Then my upper arm was seized in a firm grip.
I was hauled across the space and my pajama pants were at my ankles.
My panties joined them.
My ass hit the counter between the sinks.
Bohannan hit his knees.
I guessed I’d had one kind of kiss that day and Bohannan was intent to run the gamut, because with no further ado, he spread my thighs and buried his face between my legs.
I was never allowing him to shave off his beard.
Never.
I lifted a bent arm over my shoulder, palm on the mirror, my other hand I clenched in his hair.
I came for him within seconds.
It was catastrophic.
I was not even remotely recovered before I was on my feet, whirled, one of his arms around my belly, holding me up.
He kicked my feet apart with one of his, wrapped his other arm around my chest, and I watched dazedly in the mirror as he drove up inside me.
I also watched as he buried his face in my neck as he fucked me.
The familiar intimacy of his whiskers at my neck and the newfound joy of his big cock thrusting inside collided in a way so profound, I shattered.
I wasn’t Delphine.
I wasn’t Larue.
I wasn’t a writer.
A mother.
An ex.
A woman.
I was a body.
A cunt born to be fucked.
By that cock.
His face came out of my neck, his eyes locked to mine in the mirror, his hand slid down my belly to curl between my legs, and he worked my clit as he fucked me.
His face in sex was an aphrodisiac. Brutish and barbarous.
We stared at each other as we stumbled back millennia. We didn’t know language. We didn’t know culture. We didn’t know manners. There were no rules.
There was instinct.
This wasn’t sex.
It was a rut, natural, evolutionary.
We were born to connect like this.
His finger wouldn’t be denied, his dick couldn’t be, my head flew back, colliding with his shoulder, and his hand at my chest covered my mouth, lightly, to muffle any noise, but there was something delectably villainous about it.
So when I came again, and it was going to be huge, I came, and it was colossal.
There was a cry, but what was happening between my legs was too much for it to be loud.
Mostly it was a gasp. A need. A need to pull in oxygen as everything that made me isolated between my legs, and I temporarily forgot how to breathe.
I clutched him with my pussy, he grunted, then, face back in my neck, cock buried to the root, he growled into my flesh.
Another three years passed as I clung to what we just shared, emotionally and physically.
“Shit,” he muttered against my skin. His lips slid up to my ear. “I hurt you?”
“Not even close.”
His mouth still at my ear, his head tipped slightly so he could look from under his brow into my eyes in the mirror.
God, he was pure fucking sex.
How did I survive without having this with him for two months?
He curled his fingers around my throat.
“That wasn’t what I wanted for us,” he told me.
“I’m not complaining.” A beat of concern, nerves, then, “Are you?”
“Baby, that was the hottest fuck I’ve ever had,” he said. I lost his eyes, and he licked the shell of my ear before he whispered in it. “And I like to fuck. It’s been a while. But for the record, my bed is a playground.” Pause then, “Anything goes. You want it. You ask for it. And I’ll give it to you.”
That was quite a promise.
I shivered.
From the other room, his phone rang.
He lifted his head and said to me in the mirror, “Goddamn fuck.”
I seconded that emotion.
He then slid out, fixed his pajama bottoms, knelt to help me step into my panties, which he pulled up, then my pajamas, and he stood.
“Be back,” he muttered, touched his mouth to mine and stalked out of the room.
I watched.
Full report?
He had an insanely beautiful back.
I allowed myself a second (okay, it took ten, but it could have taken a year) to reflect on how wholly beautiful what we’d just shared was.
Then I went to the little toilet room to do some clean up.
I came back out, he wasn’t there, so I washed my hands and wandered into the bedroom.
I was still in a daze, part of me happy we waited, thinking that might have built the need, which was what made what we shared so elemental, part of me ecstatic because I knew that wasn’t true.
That was us, and it might not be that intense every single time.
But it was going to be great.
Coupled with the rest?
Suffice it to say, I’d waited fifty-three years.
But in Cade Hunter Bohannan, I’d hit the motherlode.
On this thought, it struck me he wasn’t in the bedroom.
And on that thought, he prowled in from the hall.
“What were you—?” I began to ask.
“Checking on Celeste. Fortunately, she didn’t do anything stupid,” he bit off, walking directly to his closet.
Hesitantly, I followed him.
He was dressing.
“Bohannan, what’s going on?”
“Scared parents, an incompetent sheriff and defiant kids aren’t a good mix,” he muttered.
Ah hell.
As he did up his jeans, he looked at me.
“I gotta get to the woods.”
Thirty-Nine
Abundance of Caution
There were many bonuses to living in Misted Pines and being with Cade Bohannan.
One was, after he got home from dealing with the clusterfuck that happened in the woods, he worked off his frustration by fucking you so hard facedown into the bed, if you could think (and trust me, you couldn’t, but you also didn’t want to, you just wanted to feel), you’d worry that he’d have to buy a new mattress because there would be an indelible female-shaped dent in the springs.
And two, when you showed at the hustling, droning, riled, crowded meeting in the town council chambers the next evening, even though it was standing room only, five people would exit their chairs so Bohannan and his family could be seated.
This begged a question I had not thought to ask.
Why was Bohannan such a force in that town?
It couldn’t be denied him being ex-Green Beret, ex-FBI and an expert, and even famous, profiler was cool. And I would suspect, in a small, and what seemed until recently had been a sleepy town, this would lead to him being a favorite son.
From this, I could see the local townspeople wanting a man of his experience to replace an ineffective sheriff. I could also see them wanting him to be involved in a highly charged, highly emotional set of murders.
But people scrambling to give up their seats for him and his family took that to a new level.
He accepted two men’s seats and planted Celeste’s and my asses in them.
He indicated in a way no one would deny him that the women who got up should sit their asses back down, so they did.
Then he, Jess and Jace found a spot on the wall closer to the front and claimed it, assuming identical arms-on-chests, shoulders-to-wall, scowls-on-faces positions.
Yeah, the woods thing last night was not a clusterfuck.
It was a clusterfuck.
A shots-fired, thank-God-no-one-was-hurt, deputy-on-administrative-leave clusterfuck.