Every part of him knew that he should turn her down. Knew that they were already well past playing with fire, playing with pain, already wielding far too much power to hurt, even though it was the last thing they wanted to do.
He could tell her all of that, and she’d know he was right.
He should tell her that. Tell her he was sorry, but he couldn’t do something that would hurt them both more in the end. Then walk right out that door, grab Tory’s truck, and drive away. Without looking back.
He did walk out the door. In fact, he might have turned the knob and all but kicked it open. But he picked her up first, wrapped her legs around his waist, and buried his fingers in her hair, taking her mouth again, and again as he headed out. There was no pain-free way to end this, and he wanted her more than his next breath, more than anything he’d ever wanted in his life.
He walked right out the door, not even glancing at the truck. Instead he headed toward the lavender fields, and the stone and log house bathed in moonlight.
Chapter Seven
Chey surprised herself by not having a single second thought as Wyatt carried her—carried her—across the moonlit lawn off the side of the main house, all the way out to her place, her home. It was sweepingly romantic and deeply thrilling, all at the same time. She wanted to swoon, and she wanted to tear his clothes off, in equal measure.
“It’s unlocked,” she said against the warm skin of his neck, the same neck she was presently kissing and biting her way along, as he climbed the steps to the porch. Her lips, tongue, and teeth made their way back to his jaw as he shifted around to open her front door, then carried her inside, closed it, and pressed her back against it a breath later.
Her legs were still wrapped around his waist and she groaned as he pressed fully against her. She’d never known she could ache to the point of physical pain for want of something. Feeling him there, so close, yet not nearly close enough, only stoked the need, deepened the ache. She gasped as he kissed his way along her jaw, down the side of her neck. She tightened her thighs around him, wishing their clothes would just magically disappear so he could push all the way inside her and turn that pain into a rocket burst of pleasure.
“Bedroom,” she managed, as he dragged the collar of her shirt wide. With his teeth.
He took full advantage of the access he now had to the exquisitely sensitive skin at the base of her neck. This was raw, and thrilling, and utterly swamping her with need, but it wasn’t mindless. She knew exactly what she was doing, exactly what she wanted, and where she wanted it. She wanted to feel his weight on top of her, wanted to feel every slow, controlled inch of him entering her for the first time.
She wanted it to be in her bed, where she knew she’d remember him for every single day she lived here going forward. The reality of that was beautiful and awful all at the same time, and she didn’t care. She’d had beautiful and awful plenty in her life; she’d become an expert at learning how to champion the beautiful as a way to vanquish the awful. She had no idea what that would take in this case, or if she had it in her to even try. She did know she wanted more than old memories of Wyatt Reed to keep her company when she was alone at night.
And this felt like a pretty spectacular new memory to hold inside her heart.
“Across the room,” she managed. “Behind you.”
He straightened and slid his arms around her to hold her against him as he turned in the darkened house, with only the light of the moon to guide his way. He was big, his body hard and sinewy, and he carried her easily, confidently . . . and though she was perfectly capable of walking, she wrapped her arms around his neck, tightened her legs around his waist, buried her face in his neck, and let him.
For all the ravenous ways they’d gone after each other from that moment standing on the veranda, all the way across the yard, and up against the front door of her house, when he made it to the side of her bed, he lowered her to it, gently, with great care, and followed her down slowly. Deliberately.
Everything changed then, slowed down. Went from feeding frenzy to exquisitely deliberate and drawn-out discovery. As if he, too, wanted to be able to imprint every single second of this on his memory, to hold it as dear as she already did.
She opened her eyes to find him looking into hers, the silver light casting his face in shadows, his eyes too dark to read clearly.
“Chey,” he said on a hoarse whisper, making the single word sound like both promise and plea.
“Don’t stop,” she said, feeling a momentary clutch of panic that he would change his mind, followed instantly by a stab of shame that she’d even consider putting her needs and desires ahead of his own. Just because she was willing to invite the echoes of this night into her home, to live with and recall forever and ever, amen, did not mean he was. He’d told her as much. She knew what she was doing, had from the moment she’d grabbed hold of him on the veranda. Maybe he was just now swimming back to the surface and realizing he couldn’t risk drowning.
“I don’t want to stop,” he told her, brushing strands of hair from her forehead, looking at her, searching her features as if trying to memorize every detail. “That’s just it,” he said, leaning down to brush his lips against hers, drawing a soft, keening moan from her as she arched up against him. “I don’t ever want to stop,” he murmured against her lips.
He shifted his weight more fully on top of her, and he felt so very, very good. All of him, every part, filled her aching, rampaging, seemingly unfulfillable need. He touched her how she wanted to be touched, kissed her like he had known and understood the contours of her mouth forever, and knew just how to take it with his own. He was deliberate, assertive, and invited the same from her as they unbuttoned, unzipped, pulled off, peeled off, every last stitch of clothing.
She almost screamed with pleasure when he pulled her back under him and she felt the warmth of his bare skin touching all of hers. Just that alone was exquisite relief. He took her mouth like a man starved, accepting her equal hunger with deep growls of approval. Then, turning on a dime, he was gentle, and unbearably sweet, and made her throat tighten with unshed tears as he slowly made love to every single part of her like it was both a promise, and a benediction.
He was old Wyatt and new Wyatt, kissing his way down her body and settling between her thighs like a man on a very determined mission, confident he knew exactly what he planned to do when he got there. Then just before his tongue found her sweetest of spots, he slid one hand up, found hers and wove their fingers together, holding on as he took her, shuddering, shattering, over the edge.
No other words were spoken. They did all their communicating with touch, taste, and long, lingering, soul deep gazes. He took his time, rolling on a condom, inviting her to watch, then pulled her across his lap, to straddle him as he slid his hands into her hair, cupped her face and brought her mouth to his once more, somehow managing to take her, even while she was the one who slowly, deliberately, sank down onto him. Her head instantly dropped back, a low moan keening deep from inside her as he filled her, so utterly, and she couldn’t keep from moving on him. He held her hips and took full advantage of the position, and her breasts, right there, at tongue level.
She wanted to slow it down, wanted to catalogue all the moments, everything he was making her feel, but it was too much, so much, all at once, and she gave in and let herself simply slide under the tidal wave of sensations.