Chapter 34
34
Natalie
“ H e’s just freaked out,” Sonya says, behind me.
I turn, overstuffed plate in hand, to find her holding a similarly packed-to-the-gills selection of Amanda’s international appetizers.
“Preston,” she clarifies. “Quinn was the same way at first. The Hott brothers take a while to—settle down.”
“It’s not like that,” I say. “It’s just—we’re just?—”
My shoulders slump.
She puts a hand on my arm. “Welcome to the club,” she says. “Women whose lives have been turned upside down by Fox Hott, usually known as ‘Granddad’ or ‘my fucking grandfather.’”
I smile.
“Did you know him?”
“A little,” she says. “I liked him. He was a curmudgeon, but his heart was mostly in the right place. Not that you can tell from the amount of chaos he’s wreaked after death. Although I think even Quinn and Shane might grudgingly concede that he’s done more good than harm. So far.” She shrugs. “You may beg to differ.”
I shake my head. “No. I wouldn’t undo meeting Preston and getting to be”—I hesitate, smile wryly—“friends? With him.”
“Honey, I don’t think friends look at you the way that man looks at you. Like he hasn’t eaten for a month and you’re a make-your-own-sundae extravaganza.”
“You caught him at a bad angle,” I say. “He was probably ogling the food table.”
She smiles. “Okay,” she says. “If you say so. And whatever is or isn’t true of you and Preston, I’m glad you’re working at Hott Springs Eternal and I’m glad we’re getting to know you. And I hope you’ll keep hanging out with Ivy and Reggie and me.”
“I’d love to,” I say.
She smiles at me. “Good. Now. Tell me what you need Reggie to do next weekend at the festival, nail-wise.”
“Natalie!”
Preston must have followed me from Hanna’s place to the lodge and caught the elevator behind mine. He jogs down the hall now, lean and athletic and fully at ease in that gorgeous body of his, his face lined with concern.
“Natalie. I’m sorry. I?—”
“No,” I say, cutting him off, waving a hand. “I get it. And you were right. It’s not a happily ever after kind of thing. There was never any expectation that it might be. You weren’t saying anything I wouldn’t have said, too, if they’d put me on the spot like that.”
He opens his mouth, but I’m on a roll, eager to get the words out before he can do something awful, like apologize for leading me on.
“This, us”—I gesture between us—“it’s you getting a chance to finally do what you want to do, just because . On impulse. And I don’t expect more from you than that. I certainly don’t expect happily ever after.”
He’s shaking his head. Hard. “No,” he says. “What I said was harsh. Rude. And I didn’t mean it. My brothers get me riled up, and—look, Natalie, whatever happens next, what’s happened between us so far is…” His gaze holds mine, warm and earnest.
Hope rolls through me, with a sweet kick of adrenaline.
“ Real .”
He reaches out and takes both my hands, wrapping them up so they disappear in the size and strength of his. “It’s real, and it was special to me. It wasn’t following an impulse or scratching an itch. I did what I did—kissed you, touched you—because I like you. A lot. Because I wanted to be closer to you.”
God. His words. That’s a lot of truth from a guy who a couple of weeks ago would barely talk to me. All of me softens, all of me yearns toward him like a flower toward the sun—but I hold myself back because even if all that’s true…
He’s leaving.
I can’t let myself forget it.
“Thank you,” I say quietly. “Me, too. I felt those things and wanted those things, too. But maybe we should—” I sigh, because there’s such a gulf between what I want and what I should want. It’s so hard to make myself be smarter this time around, but I don’t want to find myself in another coffee shop watching a guy I thought loved me gaze into another woman’s eyes like they hold the secrets of the universe. “Maybe we should be realistic about this situation. And, you know, call it quits before—before either of us gets hurt.”
His eyes move over my face, taking me in. Warm and slow and soft. “That would be the smart thing to do, wouldn’t it?” he asks.
I know what he’s asking. He’s asking me to tell him it’s okay for us to be impulsive. To do this because it’s fun, just…because.
But I can’t. I can’t be his just-for-fun girl.
“Yeah,” I say. “And, um, I’d better—if you don’t mind, I need a shower.”
I turn away and wave my door key over the card pad.
The hotel door on its hydraulic hinges takes an interminable amount of time to swing shut behind me. I stand for a moment, waiting for the telltale snick of the thick lock. I want to be left alone so I can shower and cry and lick my wounds.
Now I know the truth I’ve been hiding from myself.
I don’t want him to leave.
Worse, I want him not to want to leave.
The door still hasn’t shut. What’s taking it so long?
There’s a thud behind me.
I turn.
Preston’s there. Arm up over his head, palm flat on the door, bracing it open, lean muscles corded. His expression is stern, like the way he looked the first time I saw him. But he’s wearing a T-shirt and a pair of shorts, and his hair is disheveled from Nerf tag.
He stalks into the room, toward me. My heart picks up, skittish prey under the hunter’s gaze. Then he stops. His expression changes. Not the hunter’s. Something much more uncertain. Agonized, even.
“What?” I ask.
“For fuck’s sake, Natalie,” he says. “I don’t know what the hell I’m doing in here. And I never don’t know what I’m doing. I just?—”
His voice is rough, catching on the words.
“—know I can’t stay away.”
And then the door clicks shut and he’s pressing me against it, kissing me even more breathless than I already am. His big body crowds mine, musky and delicious, the rigid bar of his cock pressing against my hip. A rush of desire floods my belly and core.
This. This is what I want.
Preston scoops me up and carries me into the bathroom. Setting me down, he points a finger at me. “Clothes off.” His tone is bossy, and I like it. So much.
We strip in parallel, and he reaches in and starts the hot water. He climbs in first and holds the curtain back for me. When I step in, he opens his arms and draws me close. His body and the water are hot, and I’m overwhelmed by the rush of sensation. Tears prickle my eyes as I cling to him, and he hugs me right back, tight, like he knows.
He picks up the soap, lathers up a washcloth. His hands on my body are sure and confident, and the perfect intersection of sensual pleasure and being cared for makes my tears prick even harder. I’m glad we’re in the shower and it’s not so obvious that being soaped clean is making me cry. His hands are gentle everywhere he touches, but I still moan when his washcloth-covered palm passes between my legs, and he laughs, a dark chuckle.
He watches as I shampoo my hair, his eyes traveling everywhere, touching my naked body as surely as his hands did. And his gaze makes goose bumps rise, makes my nipples pinch.
“My turn,” he says, low and gruff, so I shampoo his hair, and he groans at the scratch of my fingernails over his scalp, rubbing back against my fingertips like a cat asking for more, more, more. I take the washcloth and soap him, and his face goes soft and vulnerable at the pleasure of being touched and tended to. I want to make him this soft—and also hard and desperate.
The soap washes down the drain. He kisses me, water pouring over both our heads, everything wet and hot, his palm traveling down my body and making me moan again, his fingers slipping into my folds. He growls when he finds me slick there, his mouth greedy against mine as he plays a moment, trailing his fingers in a tease around my clit, then a quick dip into my core that makes my knees buckle. He cranks the water off, grabs a towel, wraps me in it. He ties one around his own waist, then scoops me up and carries me to the bed, where he deposits me. He tugs me to the edge of the mattress and kneels between my thighs.
“God,” he says. “You’re so pretty.” He extends a finger and parts my folds gently, stroking lightly over my clit. I lift my hips for more, and he laughs, that dark chuckle again, promising dirty goodness. He focuses his attention on my clit as my body turns liquid and I shift my hips restlessly.
He lowers his mouth, his tongue replacing his finger, his fingers finding my core, wet and ready for him, and he licks me, small, tight circles, while his fingers slip inside me. They’re long and thick, and he plays, looking for the combination that will make me bow off the bed. When he finds it—tongue circling my clit, two fingers curled into my G-spot—he exploits it relentlessly until I’m coming, helpless, arching, crying out, trying not to pull his hair too hard.
He slowly withdraws his fingers, slides them into his mouth, savoring me, while I watch. “Condoms?” he asks.
I gesture toward the nightstand because I don’t think words are my friend right now. I feel empty and needy, swollen and desperate. His eyes rake appreciatively over my body, and I return the favor because he’s standing next to the bed and his cock is so hard the head is glossy and swollen, a drop of pre-cum rolling over the stretched skin.
“I want that.” I point, and he gives himself a single rough stroke before rolling the condom on.
I wonder if he’s going to tease, make me beg for it, but he doesn’t. He eases himself over me, his thighs between mine, and kisses me. Open and ravenous. I lick into his mouth, trying to show him how wet I am, how much I need him, and he must understand because he groans and settles, that thick cock against the seam of my lips, sliding down, lining up.
“You want this?”
“Yes,” I groan, and then, on the sweetest, deepest kiss, he gives me just the tip. He works me open so patiently that my core clenches around him and I think I might come again just from that. From the stretch and his care.
But I don’t. I tingle and glitter and burn and want as he glides deeper, stretching me more, my body infinitely willing to have him, those inner muscles tightening involuntarily around him, until he’s buried to the hilt. And then he starts moving, slow at first but deep. Thorough. My body is awash in wonder at the sensation of him. He watches my eyes, intent on me, and moves faster, finding a rhythm that makes me gasp and clutch at his shoulders. Then we’re kissing again, the silky slide of our tongues echoing the slick friction of his cock in my core.
Maybe it’s because I just came, maybe it’s because the shower woke up every nerve ending in my body, maybe it’s because he’s so goddamned good at this, his hips hitching up over mine at the end to give me something to rub against, but I can tell I’m going to come fast and hard. I don’t want this to end too soon, but I’m not in control. Not of the rhythm, not of my pleasure, not of the way it feels to have him in my bed, my arms, my mouth, my body. I ache all over with it, and the ache winds itself into a thick knot of urgency. I clutch him closer and kiss him deeper and come all over his cock, a wild, enormous, seismic shattering. He breaks the kiss and buries his face against my neck, his body going rigid, his breath whispering across my skin, hot and desperate as he pulses inside me. “Natalie,” he groans. “Natalie. Natalie. Natalie. Natalie.”
He keeps saying it until it’s only a hoarse whisper.