging to her cheeks. Her mouth is open, and her eyes are closed. When I flex my abs under her, she cries out, her nails digging into my skin. “Fuck, Reggie. Yes. More.”
I give her more. I keep her moving. Keep her pressed to me, wet and hot and desperate. Her clit drags over my skin, pulsing against me. Her whole body tightens, and she comes with a strangled cry, her thighs trembling, her pussy soaking my skin. She collapses forward, her chest pressed to mine, her breath hot against my neck, but I’m not finished. I roll her onto her back, kiss her hard, then slide my hand between her legs. She’s still throbbing, still wet, still open. I slip two fingers inside her and she gasps. “Again?” I ask.
Moaning, she nods. “Yes.”
Loving the feel of her tight on my fingers, I fuck her slowly this time. Deep. My thumb circles her clit, and she arches intome, her hips lifting, her mouth open in a quiet moan. I stare at her face, watching the way she falls apart. She’s so goddamn gorgeous. Her second orgasm crashes through her, and she pulls me up, her hands in my hair, her legs wrapped around me. Now it’s my turn to grind against her, chasing my own release, sliding my swollen clit over her skin. When it hits, I ride the wave, my body shaking until finally I go limp beside her. We lay there tangled, breath ragged, skin cooling in the night air. A few of the brightest stars are out now and the lake is quiet. I close my eyes.
Kristin’s fingers are slow now. Not teasing. Not coaxing. Just curious. She shifts, propping herself up enough to run her fingers across the scar low on my belly. The one a little left of center, where the skin is puckered and tight. She doesn’t ask at first. Only traces it. Her touch is light, but still my stomach tenses. “Do you want me to stop?” she asks quietly.
I shake my head. “No. It’s okay.”
She doesn’t look at me, but her fingers don’t leave my skin. “What happened?”
Taking a moment, I stare up at the sky. More stars are slowly coming out, but there’s no moon yet, and the only sound is the lake lapping at the dock. “I was clearing a compound outside of Mosul,” I say, softly. “Intel was shit. We thought it was empty. It wasn’t.” Kristin is still. Only her fingers move to the edge of the scar, then back again. “We breached the front door. I went left. Heard a sound, saw movement so I cleared the corner. I didn’t see the tripwire until it was too late.” She makes a soft noise but doesn’t speak. “Caught most of the shrapnel in my vest, but one piece got through. Tore through my side, nicked my liver. I dropped and thought I was dead.”
Her hand stills. “But you weren’t.”
“No.” I let out a breath. “I was lucky. My squadmate, Matt, he kept pressure on it. Screamed at me to stay awake. I remember thinking he was being dramatic. Then I passed out.”
Kristin leans down and kisses the scar. Just once. A soft press of lips against skin that hasn’t ever been touched like that. It’s not a kiss of sympathy. It’s not pity. It’s something else, something reverent. Like she’s blessing the wound instead of mourning it.
When she lifts her head, I turn to her. “You got any scars?”
She gives me a wry smile. “Not the kind you can see.” I wait. Let her take her time. After a moment, she sits up, pulling her knees to her chest. Her hair is drying now, curling around her shoulders. “I was pregnant once,” she says. At her words, I sit up too, resting my forearms on my knees. “Will and I had been married about a year. I was still in that place where I believed him. Believed us. I thought the baby would make it better. Make him softer. Make me stronger.”
Her voice is steady, but her hands are clenched tight around her shins. “I lost it at ten weeks. No heartbeat. Just… gone.” I don’t reach for her. She’s not asking for comfort. She’s offering truth. “I was devastated. I cried for days. He didn’t. He told me it was nature’s way of correcting things. That I shouldn’t get too emotional. That we could try again.”
I feel my jaw tighten, but I keep my thoughts to myself. “But now?” She looks out over the lake. “Now I’m grateful. Not for the loss. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone. But for the clarity. If that baby had lived, I’d still be his. Even more trapped.” Her voice doesn’t shake. It doesn’t need to. The weight is in the stillness. It’s in the way she doesn’t blink when she says it, like this truth has become armor she’s forged herself.
“You’re not his,” I say, and she turns to me.
“No. I’m not. But he doesn’t want to accept that,” she says, her eyes angrier now. “And until he does, I can’t be free.”
Thirteen
Opening my eyes, I wake to the soft sound of birds outside the open window. The sheets are a tangle of limbs and warmth. Kristin is curled into me, one leg flung over my thigh, her cheek pressed to my shoulder. Her hair is a mess, her breath warm against my collarbone. I’ve got one hand on her hip, the other tucked behind my head, and the weight of her body against mine makes it hard to remember why I ever preferred sleeping alone. She stirs, shifts, then lifts her head to look at me. Her eyes are puffy from sleep, lips swollen from the way we kissed each other stupid last night. I could stare at her for hours like this. A part of me thinks I could get used to this, and I try not to let that freak me out. “Mmm,” she hums, sliding her fingers along my stomach. “You’re awake.”
“Barely,” I say, voice rough. “What time is it?”
Turning, she glances at the clock on her nightstand. “Seven-thirty.”
I groan. “Unholy.”
Grinning, she kisses me. “You’re dramatic for someone who used to sleep in a tent.”
“Yeah, but those tents didn’t have you in them.” Her smile softens. She kisses me again, with more heat. Her hand slideslower, fingers skimming the waistband of my underwear. I tilt my hips into her touch. “You working today?”
She shakes her head. “No. I don’t work Sundays. It’s a rule.”
“Good rule,” I murmur, liking where this is headed.
“Exactly,” she says, and her fingers dip beneath the fabric.
