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And I’m screaming, okay?
I hope to all that’s holy neither Bruce nor the girls can hear us.
The third and final layer to my beautiful destruction is the grin on Grady’s face.
Even if his mouth is still eating me for breakfast, lunch, and supper, I know I can feel it.
He’s freaking euphoric that he’s brought me such incredible strike-me-down pleasure, at least two or three minutes of slow burning inferno that totally empties me out.
As if Mother Nature wants in on the fun, there’s a loud clap of thunder.
I open my eyes to the house shaking, wondering how long the storm kicked back up while we’ve been blissfully occupied.
It’s a miracle I’m still on my feet by the end of it, and only because he had the good sense to pin me against the nearest wall, hands braced on his shoulders.
I’m panting for dear life as he rises, kisses my lips, and whispers, “Stay right here and take a breather. I’ll be right back.”
I run a finger along his jaw.
“Don’t be long.”
“Nah,” he whispers, shoving his forehead against mine. “Gonna be inside you real soon, Willow Wisp.”
“I can’t wait,” I whimper back, loving how he holds me in his arms.
Then with a parting kiss, just to let him know I’m serious, I watch him smile over his shoulder as he stalks up the stairs on a mission.
12
Here, Kitty, Kitty (Grady)
I’m damn near shaking at the superhuman effort it took to hold back till I’d turned Willow Macklin into a shaking hot mess of soft moans and delights.
The thought of doing it again, bringing her off harder while I pound us both to paradise, is fucking exhilarating.
I take both flights of steps to my room three at a time.
Thank God Faulk gave me a fairly new box of rubbers as a joke last Christmas.
Being newly happily married, his smart-ass now thinks a sweet woman and a lot of nookie is every man’s answer to the good life.
I’m not ready for the woman part, but as for the nookie, it’s game-fucking-on.
I’d given him nothing but shit over it at the time, but now, I could hug the man till he chokes.
Yeah, I’d damn near lost it in the laundry room when she first suggested sex.
That was right after I’d seen through her summer dress and realized she hadn’t been wearing anything except a little pair of cotton panties. They were pink.
I’d found that out downstairs and loved shearing them off her as much as I adored everything else.
The condoms are in my bathroom, tucked in the back of the closet where not even Aunt Faye would have ever looked. I sure as hell don’t need that embarrassment.
Darting into my room, I almost hit the light switch, but pause when I realize it should be dark before I turn it on.
The light is wrong.
The yard light doesn’t shine in this window at that angle.
What the hell?
Leaving the room light off, I walk over and look out the window.
Damn.
The storm must’ve gotten worse again while we were busy.
The light pole in the yard looks like it’s been snapped in half. The light hangs on only by the electrical line running to it.
Shit.
I can’t leave it like that; it’s a hazard. I’ll have to at least run outside and kill the power to it so we don’t risk any bigger disasters.
Just my goddamn luck.
No sweet fuckery for more years than I care to count, and here I run smack into a mess before we can do the deed.
Still, another ten minutes won’t kill me, even if it makes me see red.
I stomp back downstairs, without the condoms, and throw on my shoes before running out the front door. At least it’s no longer raining.
The thunder booms from the other direction like distant artillery now.
Looks like we’ve had a blast of straight-line winds though. The yard light pole is cut clean through the middle, while a stray shovel leaned against the shed is still standing up.
That’s not unusual.
Straight-line winds in these parts can take out a whole building and leave the mailbox next to it completely untouched.
All part of the charm of summers in flyover country.
Leaping down the steps, I jog toward the pole shed, where I’ll find the junction box for the yard light so I can turn off the transformer. Halfway there, a creak, then a clanging noise make me turn around.
Holy frigging balls.
My heart claws at my throat when I see what’s happened to the barn.
The front sliding door is flapping in the breeze like a metal lid half torn off a can at an odd angle, still attached by only one roller. The track looks flayed away from the main building, hanging down over the opening.
I can see inside the lit building, and a few steps later, the stock trailer.
No movement.
No silhouettes in the darkness.
