Page 100 of Awaiting the Storm
When he finally turns around, his eyes are like liquid fire. He takes two giant steps, and he’s in front of me. His hands cup my face as I lift my chin to look up at him. His jaw tics, and for a moment, I think he’s going to scream in my face, but he lowers his forehead to mine.
“Hey, baby,” he says, his voice low and shaky.
A sob escapes me.
He lifts his lips and places a kiss just above my brows. “I’m sorry.” Then a kiss on the bridge of my nose. “I’m sorry.” A kiss pressed to my right cheek. “I’m sorry.” One to my left cheek. “I’m sorry.” Finally, his lips meet mine. The salty taste of the tears that have leaked down my face mingle with our breaths. “I’m sorry.”
And I believe him.
This apology isn’t self-serving. He’s not demanding I forgive. He’s not making excuses or blaming me for my pain, like Carl. He’s simply kissing it away because he never intentionally hurt me.
I twine my arms around his shoulders, and our mouths collide. All the indecision melts away as he clutches my waist and lifts me from my feet, carrying me to his room.
He drops me to the bed and goes to a knee, gently removing my heeled booties. His hands come to my thighs.
“I don’t know if I want you to burn this dress or wear it every damn day,” he says as he slides the silky material up while I lift my hips so he can peel it off.
He urges me onto my back, and he quickly strips and sheathes himself with a condom before coming over top of me.
I watch his throat contract as his eyes roam my body with nothing but a tiny slip of satin covering me.
Neither of us is in any rush. His hand tickles down my side and whispers over the soft fabric reverently. Before yanking once, and the delicate material snaps in his fist.
I lift a leg and wrap it around his hip as I bear up and kiss him greedily. He finds my entrance, and I’m wet and ready for him. He enters me slowly, and my flesh expands to accommodate him. And it feels so damn good to be filled by him. I groan and roll my hips, bringing him fully inside. The stretch is a wonderful burn, and I want so badly for him to pound into me. To ease the ache deep within me.
He peppers my neck with kisses as he deepens his thrusts, and my senses go into overdrive as I commit to memory the smell of his skin, the rhythm of his breaths as he holds tight to control, the way the scruff on his face scrapes against my cheek, the feel of his weight against me, the way the muscles in his back flex and constrict as he moves inside of me, the beads of sweat gathering on his upper lip, and the way his eyes dilate as he gets close to orgasm.
I pour all of myself into this moment. Surrendering body and soul.
He continues to rock into me as he slips a hand between us. His finger begins to massage my clit. He already knows my body so well. It’s exactly what I need to uncoil the tension wrapped around my spine. It’s exquisite torture. I dig my nails into his ass as my climax hits quick and hard. I cry out his name as he milks every drop of pleasure from me.
He continues to pump in and out, slowing the pace as my cries turn to hiccups. He arches his back and growls as hisrelease follows mine, and he empties himself into me before his body collapses on mine, completely spent.
His raspy voice speaks low against my throat. “I love you, Maitland Storm.”
I start to run my fingers through his damp hair. “I love you too, cowboy.”
“Ican’t believe he showed up,” Holland says as he and I sit on the veranda, bourbon in hand.
Waylon arrived in the middle of the night. According to Mom, the entire house was startled awake by the loud, persistent pounding at three a.m.
She and Priscilla huddled at the top of the stairs while Holland answered the door, a Louisville Slugger in hand, to find his wayward son grinning with a duffel bag slung over his shoulder.
Priscilla was thrilled to tears. Holland was ready to wring his neck.
He drank too much and was overly cheerful at dinner, but he had seconds and thirds of his mother’s dressing and sweet potatoes, which delighted her and made it all worth it. Now he’s passed out in the living room while Mom and Priscilla are wrapping up the leftovers.
“Marcia told us that you two are having coffee and dessert over at Wildhaven Storm,” Holland says.
I nod. “Yep. Matty said I might as well bring Mom for introductions while the whole crazy family is home.”
He smiles. “You know, there’s a lot to be said for homes with large, crazy families. They sure beat big, quiet, empty houses.”
I don’t miss his sadness, masked by the smile.
“I want to thank you for bringing your mom to spend the holiday weekend here. It’s been great seeing Priscilla so happy, playing hostess. And thank you for reaching out to Waylon. I know he only came because you’d asked.”
I nod. “Thank you for the job, for the place to lay my head, and for bringing me home,” I mutter. Then add, “And for making me go toe to toe with Maitland Storm.”
