She nods eagerly, somewhere between forgetting her name and begging for release.
The pressure in my back begins to rise. I go to pull out, but she squeezes around me tighter, hand lashing out to wrap around my head. Her fingers run through my hair, tugging. “Don’t.” Whitney bites out. “Don’t.”
I swallow, threading my fingers at the base of her scalp, brushing my lips over hers as I ask, “You’re sure?”
“Yes.” She nods eagerly, and then surprises me when she kisses mefirst. I drive up one last time, sharp and deliberate. Whitney comes with a soft gasp, eyes locked on mine. That pressure in my spine finally snaps, white hot and violent. I come with a shudder, filling her up, and up, and up, until it’s dripping down both of our thighs. Heat floods from her core, wave after wave until she’s slumped against my chest.
“Where doyou think you’re going?” My voice makes Whitney jump, hands pausing on the clothes littering my bedroom floor. I left the room to use the bathroom, and she’s already trying to sneak out. She straightens, covering herself with crossed arms.
“I didn’t think you’d want me to sleep in here,” she says, unsure.
My brows raise, and I shake my head, nodding towards the top of the bed. “Nah, Winnie. Get back over there. I’m not done with you yet.”
Surprisingly, she listens. No debate or sass, she just crawls back into the bed, getting herself comfortable across the pillows lining the top. I turn my back to open one of the drawers, pulling out a black T-shirt. I make my way towards her and she rolls her eyes and sits up, seeing my intentions.
“I have my own clothes.” I sit in front of her on the bed, stretching the head of the shirt. She lifts her arms, and I drop the fabric over them. “I know,” I respond. “But you look really fucking good in mine.”
I grab one of her ankles, pulling it into my lap. My thumbs work gentle circles over the arch of her foot, easing the tension and drawing a soft gasp from her mouth. Her shoulders slump, and she tilts her head back. “Ugh—that might be better than the sex.”
I shoot her a glare, tugging up her foot and go to take a bite out of her big toe. She shrieks, tugging her foot away, and my laugh booms in the air. I pull it back to me, going back to working on her feet. Slowly work up to her calves. Maybe I just want to touch her again. But the knots in her muscles tells me she needs the touch as much as I do. I study her features as my hands work, the way her body and face begin to relax. I decide here and now that I like the sight of Whitney in my bed. “You’re beautiful.” I let the compliment hang in the air between us.
Whitney tenses. “Not anymore.” It’s a breathless whisper. And the way it slips from her lips–unsure, pained, and insecure–wraps around my heart like a vice. She says it so quickly that it must have not even been a thought. Because she believes it, truly believes it. I hate that.
“Is that what you think?” I mumble, hands pausing on her skin, giving my full attention to her. She nods. I scan her head to toe, mulling over her words. Then, I reach forward to wrap my hands around the back of her knees and tug her toward me. When she’s close enough, I rearrange our position so that she’s sitting in my lap with her thighs on either side of my hips. I brush her long, unbound hair back, planting a tender kiss between her collarbone and shoulder. “Every inch of you is beautiful, Whitney. And I don’t mean just your hips, your curves, or how perfectly you fit in my hands.”
“It’s your eyes.” I whisper, running a finger across her brow. “It’s your lips.” I capture them in a quick kiss. “Like this?” I ask, drawing back and thumbing the small, velvet dot just above her lip. “I love this beauty mark. The way it stretches when you smile.” A finger across her pink lips. “The way your nose scrunches when you’re deep in thought.” Another one down her nose. Emotion pools in her hazel eyes, but she doesn’t speak, only watches me.
I trail the back of my hand across the tops of her breasts, and down to her bare stomach, where my shirt is slid hallway up. It’s not sexual, and it’s not meant to be. I trace the thin, pale lines there. The reminders of everything she’s done, and everything that she is. “And these? These scars? They’re breathtaking.” I plant a kiss on each and every one I see. “They’reyou, and they’reBrinley.” When I come back to her face, and brush against her nose, I lay a gentle hand on her chin, hoping she sees and feels the truth in it. “I’d say that’s pretty damn beautiful.”
“Thank you.” Her bottom lip quivers, hot breath fanning across my chin. I wish I could pluck the growing tears from her eyes and burn them.
I clear my throat. “Why are you thanking me?”
“Because no one’s ever cared for me like you do.”
It enrages me that it’s true. That everyone in her life, her father, her mother, her ex, have done nothing but be a burden on this woman’s shoulders. I promised myself I wouldn’t be that for her. That I’ll be the last and only one to care for her. I’d lay the world at her feet, and she didn’t even have to ask.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
WHITNEY
Why is it that as a mom, I beg for a little alone time, but the second I get any, I want to rip my hair out?
Wyatt left on his mysterious trip this morning. And Ana asked for an overnight so that I could, quote on quote, “have a little husband and baby free time.”
The only problem with that? I don’t know what the fuck to do. There’s an open yoga session tomorrow, so I plan on doing that with a morning free, but that left me with jack-shit to do for the rest of the day today. I already did all the laundry, scrubbed down every crack and crevice in the house until it was squeaky clean. My work chores are done for the day. Wyatt’s men have been checked on. I spent a couple hours in Maggie’s stall, we did some exercise, and got her comfortable with wearing the saddle. I finished my book earlier, and now I'm stuck in a slump so hard I can’t bring myself to pick another one up.
My phone dings as I finish making myself a third cup of coffee. I pick the cell up from the counter.
Wyatt
How’s it going? Miss me yet?
I scrubbed the toilet six times just for fun.
I don’t think I know how to relax anymore.
I send the last text, slumping in one of the chairs at the kitchen island. I watch as bubbles pop up, and disappear, and pop up again.Andthen disappear again. I roll my eyes and stop checking for a response after twenty minutes. He’s probably busy.
