Shelby
I sprint through the forest outcrop to the familiar dirt roadway leading away from the compound. Yet instead of slowing my pace, I push harder.
Make arrangements. You need to make arrangements.
My lungs burn and my thighs ache but I can’t stop. I can’t give into the pain, my anguish. I’ve got to keep going or there’ll be no hope at all.
“I’m sorry, Kylie. There’s little more we can do,” Dr. Walker had informed me yesterday when I stopped by the clinic.
“What about mebendazole? We haven’t tried that yet?”
He’d shaken his head. “It’s a long shot at best. There are no guarantees.”
I’d flipped through my loose-leaf notebook to the page where I’d recorded all of the Johns Hopkins clinical trials Mama is qualified to participate in. Azacitidine with romidepsin, carboplatin and paclitaxel, mebendazole. The first isn’t working. But we have other choices, more trials to try. Whatever it takes to improve Mama’s prognosis . . .
“Kylie?” He’d sat down next to me and taken a deep breath. Bad signs both. “Additional trials can run anywhere from five thousand dollars and upward, depending on the services provided like urine analysis, serum chemistry, biopsies. And National Healthcare—”
“—won’t provide coverage,” I’d snapped, finishing for him. “What else is new?”
“My advice is . . . to make arrangements . . .”
Make arrangements? The only arrangements that followed that bit of advice were the good doctor giving into my rather forceful request—which culminated with his calling to make the necessary arrangements with his colleagues at Johns Hopkins—and Sheriff Rush agreeing not to haul my ass off to his office for disorderly conduct. Haven’t I learned that sometimes in life, you’re forced to put your foot down, no matter the cost?
That was yesterday.
I managed to keep my emotional breakdown at bay until today on my way back from a morning spying on the Pricks. Controlling whatever I can in my life right now, though my revenge on these murderers is going to taste bittersweet if Mama . . .
I can’t go there. No, I have to keep trying.
Except . . . thousands of dollars? It’s not like I can pick up a kick-ass waitressing shift at the Pitt, Shelby’s local trucker watering hole, and in a snap of my fingers, earn that kind of dough.
I slow to a walk, my breath coming out in pants.
There is another way.
Damn it. What choice do I have?
Off in the distance, the growl of a motorcycle fills the quiet Saturday-morning air. Drowning out the crickets chirps and . . . what the hell . . . sobs?
Once I recognize the sound, I can’t seem to stop it. Out it comes, my anguish. Sorrow. Panic. Fear. Oh my God, how could fate be so damn cruel? I crouch over, place my hands on my knees, and allow the dam to crack. My chest heaves, my thoughts overwrought with emotion. I think about my loving papa dying in my arms. I think about my mama’s brave struggle to fight this horrible disease. I think about my sister with so much life ahead of her, how she’s far too young to be stricken with so much pain and sorrow.
And I think about Jaxson. What Hayden did to him, to us. How I haven’t seen him in a few days yet it feels like a lifetime.
If I return to the Ranch . . .
The rumble of a motorcycle engine grows closer. For I second, I get a wicked sense of déjà vu. No. Hayden isn’t expecting me for two more days. Besides, he’s clueless to the fact that because of yesterday’s news and up until this moment, I was never going back. It’s just a coincidence. A random stranger. Still, I ball up my fists, ready for the first signs of trouble.
The motorcycle slows to a stop. The rider takes off his helmet. And the last person I want to see right now grins madly at me.
“Climb on.”
I take off running, hearing his surprised exclamation of “shit,” which seems to follow on the breeze behind me. My heart pumps furiously. Dr. Walker’s advice has ripped it to shreds. Seeing Jaxson . . . No. No. No. I can’t get let myself get involved with him. Not with Hayden’s threat hanging over us. Not with my mama battling a disease that no one except her, Madelyn, and I seem concerned about curing. I can’t be responsible for Jaxson being hurt. I can’t do this.
Just let me go. Just forget about me.
I listen for any sign he’s followed, but all I hear is my desperate gasps for air.
A quarter mile down the road, I’m still in a dead run when I’m abruptly swept up off my feet. He holds me in a tight bear hug while I wiggle and kick and struggle to stop the hail of tears running down my face, struggle not to shatter into tiny emotional pieces. I break an arm free and promptly elbow him in the side, just below the ribs. He drops me and I’m off. Until I’m tackled from behind.
I’m falling.
We’re falling.
And there’s nowhere for us to go except down.
At the last second, he turns, taking the brunt of it as we hit the asphalt pavement. Anyone driving by would either hastily ring Sheriff Rush—yeah, a lot of good that’d do—or more likely turn a blind eye, something townsfolk have grown accustomed to doing. But there’s not a car in sight. And I don’t care. I can’t think straight. I can’t stop crying. I can’t do this.
I cease my struggles, bury my nose into the crook of his neck, and simply break. I sob from the depths of my soul as he wraps his arms tightly around me without a word. I lay on top of him until my tears dry up and my racing heart calms. Until small, embarrassing hiccups replace the sorrowful sound of my anguish.
I try to roll to the side, but he refuses to release his hold on me. Forcing me to raise my head and, between swollen eyelids, make eye contact.
“Hey, fireball. I get that you missed me. But there’s no need to get all sentimental about it.”
I blink.
He smirks down at me.
And suddenly, my burden seems lighter. “More like the sight of you traumatized me enough to cause this massive freak show of emotion.”
“Yeah. I have a way of making a woman come apart in my arms.”
“Ever the man-whore.” A final sniffle escapes.
“You going to tell me what’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
He laughs but it’s more of the you’ve-got-to-be-kidding-me kind.
Jesus. I close my eyes tight and ground out, “Why are you here?”
“You want to play it that way, a question for a question. Fine. My turn. Don’t you get it yet?”
I laugh. It’s not a full-bellied one but more of a shallow, incredulous one. But it’s a laugh nevertheless. A question for a question? Knowing Jaxson, I’ll never get a straight answer. Yet confiding in him why his neck is coated with my tears, when I’m this raw . . . “Get what, Jaxson?”
He shakes his head. No. But he’s got this look in his eyes. My breath hitches at the sincerity within his blue depths.
Oh my God. He feels it too.
Reaching for me, he runs a finger beneath my eye. I still beneath his touch, then stiffen when I spy what he holds up for my inspection. A perfectly shaped teardrop sits on his fingertip. A perfectly brown, muddied teardrop. Jesus, I can’t even cry like a typical girl.
This is the real deal. Him being here, finding me, this matters.
I’m raw. Ill-equipped to deal with another emotional onslaught. Will I ever be wholeheartedly ready for what this man could do to me? Do I want him here?
Yes. Yes you do.
“Why were you crying?”
“I’ve got dust in my eye.”
He runs his finger beneath the other eye and scoops up another muddied teardrop.
“Kylie . . .”
“Jaxson . . .”
“What happened back there at the compound?”
Jesus. I squirm beneath him.
“You were in the woods?”
“Yep. The easiest way of tracking you down. When it comes to those assholes at the compound, you’re somewhat predictable. Except for this morning, and your tears . . .”
“Goddamn you. You’ve been watching me?”
“Waiting for you to show up. Thank fuck I didn’t have to wait until Tuesday morning.”
Damn, he’s good. I make a quick mental note to never get on his bad side, if such a thing exists—he’s that good-natured. Yeah, if what Hayden did to us is any indication, it’d take a freaking earthquake to truly rattle his nonchalant manner. Jaxson’s a man who’ll sneak into your bed, steal your heart, spy on you when you think you’ve taken every precaution against it, all with a naughty come-hither grin that makes you forget the ever-present dangers of getting involved with a man like him.
Despite knowing this, I can’t seem to say no to him.
“What the hell is going on?”
“I want my life back,” I choke out. “I want it all back, not just the time wasted at the Ranch. I want a house with a white picket fence, daffodils in the front garden, rooster wallpaper in my bathroom, surrounded by family . . .” And a loving husband beside me.
I stare up at him. You. I want you.
“Rooster wallpaper would take some growing used to.”
“My mama loves a country-themed décor. So if it’s roosters she wants . . .” My voice dips to a whisper. “I’ll do anything for my family.”
“Loyal to a fault. Something else I admire about you.” He leans down and traces his lips over mine. “If the world were a different place, I’d want to meet them.”
Oh my God. Roosters, now this? Is he really saying what I think he’s saying?
He pushes up to a seated position then lifts me up as he comes to stand.
“I don’t want to go back to the Ranch,” I say, as he carries me down the roadway in the direction of his motorcycle.
“I don’t want you there either. It’s not the job for you. Do me a favor and keep away from that Ranch. That’s what I’ve come to tell you. You don’t fit into his world. TORC isn’t meant for the likes of you. This kind of work will change you. It’ll harden you and turn you into someone you’ll barely recognize. If you want your life back, now’s your chance to end all associations with TORC.”
“You sound like you regret your decision to join.”
“I wanted a house with a white picket fence, too. Before Afghanistan, before TORC, before I did the things I’ve willingly done.” He stops walking to search my face. “And this”—he flicks his finger on my nose—“thing between us is dangerous.”
“This thing, huh?” I laugh. Why can’t he just say it? “You know, thing has a lot of connotations. It’s not really a strong, descriptive, to-the-point word.”
He frowns at me and I can’t help it, I smile back, loving how he likes me.
“Kylie . . .” The way he says my name feels like a caress. The ie drawn out, a guttural-sounding vowel made deep within his throat. He runs a solitary finger across my face, beginning high on my cheekbone and ending on top of my nose. Then he pinches his fingers, and dried, dusty dirt particles shower down from between them. We both watch his actions. He grunts and the moment is lost. “I shouldn’t have tracked you down but I’m a selfish ass.”
“Jaxson.” I say his name in a low, drawn-out voice, like it’s the last time. Breathe, Kylie, breathe. “You know what?” His eyes raise to mine and I struggle to finish. “Today, I can do selfish.”
I need selfish. I need a few hours of blissful selfishness, his and my own. Then we’ll deal with this good-bye nonsense. I straighten in his arms. Somehow, someway, we’ll make this work.
“Fuck, I can’t say no to you.”
“Fuck, then don’t.” I place my palm on his cheek. “Jaxson . . . please . . .”
He drops me to my feet, grabs hold of my hand, and practically drags me along behind him as we hurry toward the Harley. He hands me his helmet, which he’s tossed on the side of the road. I place it on my head as he pulls his Harley from where he stashed it within the wheat stalks.
“Shake a leg,” he tells me as he slides onto the seat.
I climb onto his motorcycle and, tightening my hold around him, press my cheek against his back.
The entire ride to the neighboring town of Dayton, I weep into his back, letting my tears flow until they dry up like a wheat field in a Shelby drought. Until all I can think about is how much I need him. His body, his strength, his ability to make me smile even when life offers me little to be happy about. I’m going to steal a moment of happiness and pray it’ll be enough to help me cope.
In Dayton, Jaxson parks the Harley on Main Street, directly across the street from Dayton Creamery. The ice-cream shop has the second-best chocolate-chip mint ice cream in Oklahoma. Shelby Sweets beats it, hands down. Except it’s the shitty clientele like mobster Franco DiCapitano, who leaves a bad taste in the place. After the incident with Franco buying me a cone, my father would make the short drive to Dayton to buy us a treat.
Jesus. My pop thought of everything, even ice cream. Everything except an insurance plan that’d cover alternative treatments. But who thinks of the worst when everyone is healthy and thriving, as we all were when he bought the plan.
“You’re scowling. Once we get inside, you’re going to tell me what’s wrong.”
He leads me into a brick building facing Main Street, then marches me up seven flights of stairs. In spite of a month of Hayden’s Hell, I’m winded. The aftermath of my morning freak-out isn’t helping matters. He whisks out a key, opens the door, and leads me inside apartment 7C.
The apartment is nice but sparse. Hardwood floors run the long length of the rectangular living-dining space. To my right is a galley kitchen, modern in style and feel with its gray granite countertops and matching gray cabinets. State-of-the-art appliances, all in stainless steel, all expensive. A snack bar divides the space between the kitchen and large dining area, which is furnished with a big black-stained farmer’s table and matching seats that look like they’ve never been used.
I follow Jaxson deeper into rectangular-shaped living room to take a peek outside through the wall of windows overlooking the Creamery. A brown leather couch with two matching chairs and a coffee table take up minimal space within the large room, but the natural sunlight adds a homey feeling to the otherwise sparsely decorated space.
I take a quick peek inside the bedroom off to the right. There’s a window, a dresser with a mirror, and a queen-size bed with a gray comforter and four pillows. That’s it.
From what I can see, the apartment is masculine in taste, spacious and cold. So cold. So unlike Jaxson.
“What is this place?” I ask.
“A TORC safe house,” he replies briskly, tossing the keys onto the dining-room table.
“Phew. I thought you were going to tell me it’s your fuck pad.”
A sudden, subtle tension fills the air. Something in the way his body stiffens, in his shoulders squaring off just the slightest bit.
“Tell me.”
“Nothing to tell.”
“You’ve been here before?”
He shrugs his shoulders. “Yeah.”
God, now he’s drawn his lips into a straight, thin line.
“Jaxson?”
He stalks toward me and places his hands on my shoulders. “Fine. Maybe you’ll better understand why TORC is no place for you.” His fingers tighten over me, though not enough to hurt me. “There’s no fucking easy way to say this.”
“You brought me here to terminate me,” I joke, trying to ease his way.
“It might go the other way when you hear what I have to say. First of all, you’re the first woman I’ve brought here.”
My jaw feels tight, probably from how hard I’m clenching it in an effort not to speak.
“I have a bit of a reputation. Before TORC relocated to Shelby, there’ve been two major assignments where I worked over a woman for information. Got in close, learned what they knew, got out. My third job was a termination. I shot a man straight in the forehead at one hundred feet away—like I told you, I’ve done some sniper work in Afghanistan. The only assignment I’ve come up empty-handed is this recent one in Shelby. Point is, whatever Hayden asks, Hayden gets.”
I step away from him and glance down at my shaking hands. If I can only curve my fingers into a fist . . .
“Nothing physical has happened since we moved into the Ranch in April.”
“That helps. God, Jaxson. How am I supposed to react to this? All those times I called you a man-whore . . .”
He shrugs his shoulders. “I’m not proud of it. But I’ve used precautions, gotten regular physicals, and I’m clean. And that part of the job is over for me. I told him no more. I’m a goddamn sniper, for Christ’s sake. I told him to use me for what I’m good at.”
“And what did he say to that?”
“‘I am.’”
I stare at him. Yeah, when it comes to heavy foreplay, raging orgasms, fucking, Jaxson is a professional.
“Kylie.” He steps forward and takes my by the arms. “You want the truth? I’m married to the job. I signed up willingly and am contractually bound to execute his wishes. Whatever he demands. With no further thought to my own dreams, my house with the white picket fence. Hayden says report in, you do it. He says seduce a target’s mistress, that’s what you do. He says terminate some asshole, you kill the man without questioning why. That’s what you sign up for. That’s what happens when you work for TORC. Damn it, leaving us behind is the best thing for you.”
Jaxson runs his fingers across his jaw as I process his words.
“So what’s going on with you?” he prompts.
“I really don’t want to discuss it,” I murmur. I’m still processing what he’s told me.
“You can trust me.”
“I know.” And that’s the truth. He didn’t have to share what he just did with me. Or wait for me to show up at the compound to check in on me.
“And there’s nothing you can do to help my situation. Nothing, Jaxson. Hell, I’m not sure there’s much more I can do. Except I can’t give up. I’ll do just about anything—”
“ For someone you love.”
Our eyes connect and hold. Butterflies flutter inside my stomach, and for a heartbeat, I think he’s about to clarify what this thing between us actually means to him. Instead he says, “Tell me what has a woman like you—who ran miles alongside trained men without a whimper, scaled walls, and crawled through rivers and fields with a smile on her face—in tears?”
“I cried going over that wall. You just didn’t see me.” I sigh. “You’re relentless, you know that?” I say, then swallow hard. “I have a younger sister, Madelyn. The sweetest human being to ever grace this earth. She deserves to be happy. To go off college and beat it out of Shelby. I worry about her, and . . .”
I pause, then finish, “ My mother has cancer. I found out yesterday we’ll be needing to switch her treatments. I’m scared shitless. There you have it.”
I wait, hoping he’ll say, “I’ll make it better” or “Everything will be okay.” He stays quiet, like he waiting for me to confide in him some more. In that instant, Jaxson proves he isn’t a man of shallow promises. There’s nothing anyone can do—except perhaps those tightfisted doctors at Johns Hopkins who are so damn picky about who receives their miracle drug.
“Come here,” he says, a softness in his tone that wasn’t there a second ago.
Is he going to hug me? I’m not sure what to think after his admission. Yeah, I want his arms around me. Find comfort in a hug, find release in whatever he’s offering. Knowing what he is doesn’t change this thing between us. He’s what I want. I step forward. “Yes?”
His fingers trail across my cheek. “You’ve got patches of dirt caked on your cheeks instead of a light dusting. Where you crying on the ride over here?”
I nod. No need to do otherwise. I can feel his concern. I see the pity within the blue depths of his eyes. And it sucks. A pity party isn’t why I’m here. Comfort. Companionship. Just being close to him, that’s why. My throat feels dry and I lick my lips—not that it helps. But in a way, it does. Because the movements caught his interest, and a sizzle of energy charges the air between us. Desire. Sweet blissful desire. He’s leaning back, perched on the dining-room table, and I shuffle closer to stand between his legs.
He straightens slightly, then says, “This is a bad idea.”
Bad idea? Jesus, I misread the situation. He doesn’t want me. Why would he? I’m covered in dirt, an emotional mess, and a survivor of Hayden’s reality check warning us to not get involved. And despite it all, what do I feel like doing? Kissing him.
“You okay?”
No. I’m hanging on an emotional thread right now. I should be home with my head buried beneath my pillow and with a stockpile of chocolate easily within reach. Take comfort and cope the best way I know how. He’s right. Climbing on the back of his bike, being here with him, right now . . . bad idea. “I’ll be fine. I appreciate you chasing after me and offering an ear.”
He’s watching me closely. In a short time, he’s gotten to know me so well. Except he doesn’t understanding this thing between us like I do. Women want him all the time. Sex is second nature to him. Mix more into the picture—it’s impossible for him to do it. Yet he tracked me down. Tackled me. Took me here.
“Kylie,” he says softly. “I want to help you. Not hurt you more.”
There’s this expression: “Go big or go home.” Right now, going big would destroy me. Digging deeper into our thing—an emotional overload. Sometimes a little slice of heaven is all you can bear.
He exhales. The sound echoes across the hardwood flooring until it fades into nothingness.
“Kylie,” he murmurs, his hands finding my hips. “I’m sorry—”
“Me too.”
“I can’t help myself. We didn’t get to say good-bye.”
He cocks his head, leans in, and, pulling me into him, kisses me.
There are a few precious moments before a tornado strikes when everything stills. Leaves stop swaying on their branches, birds grow silent, and the air seems to thicken like a heavy fog. You know danger is approaching. You know the smartest move is to move, to get the hell out of there and don’t look back. This is such a moment. I reach up and wrap my arms around his shoulders. Moving into him. Loving the feel of his tongue sliding across my own. The taste of him, minty and sweet. The heat of his body. The way my nipples pebble and my legs shake.
“Stay here,” he murmurs against my lips before lifting me in a spin and seating me on the table.
I couldn’t run even if I tried.
He heads into the bedroom and seconds later returns. My eyes widen on the strip of condoms in his hand. Tearing one free, he tosses the rest on the table next to me. His shirt is off in a blink, his pants follow, then he takes my hand in his. “Hold this, will ya?” he asks, wrapping my fingers around the foil wrapper with a naughty wink as he proceeds to wrangle my shorts over my hips and down my legs.
I tear the foil open with my teeth, slide the condom out, and focus my attention downward and onto his gorgeous erection. Go big or go home is right.
God, this is a bad idea. How can I believe once will ever be enough? Or even . . . I count the foil strip next to me . . . five times?
“I’ll do whatever it takes to erase your pain.” His fingers find my wetness. With his thumb, he drags my slick moisture across my nub then circles the pad of it, around and around until my hips arch off the table. “Relax and enjoy. I’m about to make you feel real good.”
“You know just the way to a girl’s heart, don’t you?”
He pauses, his expression serious for a change. “I want to make love to you. Steal a moment of pleasure. Leave you with something to remember me by.”
“Like I could ever forget you.”
Without breaking eye contact, he pushes one, then two fingers inside my tight channel.
“God, Jaxson, that feels good. I want more. More fingers. More sex. More of . . . you.” I spread my legs wider and take his cock in my hand, gently spurring him to move closer. I might regret this later but for now, I thoroughly plan on taking him inside me and losing myself in him.
He places a hand on the table next to me and leans in to whisper in my ear. “Rougher. Squeeze hold of me, stroke me hard, then roll the damn thing on.”
I wrap my fingers around his girth, work my tight grip over him, back and forth. Feeling him thicken in my hand. Loving the hot heat of him. Enjoying this small measure of power I have over him. I roll the latex over his hardness, then stroke him some more.
His cheeks shifts against mine, then he’s kissing me. Wildly. His tongue possessive, probing farther, deeper. I angle my head, deepening our connection. His tongue begins to mimic his fingers, pushing into me, sending my body into sensory overload where all I can do is feel. He breaks the kiss but keeps his fingers moving, leaving me panting and desperate for him. “You’re so goddamn beautiful,” he tells me, rubbing his thumb over my hood and causing me to gasp in pleasure. “But now would be the perfect time to tell me to go.”
“Hayden can wait,” I whisper.
“This can never be. Not with my lifestyle choices. Not with me working for TORC. Not after Hayden’s warned me to leave you alone.”
“He’ll never know. It’ll be our secret.”
He shifts backward and my heart skips a beat. He spreads his fingers and slowly withdraws, creating this lovely friction inside me and causing a rush of warm moisture to my core. “Beautiful. I could spend hours playing with you like this. Feeling how wet you get for me. Preparing you for the sweetest fuck of your life.” He scissors his fingers back together and pumps them inside me. “Yeah, if I can’t get inside you with my cock, then it’ll be this. Always. I could finger you all goddamn day.” I grow wetter, if that’s possible. Sweet hell. Yes.
I lean back and spread my legs wider. “Do it,” I command.
His scissors his fingers and slides out, then holding them together, pumps with small motions back inside me. I gasp as I feel his thumb circling over my clit in perfect harmony with his naughty, experienced fingers. With his free hand, he squeezes my breast, palming my nipples and causing a small moan to ride along on my next exhalation.
Once more, I wrap my fingers around his cock, squeeze and slide.
He pinches my nipple, and then his head disappears between my thighs. With his fingers thrusting into me, his hot tongue swirls over my nub. My body quivers. My mind focuses on nothing but him, this wonderful feeling building up inside of me, the wonderful feeling that’s always deep within my heart whenever I think of him.
I gasp. Holy sweet Mary. My naughty lover buries his face between my thighs, thrusting his tongue into my tight channel where his fingers have just been. His top lip slides along my hood as he works his way deeper. I work my fingers through his hair, feeling him moving beneath my hands.
His ass flexes and his hips thrust forward.
Yeah. Baby likes it rough.
“You taste so damn sweet.” He runs his tongue between my folds like he’s proving his point.
I move a hand to cup his face, drawing him up, directing him forward. I brush my lips against his, then kiss him hard. Working my tongue into his mouth, tasting him, tasting me, demanding more. Then I fist his thick erection and guide him home. He breaks our kiss with a growl. “You want me to fuck you, fireball? You want my cock inside your sweetness?” He’s wrapped his hand around mine. I can feel the tip of him at my entrance, nudging up between my folds.
Yes. Do it.
I slide my bottom forward on the table, the small movement causing his tip to inch into me.
“I should have let you go,” he tells me. “But I was going crazy not seeing you these past few days. Not knowing if you were okay after Hayden’s bullshit. Wanting to tell you to stay away. Don’t come back. Don’t get involved with TORC. Or me.” He releases his grip on my hand. “We have no future, you and me. This thing between us is a bad idea. But we didn’t get a chance to say good-bye. And I wanted to. I had to see you one last time.”
God. He can’t admit it. He thinks it’s simple. Good-bye. Not going to happen. Do I tell him? Confide in the decision I made this morning? That the money is too damn tempting. That I am taking Hayden up on his job offer. That this isn’t good-bye?
He tilts my hips and thrusts into me. Pulling me forward so my legs dangle off the table and bearing me down on him so I’m partially riding him and partially being taking by a man with a wildness inside him that has me panting along with his every homeward slam.
“You’re damn tight. I feel every hot inch of you. But guess what? It’s never gonna be enough. I want you more than anything I’ve ever wanted. Shit, how did this happen?” he asks, his confounded confusion about this thing between us evident in the harshness of his tone.
“Shhh. Just fuck me. You like it hard? Take me hard.”
He freezes, then bows his head so our foreheads connect. “Hard. Slow. It doesn’t matter. This is it. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Raw emotion fills the air. He wants me. He wants this. He doesn’t want to say good-bye.
He slams me back onto the table and climbs up on top of me. “You’re never going to forget me,” he informs me, then, using his full weight, drives his cock back inside me. “And I’ll never regret letting you in,” he grunts.
He grits his teeth and quickens his thrusts, pushing my ass into the table every time he bottoms out. Over and over until I’m frantic with need.
“You fit me like a glove.” He slams into me. “Taking my cock like a champ.” His movements are intense, like he’s trying to sink in deeper. “Say you love this. Say you need me too.
“I love . . .” you . . . “this. I need you too.”
“I want to hear you shout my name when you come.” He works our bodies off the table so he’s standing with his hands on my ass and his cock rooting me in place on his body. Without missing a beat, he seats himself inside of me. His muscles flexing beneath me, fucking me with everything he’s got. He lifts me and lets me drop. Lifts and hold still, then releases. Until my orgasm crests up inside of me.
He feels amazing. I’m caught up in his strength, the mere force of his willpower, his beautiful cock. I moan. I’m so turned on, folks in Maine can feel the earth-shattering climax sweeping over me.
“Kylie. Fuck, Kylie,” Jaxson cries out my name, his movement becoming more frantic.
Oh my God. Who’s shouting whose name, huh? Yet I can’t help myself. “Jaxson, oh Jaxson,” I scream. He jerks inside me and I shiver. An endless, mindless shiver that’s got my entire body quivering and lightning bolts going off before my eyes.
He rolls me back onto the table and thrusts one more time. Yeah, for good measure.
I quiver.
He stills.
We settle into each other’s arms with his face pressed into my neck.
For a long time, we lay like that. Enjoying the blissful feeling of the beautiful connection we have.
It’s me who breaks the silence. “How long can you stay?” I ask.
“A few hours at tops. Unlike some of you, Hayden wants me at the Ranch. Penance, for fucking with him.” Jaxson sighs, his breath warming my neck. “Are you okay? That was . . . intense.”
I laugh. “Never been better. You came at the right time. I mean with my mom. Thank you, Jaxson, from the bottom of my heart. Your strength is contagious. Hell, everything about you is contagious. I . . . needed that.”
“Me deep inside you?”
No, dumb ass. For you to admit this thing between us means more to you than mind-blowing sex. But I keep silent, not wanting to ruin the quietness that’s settled inside me. He’ll figure it out, eventually.
I bite my lip, wondering if I should tell him about my decision.
“You know what I’m thinking?” he asks me, drawing his head up so he can look at me.
“If I could read your mind, Jaxson, I’d be the luckiest girl alive.”
He kisses my lips. “If this is good-bye . . .” His eyes flash full of regret.
I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. He’s far too beautiful. Far too special. I don’t think I could ever say good-bye to him. “Then?” I prompt.
He dangles the strip of condoms before my face. “Then, not only will I have a chance of saying it, but I’ll get to say it over and over again.”
And then, he does.