Sweet Cherry Cove: The Complete Series

Faith

In all the years I’ve known him, Andre has always seemed irritatingly well rested. He’s a beautiful man who glows with good health—usually.

This morning, as he thumps on my front door at the crack of dawn, I pull it open to find him rumpled and scowling. The shadows under his eyes from yesterday are even darker, and his dark hair is tied back, messy strands coming loose. His jeans and black t-shirt are creased.

“Wow.” I step back and wave him inside, and my voice sounds so casual. Not at all like I’m about to explode out of my skin with nerves. “You really need your beauty sleep, huh?”

The sour look Andre gives me makes my tummy flip. “It’s tomorrow. The sun has officially risen.” He jerks a thumb at the blood red line on the horizon behind him; the blush pink sky and wisps of cloud.

Did he stand out there all night waiting for the first sliver of sunrise? No, he’s changed his clothes, and his hair looks damp. He smells like shampoo.

“I couldn’t sleep either,” I blurt.

It’s true. As soon as we hung up last night, I tossed and turned for hours, replaying our conversation over and over in my head, half afraid that I hallucinated the whole thing. But here he is—here we are.

Alone.

“Should I—”

“Could we—”

We both break off with weak smiles, and god. Is hooking up always this awkward? We’re both hovering on the hallway tiles, hands loose at our sides.

But then: “Faith,” Andre says, and he says my name with such reverence that happy little tingles buzz through my veins. His arms spread wide, and I step into them without a second thought.

It’s bone-deep instinct to me: when Andre is near, I must get closer.

“Have you thought about this? About us?” he asks, the words pressed against my hair.

With my neighbor’s arms wrapped around me tight, I’m so safe and warm. So treasured. Is this really happening? It’s everything I dreamed it would be.

“I’m sure,” I say, my words muffled against Andre’s neck.

There’s a beat of silence, his arms squeezing tight—then all the tension drains out of him in one gusting breath. “Thank god for that.”

In the space between heartbeats, a switch is flipped. Andre goes from cautious and hesitant, handling me like glass, to a powerful, confident man. One hand grips my hair and tugs my head back; the other squeezes my ass like he owns it.

“Oh!” I squeak.

Wish I’d be cooler about this, but I’ve never been manhandled, okay? I didn’t expect the rush of heat, or this bubbly, happy feeling.

Will he squeeze my ass again? Maybe slap it? Tug on my hair and palm my breasts? God, I’ve pictured sex with this man in every position and scenario, but I didn’t realize I’d want to be his pretty little plaything. We’re two seconds in and already I want to sink to my knees and worship my gorgeous older neighbor.

“Faith,” Andre says, dragging his lips along my throat. He nibbles at the flushed skin, dragging my body against his. The hand in my hair twists the strands, and the sting makes me gasp. “You’re so perfect. So sweet and pretty. Did you know that?”

I do now.

“So you like what you feel?”

Andre growls and tugs my head all the way back, scowls down at me in his arms—then kisses me so hard and filthy that the hallway spins.

The rasp of stubble. The nip of teeth, and the hot slide of his tongue. The sturdiness of his toned chest and the heat of him through his cotton t-shirt, and that spicy, woodsy scent all around me.

Want to remember every detail. Want to commit this kiss to memory—but I can’t focus, not with Andre’s mouth moving against mine, devouring me like he’s wanted this as badly as I have.

Heat twists low in my belly, the steady ache there becoming sharper. Needier. I whimper and rub against him.

“Jesus,” Andre says, tearing his mouth away from mine. He’s breathing hard, and his pupils are blown. A faint flush colors his cheekbones. “This is moving fast, sweetheart.”

Four years doesn’t feel fast to me. It feels like freaking torture.

And a not-so-small part of me fears that if we slow down, if we stop, the haze will clear and Andre will go back to questioning everything. Who knows? This may be my only shot.

“C’mon, neighbor. Act first…” My palms run down his chest, his toned abs, down the warmth scorching through his t-shirt—and settle on the top button of his jeans. “Think later.”

“Did Stephen teach you that catchphrase?” Andre asks, voice strained. But he doesn’t bat my hands away; doesn’t stop me from flicking his button open and tugging down the zipper, and I go slowly enough that he has a dozen chances to tell me no.

God knows this man has had plenty of practice at turning me down. He could write a book on it. And as a surge of bitterness washes through me, unexpected but strong enough to blister my insides, Andre pauses at my sudden scowl.

“Faith? What is it?”

I reach for the opening in his jeans, but he grabs my wrist. “Nothing,” I grumble, because the last thing I want to do this morning is talk about my deep seated fear of abandonment—nor the hot lump of anger lodged in my belly. Nope, don’t want to think about those things at all.

So Andre took a while to come around. He’s here, isn’t he?

So why am I so freaking angry all of a sudden?

I want him here. I spent the whole night pacing round and round in my bedroom, tugging on my hair, longing for this man, praying that he’d come, and when he kissed me a few moments ago… it felt like I might float up to the sky.

But now I’ve gone all prickly. What the hell?

Sometimes I really wish I understood myself better. Dear Hattie would know what’s going on in my bat-shit brain.

“You’re angry,” Andre says, reading me so easily. Like always. “At me? For kissing you?”

Miserable, I shake my head. That’s the last thing I’m mad at him about—hell, it’s the only thing that’s gone right between us.

And look, I know that I’m handling this terribly. Know that I’m probably throwing my single chance with this man away—but there’s a siren blaring in the back of my brain, and all my instincts are yelling: DANGER!

Because what if he changes his mind?

What if Andre kisses me, and touches me, and gives me a taste of how amazing things would be with him… then takes it away? What if he decides I really am too young and inexperienced for him after all?

It’s not like I have any sexual prowess to rely on. I have no signature moves to make this encounter good. And he already thinks I’m too young for him, so when he realizes he’s popping my cherry too, that I’m gonna be clumsy and terrible on my first time, there’s no way—

“Faith, sweetheart.” He rebuttons his jeans. Two warm hands cup the sides of my face, tilting my head up to look at him, and steady brown eyes hold mine. “You’re spiraling. Tell me where I went wrong, please. I can’t bear this.”

He can’t?

…Oh.

No, he really can’t. If Andre seemed worn thin when he knocked on my door this morning, right now… he’s wrecked. Staring down at me, forehead creased, like he’s ready to throw himself on the nearest pyre if it means I’ll be happy again. Already blaming himself for the meltdown happening in my brain.

“I’m just…” Wetting my lips, I grip Andre’s forearms to anchor myself. They’re toned and warm and dusted with dark hair, and this is a side note: Andre has very handsome wrists. Sturdy as iron. “I feel…”

He stares down at me, expression bleak. And I’m torturing him with my non-answer, I know I am, but I can’t find the words to say how I feel. Sure, I can write an anonymous stranger a whole letter pouring out my heart and soul, but when it comes to someone in my real life… I never confess this stuff.

But maybe I can show him.

Lunging forward, I kiss him on the mouth—hard. It’s a bruising kiss, desperate and angry, and I nip his bottom lip before pulling away.

Andre blinks. His chest rises and falls, and his eyes rove over my mouth, my throat, the wafer-thin white vest top and patterned PJ shorts I slept in—but he keeps himself in check.

“What was that?” my neighbor rasps.

“An angry kiss.” As soon as I say the words out loud, I bite my lip against a reluctant smile. It’s so ridiculous, but now that it’s out there—I feel lighter already.

Dear Hattie’s always telling people in her column that they need to express themselves, that the truth will set them free, but I’ve never realized how right she is before now.

“So you are mad at me,” Andre says slowly, drawing me close. His grip is loose on me, giving me an out any time I want it. “But not for kissing you.”

“No.”

“Then why?”

Gusting out a long sigh, I shrug. Whatever I say now will sound insane—because it is. I’m not rational this morning. I’m a mad tangle of sleep deprived emotions and deepest fears, and the only thing that helps is his hands on me. Now that I’m back in his arms, I’m more settled already, my racing pulse slowing down.

“For taking so long, I guess. For leaving me lonely all these years. And for something you haven’t even done yet.”

Andre’s dark eyes brim with sorrow. “What’s that?”

“Changing your mind,” I whisper. He’s got me close again now, our bodies sealed together, heart beats knocking on each other’s chests. “Realizing this is a mistake, and that you don’t want me after all.”

“Faith?” It’s Andre’s turn to look pissed off, and his hold on me is almost rough. I don’t mind. I like feeling his control waver—feeling the desperation claw through. I like the proof that I’m not the only person driven wild by this maelstrom of feelings. “Never. Going. To happen.”

And he’s always been a man of few words, but when he ducks down and kisses me again, dirty and deep, it’s clear that he really is done. That is all Andre Silva has to say on the matter. In his mind: case closed.

He wants me. He’s decided.

He’s in this for life.

And maybe it is that simple. Maybe as time goes on and the kisses mount up, as our days together blur into weeks and months, I’ll believe it too. Not just on an intellectual level, but deep in the marrow of my bones.

Only one way to find out.

“Okay,” I murmur, and kiss Andre again, sweeter this time. Trying to show that I hear him, that I’ll trust enough to give this a chance. That he’s precious to me too, and so worth the wait.

But a sweet, innocent kiss can only last for so long.

Heat builds between us, a flush spreading over my skin as we grip harder, squeezing and nipping, and all innocence flies out the window. My low belly is hollow and aching, the friction between us driving me mad. I need him.

Enough chit chat, already.

Four years is a long, long time.