Page 70 of Van Cort
He pulled West’s T-shirt from his skin and stood, dropping it for her and buttoning his fly. They’d risked too much already here. Any longer and Father might be back. God knows what he might do to her or her family for this, and Rhett couldn’t fathomthe thought of losing her now. “Clean up, Lara. You need to leave.”
She started shuffling around, getting herself tidy, as he stayed focused on the door. “Rhett?” He looked at her. “Are you… I mean, was it alright? Was I?”
He could have smiled for her and told her she was perfect.
He could have pulled her to him and kissed her forever.
Part of him wanted to.
He didn’t.
CHAPTER TWENTY - THREE
WEST
If I were even half the man I’m trying to be, I’d do something insidious, or sinister, or perhaps even ruinous. I’m not, though. Not really. I’m not him, and no matter how much I try to front that out, it’s just not natural for me to hate like he does. It doesn’t help that she’s everything a woman should be and more. And now, as I sit here in the armchair watching her drift off into drunken slumber, I find myself thinking about things that have no business being part of this fractious arrangement.
I’m relaxing, enjoying, yearning.
Long, soft waves of golden silk lap along the bedspread, gently falling down the edge of luxury sheets. I could spend hours wrapped up in that. Soft lips would drop onto my mouth, and that giggle she has would penetrate me while a golden curtain hung a shade over us.
Hair. It’s just fucking hair.
Pretty hair.
I sneer and look at the dark wood bed she’s in, remembering a father who turned us into the men we are today. Much as I hate Rhett for what he did, he’s as much a part of me as I am him, and all this around us now brings acute memories back of what we could have been, and what we could have had. Because everything around me now made us, didn’t it? Our youth here moulded us.
As frustrating as those memories are, they also call to me in a way that no other person could imagine. I can feel him again now we’re close, so deeply, and with her here in the middle of that, I’m falling closer and closer to wanting a future I should be destroying for him. He doesn’t deserve it.
An hour or so ticks by on the clock, and I still can’t help but look at her face as she sleeps peacefully. Pouty, wide lips. Angled cheeks that seem to bounce what little light there is in here from the moon around. And that fucking hair. Why is that so damned gripping to me? It’s like it was grown for Van Cort alone, bred somehow to match the gold generations of us forged. I can almost feel my fingers on her skin, her hands on my face. She’d smile and we’d tumble into some fucking adventure that made me want nothing else but that.
The shadows by the door change. I don’t need to look up or away from her. I felt him approaching, and now what? He’s going to stand there and increase this need in me by simply existing? Interestingly, for once, I don’t know if he’s smiling or frowning about the concept.
I tilt my head to look.
He’s doing neither. Just standing.
Leaning, actually.
The corner of his mouth tips up slightly, like he knows everything I’m battling with, and he rolls his shirt sleeves up casually. There isn’t a damn thing casual about any of this, and he knows it. The fact that he hasn’t told her about me, and has brought her here – to our home, our past, our hatred and our love – proves it. He knew I’d come, knew I’d follow. He basically invited me.
He flicks his chin at her, as if giving me permission to get on with the very thing I’ve been thinking about. I should tell him to go screw himself rather than allow him to watch me with her. I don’t want to, though. I want to feel whole again, like I did when he had her on the piano, and my treacherous legs seem to lift me from the chair without any fucking consent from my head. My fingers don’t care either, because they start undoing my shirt – his shirt, and my pants – his pants, and before long I’m moving her hair from the side of the bed and sliding in next to her.
She moans lightly and rolls over towards me, her hand reaching for me until it’s resting on my bare chest, and she smiles in her sleep. I could just let her do that and rest, but that isn’t what either of us are here for anymore. We’re searching, maybe healing somehow.
My lips lightly brush over hers and along her cheek until she stirs and lets her mouth connect with mine. There’s nothing forced or cold about it this time. It’s full of meaning to me, and within minutes, soft mewls and whimpers begin tumbling from her mouth.
My hand travels lower, letting her skin glide under my fingertips until they’re between her thighs and she’s widening for me. Our tongues dance, and moments become hours ofgetting lost in her skin, her taste, her sounds of rapture. Gentle touches, so soft and gentle.
“Everett,” she moans, breathlessly.
My spine stiffens, hand tensing inside her until I cover her mouth with mine again and shift her weight so she’s closer to me. “Put me inside you,” I whisper.Me.
Her hand is on me and drawing me closer instantly, leg wrapping over my waist so she can get as close as she can. I roll onto my back as I slide inside her, pushing at her hips to get her to sit up and ride. Everything about her stretches upright – tight abs, fine arms over her head, breasts that just fit perfectly on her perfect fucking body, and then that hair tumbles and rolls with her as she starts to move. The sight damn near makes me cum on the spot.
Shadows flicker across her skin, accenting light and dark stripes on her body from the moon.
It’s slow and sensual, but builds until I’m shaking and she’s completely in control of everything. She teases me about it, too. Stopping every now and then, smiling at me, pouting and changing her moves so that she slows it back down, and I’m almost begging.
