Page 8 of Texas
“Goodnight, Reggie Holliday.”
Heading down the porch steps and back to the bike, I grab my pack and saddlebags. The air’s cooler now, cicadas humming in the distance. I follow the gravel path that winds through the side yard, then into something that doesn’t feel real. Even with only the light from the back porch, I can see it’s a garden. Like, a real one. Not a few tomato plants and a sad rosemary bush, but a full-blown, landscaped, curated thing. Stone paths. Sculpted hedges. Flowerbeds everywhere. There’s even a little fountain burbling near a bench, and the whole thing feels like it was stolen from a magazine.
The frog statue is tucked beside a row of lavender, exactly like she said and when I lift it, sure enough, the key’s underneath. I follow the path a little farther until the guesthouse comes into view. Jesus. If this is the guesthouse, I don’t even want to know what the master bedroom looks like. It’s all white wood and black trim, with big windows and soft porch lights already glowing. I unlock the front door and step inside. And yeah. It’s a fancy fucking guesthouse. Hardwood floors, sleek furniture, high ceilings with exposed beams. There’s a fireplace in the corner and a kitchen that looks like it’s never been used. After a quick look, I see the bathroom’s bigger than some apartments I’ve lived in and the shower, glass, tiled, rain-style faucet, is practically begging me to get naked. Everything smells faintly of lavender and cedar, the kind of scent that clings to expensive linens. I run my fingers along the back of the leather couch, half-expecting it to vanish like some mirage. It’s the kind of place that doesn’t just offer comfort. It demands you slow down and feel it.
Dropping my stuff by the bed, I strip down. In a few steps, I am standing under the spray. The water hits me hot and perfect, sliding down my body and washing off the dust of the ride, the sex, the road. And I think about it. The last forty-eight hours.About a hotel clerk with legs for days and a moan that still echoes in my head. A tattooed sex shop goddess who let me tie her down and fuck the hell out of her. And now, this. The house, this woman with bourbon-colored eyes that hold secrets behind them, offering me a place to stay like it’s no big deal. It should feel like too much, but instead, it feels like something’s shifting. Like the road isn’t only about running anymore. It’s about the places I stop and the people I meet there.
I lean my forehead against the cool tile, the water pounding down my back. I don’t know what’s next. I never do. But for tonight? I’m clean. I’m fed. And I’m sleeping in the classiest fucking place I’ve ever laid my head. Tomorrow can wait.
Six
Sleep’s not coming easy. Not here. Not anywhere. The bed is too soft, the sheets too clean, and the air is too still. My body’s wound tight from the ride, the memories, and the kind of pleasure that doesn’t really settle you down, only stirs everything up. I drift in and out, caught in that half-sleep where everything feels like it’s underwater. Blurry. Disjointed. I see flashes of sand, smoke, and the outline of a rifle slung over my shoulder. A woman screaming. Not Cindi. Not Jax. Not Kristin. Someone else. Someone I couldn’t save. My boots sink into the dirt as I run toward the noise, but my legs won’t move fast enough. My chest is tight, lungs full of dust and blood. I reach for my sidearm, but it’s not there. I’m exposed. Vulnerable. The blast comes from behind, and I feel it. Not pain, just pressure and heat and then I’m falling. The worst part isn’t the fear. It’s the knowing. That moment before impact, when everything slows down and you realize it’s already too late.
I jolt awake with a gasp, sitting straight up in the dark, damp with sweat. My heart’s pounding like I’ve just run a mile. Rubbing my hands over my face, I try to ground myself. It’s over. It’s always over. But some nights, my brain doesn’t get the memo. Swinging my legs over the edge of the bed, the hardwoodis cool against my bare feet. I pull on a pair of jeans and a tank top, skipping the bra. No point. I need air. I need space. I need something quiet that doesn’t smell like burning.
The guesthouse is still and dark. I pad through the living room, out the front door, and follow the same stone path I took earlier. The moon’s full and bright, casting silver over the garden, the trees, and the lake beyond. The water’s glass-smooth, reflecting the moon like a mirror. Walking to the edge, the grass is cool and damp beneath my feet, and I stare out at the lake, trying to breathe through the leftover ghosts.
“Couldn’t sleep either?”
I turn. Kristin’s standing on the porch of the main house, one hand on the railing, the other holding her robe closed around her waist. Moonlight slides over her curls, her bare legs, the soft outline of her body beneath the fabric. She’s barefoot too. Actually, she looks like something out of a dream. Too good. Too fragile. But when she speaks, there’s steel in her softness. Like she’s been through her own war and came out the other side choosing tenderness anyway.
“Nightmares,” I say, and she nods.
“Same.”
Walking toward the porch, I see she’s watching me, her eyes soft but sharp. Like she sees more than she should and she’s not afraid of it. “Want company?” I ask.
After a beat, she nods again. “I do.”
Once I’m on the porch, for a moment, we only stand there, side by side, looking out over the lake. The moonlight catches her profile, the curve of her cheek, the part of her lips. Her robe slips slightly off one shoulder, revealing smooth skin and the edge of a collarbone I suddenly want to taste. “Do you make it a habit to walk around half-naked in the moonlight?” I ask, trying to keep it light.
Turning to me, she smiles, a twinkle in her eyes. “Depends,” she answers. “Maybe when I’m hoping someone’s watching.”
We’re standing close enough to feel each other’s breath, but neither of us moves. The moment stretches long, taut with heat and hesitation. If she turned away, I’d let her, but she doesn’t. I face her, and she meets my gaze without flinching. There’s a beat, a pause filled with heat and curiosity and something deeper. Then she kisses me. It’s soft at first, just a brush of lips, but it doesn’t stay that way. Her hands find my shoulders, then the back of my neck, pulling me in closer. I step in, pressing her back against the railing. Her mouth opens under mine, warm and wet and hungry, and I kiss her like I’ve been starving for it. For her. For this moment. Her robe slips open a little more, the fabric parting just enough for my hands to find her waist, her back, and the bare skin beneath. She moans into my mouth, and that sound? That sound makes something snap loose in me a little.
Lifting her easily, I set her on the wide wooden railing, her thighs parting instinctively to wrap around my hips. The robe falls open with the motion, and suddenly she’s bare to me. Completely, gloriously naked. “Jesus,” I murmur, pulling back enough to look at her. Her nipples are already hard, her chest rising and falling with every breath. I slide my hands up her ribs, over the curve of her breasts, cupping them, thumbing her nipples until she gasps.
“You’re beautiful,” I whisper, and then I’m kissing her again, this time moving lower. Down her throat, across her collarbone, until I take one of her nipples into my mouth and suck. She arches into me, her fingers threading into my hair, holding me there. I lick, suck, tease until she’s whimpering, then move to the other one, giving it the same attention while my hand slides down her stomach, between her thighs. She’s already soaked. I drag my fingers through her wetness, slow and deliberate, andshe cries out, hips bucking against my hand. I smile against her skin. “You want more of that?”
“Yes,” she breathes, barely audible. “I do.”
The night is still, but inside me, everything’s moving, reaching for something. This isn’t only lust. It’s need. Not just to touch, but to ground myself in something real tonight. In someone real. I sink to my knees in front of her, her legs still wrapped around me and pull her closer to the edge of the railing. The moonlight spills over her, painting her in silver and shadow. I lean in and taste her, my tongue sliding through her lower lips, circling her clit before sucking it gently into my mouth. She gasps, loud and sharp, her hands gripping the railing behind her. I don’t stop. I lick, suck, and tease until she’s trembling, her thighs tightening around my shoulders. I slide two fingers into her, slow at first, curling them just right, and her entire body jerks. “Oh fuck. Reggie…”
That’s what I want. My name on her lips. I thrust my fingers harder, deeper, my mouth working her clit in rhythm. She’s close. I feel it in the way she tightens, the way her breath catches, the way her moans turn into something raw and desperate. “Yes… Oh my God, yes.”
And then she breaks. Her whole body arches, her thighs clench, and she screams into the night as she comes, hard and long, her body shaking against my mouth. I don’t stop until she’s gone soft and boneless, slumped against the porch railing, panting and dazed. I rise slowly, licking her taste from my lips, and kiss her again, deep and slow, letting her taste herself on my tongue. When I finally pull back, she’s smiling. Sated. Glowing in the moonlight. “I can’t feel my legs,” she whispers.
I grin. “I’ll carry you.” And I do. Kristin’s body is warm in my arms, soft and pliant as I carry her inside. She rests her head against my shoulder, a lazy smile playing at her lips, and I wonder if she can hear the way my heart’s still hammering in mychest. The screen door creaks open with a nudge of my foot, and I follow her whispered directions through the house. Past the kitchen, down a short hallway, and into the bedroom. And holy hell. It’s not only a bedroom. It’s a goddamn sanctuary.
The room is huge, all soft shadows and warm wood, lit only by the moon spilling through tall windows. There’s a massive four-poster bed in the center, draped in gauzy white fabric that shifts with the breeze from an open window. The sheets are crisp, the duvet thick and inviting. The air smells faintly of lavender.
“This is...” I murmur, setting her down gently on the edge of the bed, “...a hell of a room.”
Kristin leans back on her elbows, her robe still hanging open. “I like beautiful things,” she says, her voice low. “And I like sharing them with people who know how to touch them.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Someone like me, you mean?”
She laughs, then reaches up and pulls me down on top of her. Her hands slide under my shirt, nails grazing my skin. “Precisely someone like you.”
