Chapter Eleven
How had she ended up on the living room rug, entwined with Archer, engaged in soft conversation by the fireside?
Time to put the brakes on this. “I’m not worth the trouble. Ask anyone.”
“I doubt that.” He propped his head in his hand and stared down at her, entirely too handsome with firelight turning his blond hair gold and his skin bronze. “But I don’t really care about others’ opinions.”
“There’s plenty of them,” she warned. “Others. Most would tell you there’s no need to go to much trouble for me.” Desperate to create some discord or, better yet, douse this situation with an antidote to the chemistry that still sparked between them, she mustered up a devil-may-care smile and went on, “In fact, I’m pretty much a sure thing if someone catches my eye. No need to buy dinner, or cookies, or go to any trouble at all. I’m kind of straightforward in that way.”
If she’d hoped to put him off by tossing her past in his face, it didn’t work. He just smiled down at her. “Is that so?”
“It’s a fact.” She pushed up onto her elbow to get in his face. “You’ve gone way overboard. A lot of men have had me for a lot less.”
He ran his thumb along her jaw, which made her realize she’d pushed it forward. “Do you think I imagined you’d parked yourself on the shoulder all this time?”
She had no idea what he imagined. She had no idea what the hell she was doing, either, but whatever it was, she doubled down. “Well, I didn’t. I found my own road. I’m not that girl you once knew. I’ve seen a lot of traffic, Archie. A lot.”
Fingertips glided down her throat, her chest, parted her cardigan. “I always appreciated your…drive.” He traced the edge of her bra. Beneath his touch, her heart jumped like a puppy starved for attention.
“Many have. I’m free to do what I want. Whenever the mood strikes.”
They both watched as his index finger skimmed up the other side of her bra. Then vivid green eyes captured hers. “How’s your mood right now?”
Edgy. Frustrated. Hot and bothered. “Why?” She tipped her chin up, lowered her eyelids. “You think you have what it takes to address my mood?”
He smiled again, slowly, and nodded. “Since you like things straightforward, yeah, Bridge, I’m fairly sure I do.”
Fuck. She’d walked right into a zero-sum game. A sexual stare down. The only thing worse than continuing to play would be losing. Disentangling from him, getting to her hands and knees, she blew her bangs out of her face and smirked at him with a confidence she didn’t feel. At all. “What did you have in mind?”
“Lady’s choice.” He sat up, rested an outstretched arm on his upraised knee, as relaxed as if they were in the middle of a summer picnic. “I’m versatile, as I hope you recall.”
Bastard. How dare he push memories of them together into her mind? Rejecting them, she crawled over to the ottoman. “How about right here and now?” Bracing her forearms on the leather, she leaned forward and knelt there. Although she inwardly cringed at the idea of baring her bruises to him, her sweater covered most of that territory. Besides, it was the least sentimental, most down-and-dirty position she could manage given her current limitations. It was also a tactical error, she realized, when he got to his feet and stood behind her, silently informing every cell in her body that she’d put herself in an utterly submissive pose. Brazening through, she looked over her shoulder at him. “Does this work for you?”
“As long as it works for you, it works for me.” But he didn’t move.
Not enjoying the power dynamic in the least, she said, “You’re all talk.” It came out testy. This whole stupid thing had gone sideways on her. She pushed up onto her elbows, preparing to rise.
That’s when he moved. Hallelujah. But did he kneel, unzip, drag her pajamas down, and get on with it? No. He braced his hands on either side of her arms. He planted his feet on either side of her ankles, and then he slowly lowered until his entire body covered hers. His knees bracketed hers. His forearms rested alongside her own. His chest, hips, and thighs surrounded her like a shield. His bigger, stronger frame dominated her smaller, slighter one. But she didn’t feel dominated, not even with his cock a hard, insistent ridge against her ass. She felt…protected, desired, possibly even cherished. Alarm bells went off in the part of her brain in charge of self-preservation. “Wh-what are you doing?”
“Addressing your mood.” His low, playful voice vibrated through her inner ear, making her shiver. He must have felt it, because he eased his arm around her, splayed his hand across her middle and held her closer. “Okay?”
“Uh-huh.” It was all the response she could produce. Places inside her started to tremble, and he hadn’t even touched her yet. Not really. All he’d done was breathe words into her ear. She pressed her forehead into the leather, moving the susceptible passage out of his range.
The hand on her stomach angled down. Her thighs clenched. Something low in her belly coiled uncomfortably tight. She closed her eyes and bit her lip.
“You’ve got that fresh-showered smell again. Soap and woman. You know what that does to me.”
She smelled fresh? He smelled like something too complex for an adjective like “fresh.” Cool rain. Warm skin. Her most thrilling moments. Her most damaging mistake. It all blended together into a scent that could only be called Archer.
He slid his hand lower, long fingers sneaking under the waist of her PJs. “Don’t you want to get me naked?”
His laugh fanned the nape of her neck. “More than anything, but you’re not feeling your most exquisite, so I’m just going to touch you instead.”
Unease she hadn’t even realized weighed on her suddenly floated away. Then everything else floated away, too, because his entire hand slid into her pants and cupped her.
Somebody gasped—her. Somebody gave a gratified “mmm.” Him.
“Soft. You’re soft as water.” A slow, thorough finger slipped through her folds, gently tracing her, eliciting proof of wetness in the form of decadent sounds.
Her gasp became a groan.
“So ready.” His chest expanded as he breathed deep, putting pressure on her back, pinning her so she had no choice but to kneel there quivering and aching while he stroked her with maddening patience.
“I can hear your breaths quickening. I can feel your muscles tensing. You’re getting close. I’m not even inside you yet, and you’re primed to go, aren’t you?”
She couldn’t reply, but he didn’t seem to expect an answer. “I remember how this amazing body of yours works. I remember the way you’d whimper when I did this—” He rimmed her threshold with a blunt fingertip.
She would not. Not a single sound. Without warning, he rimmed her again and…oh, no. Places inside her clenched painfully tight. She whimpered.
“Mmm. That’s exactly it. Love that sound.” Had a man’s voice ever conveyed more smug satisfaction? If she wasn’t completely at the mercy of his circling finger, she would have…
“I remember how you’d cry out just a little at the very first real touch.” With that statement as a warning, he slid his finger into her.
The noise she made was more moan than cry, and it pitched lower and took on a guttural edge as he pushed deeper.
“Yeah, that’s it, only better. Better than I remembered. Is that because I’m better than you remembered?”
This time, apparently, he expected an answer, because when she didn’t give one, he stirred inside her, moving his finger in a long, luxurious circle, and rubbed his hand over her clit.
Her breath exploded from her lungs. Tails from freshly launched fireworks lit the darkness behind her eyelids. “B-better.”
“You’re so close now, Bridget. Right here”—he moved his finger inside her again—“you’re quivering on the brink, the way you always did. And here”—he pressed the heel of his hand to her clit and made her moan and buck from the intensity of the pleasure—“you’re throbbing. Like a heartbeat.” Working his other hand up her torso, he cupped her left breast firmly. “Like this heartbeat.”
Trembles started in her legs and her diaphragm. They cruised up the insides of her thighs and down the center of her torso to merge into a single, overwhelming earthquake at her core. Turning her head to the side, she cried out long and loud from the sheer strength of the release.
“That’s it,” he growled, lips close to her ear, exploiting everything she had as she came in a shaking, sweaty rush. “That’s what I remember.” He continued to stroke her, inside and out, through the comedown. “I remember everything. What makes you gasp, what makes you groan, what makes you shiver, and”—he leaned in and gently bit earlobe, so she cried out in surprise—“what makes you scream.”
Releasing her breast, easing his hand out of her pants, he went on, “Those are some of my very best memories.” Still huddled over her, he braced himself on his forearms and placed a kiss on the back of her neck. “I’ll tell you one more thing, Bridge.” Another kiss, this time at the top of her spine, left bare by her sagging cardigan. All she could do was lay under him, breathing fast and shivering from aftershocks. “I don’t really care about all the traffic.” He pushed her cardigan up to her shoulders and placed the next kiss below her bra clasp. “I was your first.” His hot mouth teased the small of her back. “And I’ll be your last.” He brushed his lips, whisper soft, across the very end of her spine, kissing her injury through the PJs.
With her eyes still closed and the post-orgasmic lassitude stealing all her energy, she knew he got to his feet. She didn’t move. Couldn’t, but also didn’t dare. That self-preserving part of her brain said, Stay down! and, for once, she listened.
“Dinner’s in the kitchen. Enjoy your evening. I’ll see you at the airfield tomorrow.”
She heard his footsteps move away. Heard him bang around in the kitchen for a minute and then retreat down the hall. He left through the mudroom. Tucking her arms under her, she waited. Moments later, the sound of an engine roared through the quiet and slowly faded into the distance. When it was completely gone, she straightened, pulled her sweater around her, and cautiously sat back on her heels.
That thing that just happened? Not smart. A responsible adult doesn’t re-engage with a man associated with one of the most irresponsible and painful mistakes of her past.
Her pussy begged to differ, but her better judgment refused to be guided by such a hard-up, hormonal part of her. This was what months of abstinence led to. A trigger so sensitive she went off like a rocket as soon as a guy touched her.
Not just “a guy.” Archer.
Yeah. Him. Why did it have to be Archer who awakened her sex drive from the coma it had been in since Shay’s death?
Don’t let him touch you again.
She struggled to her feet. Once there, she took stock of herself. Truth? She felt better than she had since Saturday night—maybe longer. Loose. Relaxed. Pain-free. A mutinous voice in her head whispered…
Why shouldn’t you do it again? He’s the last man you’d ever lose yourself over, given your history, so no risk of repeating that mistake. This would be nothing but recreational orgasms, plain and simple. You like them. He’s good at giving them. What could be safer?
Contrary to what recent events suggested, she was capable of operating as a responsible, reliable adult, and unlike the gullible college kid she’d once been, she wasn’t prone to confuse a climax with anything more profound. Mostly because she didn’t even believe in anything more profound.
Walking to the kitchen, she considered the possibilities. She wasn’t like Trace and Izzy. She didn’t have the kind of heart that sought a mate. She was actually more like Shay—king of the one-night stand. She had basic physical needs. Needs Archer could satisfy. He’d shown up on her turf with his agenda, and while she certainly didn’t have to fall in line with it, why shouldn’t she assert an agenda of her own? Particularly one that might, eventually, free her from a frustrating and stupid case of guilty-inflicted celibacy. Why not enjoy herself, responsibly, until this thing ran its course?
And it would, obviously. She wasn’t a keeper. Nor was she interested in being kept. Archer would leave, sooner or later, despite what he said, and she’d move on to the next sexy fly boy with good hands and a way with his joystick.
New Bridget could set her own terms and abide by them.
Content with her conclusions, she approached the kitchen island. On it sat a to-go box from The Goose. On the box lay a chocolate chip cookie in a brown paper wrapper. Beside the food sat a water glass filled with a beautifully bold and fragile arrangement of irises.
She reached for it, then drew her hand back. Why the flowers? What the hell was this? Holding the whole thing by the glass, moving it with the caution she’d use to move a venomous snake, she placed the arrangement on the counter by the window and scrutinized it as she munched on the cookie. She recognized the flowers. Trace and Izzy had ordered irises for the wedding. What were these doing in her kitchen? Flowers weren’t Archer’s M.O. In the three years they’d been joined at the hip, he’d never brought her flowers.
Whatever. She turned her back on them and focused on her cookie. Key came over and whined for some, but she shot him down. “Uh-uh. No chocolate for dogs.”
He whined louder.
“Sorry, buddy, but you are totally a dog.”
“Oooowwww!”
“Oh, please. Do not even suggest it sucks to be you. You’re so spoiled, I can’t even…”
“Oooowww!”
“Okay. Fine. Hold on.” She opened the to-go box and tossed him a fry.
Key caught it in mid-air, chomped, smiled, and licked his chops. Satisfied, he let out a little grunt of thanks and trotted back to his dog bed.
“You’re welcome.”
Putting the cookie aside, she turned to the burger, took a bite, chewed. Her gaze fell on the flowers again. Annoyed and curious, she took the burger on the road and walked upstairs to get her phone from her nightstand. One-handed, she whipped off a text to Archer.
She was about to put the phone aside when the three dots appeared. A second later came a reply.
Ha. Right. A lovely evening hand-jobbing his ex and getting nothing in return.
Had she? Surely not. Nobody really did that except in soft porn.
The screen went blank for several moments. She was about to put the phone down when three dots appeared.
Why that made her insides quiver, she couldn’t say. With annoyingly shaky fingers, she typed…