After my phone call with the sergeant, I call my mom. She’s a mess and I feel like such a dick for not being there for her. Deacon was like another son to her. Of course, his suicide is going to affect her like it has everyone else. Mom tells me she is going to Uber over to the Winslow’s because she doesn’t trust her driving. I offer to take her later, but she had already spoken with DeAnne and wants to be with her friend. There is no stopping my mom, so I let her know I will see her there later.
Leaving Dexter out back to run around for a while, I head back inside. There’s a feral cat that comes around and they seem to get along, so at least I know he’ll have a buddy to play with for a bit.
Britney has cleared away the glasses and what was left of the Blanton’s from the coffee table and is nowhere in sight, so I start a pot of coffee and shuffle down the hall. I need to pee, brush my teeth, and take a shower—in that order.
When I enter my bedroom, Britney is curled up in the fetal position on my bed, sound asleep. I quickly do my morning routine, and when I exit the bathroom, I’m glad to find her still on my bed. Pulling the comforter and sheet back, I pick her up and gently move her over so I can slide in behind her and cover us both.
Britney rolls over in my arms and we’re face to face. Her minty breath flutters across my lips. She then inhales deeply and hums as she exhales.
“You smell nice, Kade Beaumont.”
“Thank you,” I whisper back.
Britney’s plump lips are there for the taking, but I don’t move. I’m rethinking my decision to crawl into bed with her. My mind is telling me that this is fucked up on so many levels. We both just lost someone we love. Making out or sex shouldn’t even be the radar for either of us, especially since her brother would turn over in his grave or come back to haunt me if I sleep with Britney.
It’s as if she senses my unease, because as soon as I start to pull back, Britney’s hands slide up between us, stopping at my jawline. Her lips lock onto mine, and she doesn’t let go. Her lips are warm and soft, just as I remember, and even though I’m enjoying every second of this, my inner voice is yelling at me to stop whatever is about to happen, but my “I love her” voice is yelling louder. How can this feel so right and so wrong at the same time? Lord, help me.
Using my body, I roll Britney onto her back, covering her fit curvy frame with my muscular physique. My hips settle between her legs, never losing connection throughout the transition. Only thin layers of clothing acts as a barrier between us, and I’m okay with that. What’s happening now doesn’t need to go beyond the intimate connection we have, but my beautiful Britney has a different agenda.
Britney’s mouth breaks from mine, leaving me craving for more. She peppers my jawline with light feathery kisses, staying on course to my neck. Britney replaces her lips with the tip of her tongue, languidly drawing small circles softly down the sensitive flesh, stopping to the crook of my neck, where she takes a nibble. Her soft touch is a direct line to my dick, and the more she nibbles, the harder I get.
Her eyes open and the bright green gems are breathtaking. There’s no unease or awkwardness between us. It feels as though we’re baring our souls to one another, opening our hearts to one another for the first time without having to say a word. Ever since my mom flipped the imaginary switch, the love I feel for this woman has only grown stronger. What makes what is happening feel right is my love is being reciprocated through her gaze, her touch, her kiss. Brit’s love is as clear as the waters of the Indian Ocean near the Maldives. Only a fool would walk away from the woman who holds the key to his heart and happiness, and I’m no fool. Or am I?
Britney’s fingertips skim down my back, stopping at my hips. She tilts her hips just enough so I can feel the heat between her legs rub against my throbbing cock. It’s been months since I’ve had sex, and as bad as I want her, I know we shouldn’t have sex during our time of grieving. But Britney isn’t doing anything to slow down.
She slides on hand between our bodies over the front of my boxer briefs, and down to my balls, gripping them hard enough that I damn near come right then. Britney then drags her hand up the length of my shaft before dipping under the waistline of my underwear to stroke my cock, flesh on flesh.
“Fuck me,” I groan.
“I plan to,” she whispers by my ear. She pushes me up and over, so I’m lying on my back. Britney wastes no time climbing into a straddle position. She looks down at me and finally pauses. “Kade?”
“It’s okay, Brit. We don’t—”
“I love you,” Britney blurts out. “I have always loved you,” she admits, her tone less erratic than before. “I know my brother made you keep a promise, but I’m putting myself out there for you.”
“Britney, I—”
“Don’t. Please don’t say anything. I want you. I need you. I need this.” She gestures between the two of us. “I need to feel like I’m still alive.”
I sit up quickly, so we’re face to face. Britney’s hands lock behind my neck while her legs snake around my waist. I rest my hands on the bare skin of her thighs. My internal struggle is real, and the guilt I’m feeling almost has me leaping from the bed and apologizing to her that I can’t do this, but I stay. More than ever before, I want to show her, not tell her that I love her too. Part of us died with Deacon, but I want to give her what she’s asking for—to feel alive. Because as selfish as it sounds, I need to feel alive too.
29
Britney
Leaning in, I press my lips to Kade’s, taking the lead once again. Our lips part, giving our tongues room to glide against one another in a sensual, rhythmic motion. My body feels like it’s on fire and ready to combust at any moment. The deeper, more passionate Kade’s kiss becomes, the more my arousal dampens the boxer briefs he let me borrow.
I reach down, grab the hem of his shirt, and pull it up and over his head, throwing it over the side of the bed. I’ve seen Kade shirtless many times before, but this isn’t like those times. This time, I don’t have to use my imagination to know how his body feels or how it reacts when I begin to explore. Each well-defined muscle flexes at the slightest touch of my fingers. I watch his biceps bulge, his pectorals rise and swell up, and his abs tighten. Goosebumps freckle his chiseled body as I drag my nails across his rib cage, around to his back, and up his spine. My hands come to rest on his broad shoulders.
My attention drops down to a shiny object on Kade’s chest. It’s been so long that I forgot he has a small barbell nipple piercing. Deacon told me all about their drunken Cabo adventure after they graduated high school. Unlike Kade, Deacon didn’t come back with a body part pierced. Instead, he returned with an old school tattoo with “Mom” written on a banner through the middle of a heart proudly displayed on his shoulder, all because of a bet.
Deacon bet that Kade would be too chicken to get something—anything—pierced. He said if he did, that he would let Kade pick out a tattoo. Sometimes my brother was not the sharpest tool in the shed, and he got lucky with the tattoo Kade settled on. Kade told me he originally was going to have my brother get a tattoo of a dick on his lower back, but took pity on a drunk Deacon.