Page 20 of Texas
Feeling heat roll through me, I groan. “In that case,” I murmur, before I can’t think straight. “How do you feel about a motorcycle ride later?”
Slowly, she kisses my jaw, then my neck. “Love it.”
Rolling her onto her back, I press my thigh between hers. “But first…” I say, and she arches into me, her breath catching. My hand slides under her tank, finding her nipple, already hard, and I pinch gently. She moans and pulls my face down to hers. I kiss her deep, slow, like I’ve got all the time in the world. My fingers trail down her stomach, slipping between her thighs, finding her swollen and ready. Her hand is on me too, stroking my clit, her palm warm and firm. We’re both breathing harder, grinding into each other, the heat building fast. I slide my fingers inside her, and she gasps, her body shaking. She strokes me harder, her thumb circling my clit. I’m close. She’s close. And then it happens. The doorbell rings.
Kristin freezes. “Shit.”
I blink. “You expecting someone?”
She scrambles out from under me, grabbing her robe from the chair. “No.”
I sit up, heart pounding. If this is Cleveland again, I’m going to punch somebody. She’s already at the window, peeking through the curtain. Then she exhales, shoulders dropping. “It’s my mom.”
I blink again. “Your what?”
She turns to me, cheeks flushed. “My mom. Donna. She must’ve gone to the bakery early,” she says with a smile. “She does that sometimes.”
I’m still sitting there half-naked, trying to shift gears from orgasm to introductions. “You want me to slip out the back?”
Kristin laughs. “No. You’re staying.” She pulls the robe tighter, kisses my forehead, and disappears into the closet. “Go say hello while I get dressed.” I sit there for a second, stunned. With a growl, I drag myself out of bed and grab my T-shirt and pull it on. I tug on my jeans, run a hand through my hair, and head toward the kitchen with no idea what I’ve got myself into. Honestly, I’d rather wrestle a bear. Meeting parents has never been my strong suit, but I go.
When I walk in, Donna is standing by the island, setting down a brown paper bag and a small glass jar. She’s tall, elegant, with silver-streaked hair pulled back into a low braid and a linen blouse. Her eyes are sharp, but not unkind. She looks me over once, then gives a small nod. “You must be the one who owns the beautiful motorcycle outside,” she says.
I clear my throat. “That’s me.”
She offers a hand. A firm grip with no hesitation. “I’m Donna Lennox. Kristin’s mother.”
“Reggie Holliday. She mentioned you.”
Donna smiles. “I’d hope so.”
Kristin breezes in, wearing a soft blue dress that hugs her in all the right places. She kisses her mother’s cheek, then pulls open the cabinet for coffee. “Let me guess. You brought croissants,” she says, peeking into the bag on the counter. “And blackberry preserves. You’re spoiling me.”
“I spoil the people I love,” Donna says, sitting at the kitchen table before glancing at me. “And the people they bring home.”
I try not to flinch at that. Bring home. That’s a phrase I’m not used to. I lean against the counter, watching Kristin scoop grounds into the machine.
She hums under her breath until the coffee starts brewing. “I’m going to try to do something with my hair,” she says. “Beright back.” Once she disappears down the hall, it’s only me and Donna again. The silence stretches a little too long.
Donna clears her throat. “You’re not from here.”
“No, ma’am.”
“That’s good.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Why is that?”
Kristin’s mother tilts her head, not answering my question. Her eyes study my face, and I don’t drop my gaze. “You know, most people are afraid of what they don’t know,” she finally says, apparently skipping my question. “I’m not.”
Lifting my chin a little, I look into her bourbon-colored eyes so like her daughters. “You’re not afraid of me?”
“No,” she says. “I get a sense you’re actually something Kristin needs.” She hesitates, glancing away. “But I am afraid for my daughter. She’s strong.” Her eyes find mine again. “But she’s been through more than she lets on. Will… well. You’ve probably figured out by now that he’s not a man who lets go easily.”
“I’ve met him. Briefly,” I say with a nod.
“He’s dangerous,” Donna continues. “Not in the way you’d expect. He doesn’t hit. He doesn’t scream. He just… manipulates.”
My hands curl into fists. “I can sense that.”
