Grace.
It hits harder than a right hook.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
DELLA
I pace the house, back and forth, while he’s gone. There’s no food, but I saw a gas station with an attached market on the way in. My stomach growls, and I know he’ll be hungry when he gets back. So, I leave, even though I know Jensen told me not to. But it’s a short walk, and I don’t see anyone but the clerk.
There, I get some groceries. On the way back, I pass a farmstand and pick up some vegetables. They even have meat in a cooler in the back of their truck. I buy some cracklings and chicken, still half frozen, and lug it all back up the winding driveway.
The house is quiet as I unload my groceries and start cooking. It reminds me a lot of where I grew up. Simple, neat, with a pretty view out the window. The only unsettling thing is the pistol Jensen left by the stove.
Everything is so quiet. I turn on the radio and make cracklin’ bread and chicken soup. It brings me right back to all those nights spent cooking in the kitchen while I was pregnant with Landis.
In retrospect, I’m not sure all that cooking was about anything more than trying to pull back a little bit of control. Tonight feels the way it did back then. I didn’t realize how much I needed the comfort of familiar food.
The sun creeps towards the horizon, but he doesn’t appear. Worried, I eat alone and set a plate in the microwave for him. He’s still not back when it gets dark, so I go out and feed the horses in the barn and lock it up. Then, I climb the ladder to the loft and lay down, staring at the peaked ceiling.
Is he alright?
Surely, he didn’t abandon me out here.
My stomach churns. Rolling onto my side, I close my eyes tight. It takes a while, but slowly, I slip away, only to be jerked awake a minute later by the front door opening.
Heart thumping, I listen. I’m attuned to the footsteps of men, and I know instantly it’s Jensen.
Thank God.
I hear him move around downstairs. Then, his weight creaks the loft ladder. I see him in silhouette against the window as he unbuckles his belt. He looks so damn good, windswept and a little sweaty. The ache that only he ignites is back. He pulls his shirt up, revealing that trail of hair that goes down to his waistband.
Then, he comes to the edge of the bed.
“You awake?” His voice is a rasp.
I push myself up, shifting over. “Yeah. There’s cornbread and soup in the microwave.”
He leans over me, hand wrapping around my throat. For a split second, I think he’s angry, and my heart speeds up. Then, his mouth meets mine, open and starving.
I inhale, tasting bourbon on his breath, but he’s not drunk. I can tell by how deftly he picks me up and sinks against the headboard, upright.
I’m in his lap, thighs around his waist—the position he said made him claustrophobic. I’m so tensed up, I know he can feel it. He hits the bedside lamp, and it turns on, a pale yellow glow across the side of his face.
I freeze. His eyes are dark—so dark, they pull me into his undertow.
“Are you alright?” I whisper.
Heshakes his head, hand slipping under my panties, grazing my pussy before tearing through the fabric. I gasp as he pulls my t-shirt up and tosses it behind us. His hands, rough in the way Leland’s never were, cup my breasts.
His skin is hot to the touch, like he’s been in the sun, and he smells of worn out deodorant and sweat. I didn’t think that could smell good, but it must be all the pheromones mixed in, because it has me aching for him.
“Put me inside you,” he says hoarsely.
I hesitate. He grips my hip, and I reach between us, taking the hard, heavy length of him and guiding it inside my body. He grimaces, muscle in his jaw twitching. I bite my lip, but a whimper works out. Our bodies ease together until we’re joined.
I feel him, the blood pumping through him, deep inside.
Thump.
