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In this suspended slice of time, in Texas’ arms, I am home. Our bodies are entwined in an intimate embrace, the warmth between us defying the chill of the evening air.
His thumb brushes my cheek, a tender gesture that belies the strength in his calloused hands. “All those years on the road, I never found a place that felt like this... like home.”
“Home is more than a place, isn’t it?” I whisper back, my fingertips tracing the patches on his leather jacket. “It’s about who you’re with.”
We move together, a cascade of urgent motions—hands roaming, lips searching, hearts pounding. The bridge creaks under our synchronized symphony.
“Jane,” he gasps, his breath hot against my ear, “I never want to let you go.”
“Then don’t,” I respond, my voice steady even as my insides quake with the intensity of my emotions.
CHAPTER 4
TEX
The roar of my bike dies as I cut the engine, and for a moment, there’s only the sound of our heavy breaths in the cool night air.
“Home sweet home,” Jane whispers.
“Sweet indeed,” I drawl.
My hand finds hers and we dismount my bike. We’re close now, so close the heat from her body mingles with mine.
We stumble up the pathway to her door, our lips locked in a battle of passion and need. Jane’s back hits the wooden door with a thud, and she gasps, not from pain but from the electricity zipping through our veins. Her hands are on me, small and sure, roaming over the muscles she’s claimed as her territory.
“God, Jane,” I murmur, and she melts further into me.
The thought crosses my mind that I should be cautious, guarded. But around Jane, all those walls come tumbling down. She twists around, fumbling with the keys in an effort to unlock the door, while my fingers brush lower, igniting a different kind of spark within me. A moan escapes her as my fingers brush her most intimate area.
“Need help?” I tease, my breath hot on her ear, and she nods dumbly.
The lock clicks open. “Inside.” Jane’s voice is a ragged whisper filled with yearning. “Now.”
The cool night air is immediately forgotten as we cross the threshold, our bodies colliding with an urgency that transcends words. A passionate cry escapes Jane as she kicks off her shoes, and my boots thud to the floor. I slam the door shut with a force that echoes through the sparse silence of Jane’s living room.
“Jane...” My voice is rough, laced with desire.
With hurried movements I peel away my clothes, fingers deft and eager.
“Tex,” she breathes out, tugging at my shirt.
The fabric parts from my skin, revealing the inked canvas of my muscular torso.
We’re shedding layers, leaving a trail of denim and leather in our wake. Her house feels too quiet, too bare, with walls stripped of memories. No photographs hang in their frames; no laughter lives in these rooms. It’s not a home; it’s just a house—a shelter from storms past.
“Didn’t take you for a minimalist,” I joke.
Jane has surrounded herself with the void where warmth should be.
“Never had much to hold onto,” she admits, and my heart skips a beat under her gaze. “Things... they come and go.”
“Like people?” My question is gentle, probing beneath the surface with care.
“Especially like people,” Jane confesses.
“Then let’s make some new memories.”
Jane leads me to her bedroom. Our movements are frenzied now, a dance of need that propels us forward, driven by a hunger that’s as much about connection as it is about release.
