Page 32 of Texas
“Try me.”
I’m on her before the words finish leaving her mouth. My hands grip her waist, moving her so her back’s against the counter again. Kissing her, I taste honey and heat and something a little wild. Dropping to my knees, I unbutton her jeans with slow precision. She watches me, eyes wide, lips parted, chest rising and falling fast. Sliding the denim down her legs, I dragmy fingers along her calves as I go. She steps out of them, bare now except for the soft cotton of her black panties. I hook my fingers in the sides and pull them down too, slow enough to make her thighs tremble and then I reach for the jar. “Spread your legs,” I murmur.
Without hesitation, she does, leaning back on the counter, her hands gripping the edge. I dip two fingers into the honey and trail them along the inside of her thigh, then over her center. She gasps, hips twitching and I follow the line with my mouth, licking it off her skin. She moans when I reach her, when my tongue brushes the sticky sweetness over her lower lips. I take my time, licking, teasing, letting the honey mix with her wetness. She’s soaked already, and the mix of sweet and salt is addictive.
“Reggie,” she whispers. “Please.”
Then I’m pressing two fingers into her while my mouth works her clit. She cries out, loud and unfiltered, hips grinding against my face. I keep going, licking her through the honey, through every sound she makes. She comes hard, thighs clenching around my head, honey smeared across her skin, her voice a high, shattered moan. I don’t stop until she’s sagging, boneless, against the counter. I stand, kiss her, letting her taste herself on my tongue, then I scoop her up in my arms.
“You’re not carrying me,” she protests weakly, arms around my neck, legs wrapped around my waist.
“You’re not walking,” I growl, already heading down the hall. The bedroom’s dim, lit only by the bedside lamp. After I lay her down on the bed, I strip off my clothes one by one. She watches me, eyes half closed, her lips swollen, and body still trembling. I look at her. “Your turn.” She smiles and pulls her shirt over her head. Then her bra until she is only soft curves and flushed skin. I crawl onto the bed beside her, kiss the hollow of her throat, the swell of her breast, the dip of her stomach. “Now turn around.”
She hesitates for half a second, then nods and shifts, straddling my chest, facing away. Her ass is round and perfect, her pussy hovering above my mouth. I slide my hands along her thighs, guiding her down. At the same time, I feel her mouth on me, hot and wet. It’s like falling into a loop of sensation. Her tongue flicks over my clit, then sucks it into her mouth while I groan into her, licking her slow and deep. We move together, a rhythm of tongues and breath and wet heat. She trembles on top of me. My hips grind up into her face. I can feel it building but I hold back until she comes first, again, her whole body locking, her scream muffled against my skin. I follow seconds later, my orgasm crashing through me like a wave, her mouth still sucking, still licking, still relentless.
We collapse together, tangled and sweaty, our bodies humming and spent. She shifts, turns, and crawls up my body until she’s lying on top of me, her breath warm against my neck. “That,” she whispers. “That was the best fucking dessert I’ve ever had.”
I laugh, my hand stroking her back. “You’re not so bad yourself.”
We lie there for a while, not speaking. Her fingers trace circles on my skin. Mine tangled in her curls. My body’s still humming, but it’s not only the sex. It’s her. It’s this, the quiet after. The part I never stick around long enough to feel. Until now.
Nineteen
The text comes through while I’m sipping coffee on the back porch, bare feet propped on the railing, the lake still and silver in the morning light. Just a number. No name. No greeting. Only “Cleveland Financial Group. 10:30 a.m. Don’t be late.” I stare at it for a minute, then I snort and take another sip. There’s no threat, no explanation, only a summons like I’m one of his employees. Like I belong to him the way he still thinks Kristin does. Fucking hilarious.
Inside, I hear the soft clink of dishes and the low murmur of Mrs. Tomas’s voice. She came in early this morning, saying her son was doing better, that she’d make up for lost time. Kristin is in the kitchen with her, already dressed in soft blue scrubs, her hair pulled into a twist that makes her neck look like something I want to bite. The faint smell of coffee mingles with the citrus scent of whatever soap Mrs. Tomas is using, and it feels dangerously domestic. For a second, I imagine this being normal, and the thought is both warm and unsettling.
When I get up to look inside, I see Kristin at the kitchen table, flipping through her planner, lips pursed. I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed. “Do you have a patient this morning?”
She nods without looking up. “Yes,” she says. “A couple of them are coming to the house first off, and then I’ll head into the clinic.”
Walking over, I set my mug in the sink. “I’m gonna take the Harley into town,” I say. “See if I can find someone to give me an estimate on the mirror and the scuffs.”
Kristin looks up then, brows pulling together. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
I shrug. “I’m not gonna stay here and hide from trouble. I just want to get the bike looked at.”
She stands and steps closer, hands brushing my arms. “Be careful.”
“Always,” I say, and she gives me a look like she knows that’s bullshit but lets it go.
Mrs. Tomas glances up from the sink. “Will you need lunch packed, Ms. Lennox?”
Thankfully distracted from me now, Kristin smiles. “That’d be amazing, thank you.” I tug on my boots, kiss Kristin’s cheek, and head out before I can change my mind.
The address in the text leads me to a two-story brick building on the edge of what I would consider the business district if a small town can have such a thing. Sleek gold letters across the glass door: Cleveland Financial Group. Of course. The man has a whole empire of quiet money. The kind that doesn’t make headlines. The kind of money that moves without ever being seen, slipping through deals and pockets like smoke. It’s the quiet ones you have to watch because they don’t need to shout to get what they want.
Inside, it’s all polished wood and thick carpet. A receptionist with perfect hair and no visible soul gestures toward a private office at the end of the hallway. “Mr. Cleveland is expecting you.” I don’t say thank you. The door’s already open and Will stands behind a massive desk, backlit by a wall of windows. He’s intailored navy slacks, a white dress shirt, no tie, sleeves rolled up like he’s trying to look casual. There’s a whiskey decanter on a sideboard and a leather couch that probably cost more than my first car.
He smiles like we’re old friends. “Reggie.” He gestures to the chair across from him. “Glad you could make it.”
I don’t sit. “What do you want?”
“Straight to it,” Will says with a chuckle. “I respect that.” He walks to the sideboard and pours himself a drink, which is telling considering it’s only a little past ten a.m. He doesn’t offer me one. “We both know this thing with Kristin isn’t going anywhere.” The ice clinks against the glass as he swirls it lazily like this is just another workday for him, like the two of us aren’t standing here weighing out the cost of war in a room that smells faintly of leather and expensive whiskey.
“You sure about that?” I say, raising an eyebrow. “Because last night she said my name a lot. And not in anger.” His jaw tightens, just a flicker, but I see it. Score one for me.
“I’m trying to be civil,” he says. “I’m offering you a chance to walk away. With something to show for it.” He tosses a thick, folded envelope onto the desk. I don’t need to open it to know it’s a bribe. Probably four figures, maybe five. He watches me like I’m supposed to be impressed.
