Chapter 27
[Cadence]
Just when I think Ford is finished with me, he isn’t.
He breaks away from my thighs, slick and dripping with the combination of his mouth and my arousal and stands in a rush.
Spinning me to face the countertop, I catch myself on the surface.
Ford slides his hand around my throat while two fingers on his opposite hand delve back inside me.
“Ford,” I cry out, then bite my lip, attempting to stifle the loudness.
“I told you I’m a perfectionist. Let’s go for one more.”
My legs tremble while Ford’s fingers move in a new way, fast and smooth, slick from the wetness he created.
Plus, his other hand collars my throat, and while I wasn’t into breath play, the sheer possessiveness of his grip has my hips rocking once more.
Then, I’m pinned to the countertop with Ford’s weight against my back and his firm, stiff length easily distinguished through his thin sports shorts wedged against my ass.
I could make jokes about batting averages but I’m too Ford-dazed to think. He plays my body like a rapid-fire fiddle-rendition of “The Devil Went Down to Georgia.” Suddenly, I know I’ll sin in any manner Ford demands.
With the right pressure from the pad of his thumb on my already swollen and sensitive nub, a wayward screech escapes me.
Ford’s hand at my throat quickly coasts up to my mouth, covering it, and I clamp my own hand over his to drown out any other sound that might wake the girls.
His rough breaths saw in and out at my ear, stirring my hair.
Strained whispers from him urge me on, his words low and filthy as my body slides into another release.
Silver speckles dance before my eyes. I’ve never come three times in a row.
As I’m floating down from the high, Ford removes his fingers and grips my hips, tugging so I bend in half.
With my hands clutching the edge of the counter, Ford grinds against my ass.
The thick bulge in his shorts is not disguised in the least. With thoughts of what he’d feel like inside me, filling me, my pussy continues to tingle. Wetness coats my inner thighs.
“Cadence,” Ford grunts, digging his fingers deeper into my hips, moving my body how he wishes.
“Just think of what it’d be like to enter me, cowboy,” I tease, wanting him to lose control. Wanting to set him free. Just a dip of his shorts and that sweet cock of his would be loose and slam into me.
“Fuck,” he groans.
“I’m so wet, Ford,” I continue, drawing out the torture, drawing him deeper under the spell of possibility. I could sleep with Ford Sylver and not think twice about it.
But something tells me Ford isn’t going to take this moment further than getting off by grinding against me like a randy teen, and with one final thrust, he stills, tugging my hips hard, wedging himself deeper against my bare ass cheeks.
A heavy groan exits Ford, the sound tickles my ear.
Within seconds, his hands release my hips, and his arms wrap around me like the tying of a ribbon.
One arm circles my waist. The other wraps over my collarbone.
I’m pulled upright and plastered to Ford’s chest. His heart hammers against my spine.
His breath heats my neck. After the race of lust, Ford surprises me with the softest kiss on my shoulder.
And something inside me breaks in a new way.
Ford eventually drops his arms and lowers behind me.
With my hands returned to the counter, I hold steady as Ford helps me step into my pajama shorts and then turns me to face him.
He rights a strap that slipped down my shoulder, then rubs both his hands from my shoulders to my wrists, circling them a second.
His gaze dips to where his hands hold mine.
Dropping one, he starts walking backward, leading me toward the hallway.
“Whatcha doin’, cowboy?” I tease, thinking he’s ready for round two when I’m still recovering from round one. If he’s looking for a doubleheader, I’m going to need a minute.
“I want to hold you.”
I stop moving and tug at the hand he’s holding. Our eyes meet and while the sharpness in his is brighter than I’ve ever seen, I’m certain mine tell the truth. “I can’t.”
Other than rubbing his thumb over the back of my hand, as if attempting to soothe the wild cat inside me, Ford stills. His touch is comforting, reassuring, but I can’t cradle. I don’t want to cuddle. The idea is too intimate, and I can’t do intimate again.
“Why not?”
“Ford,” I groan. “Neither of us is in a position for what cuddling means.”
“And what does cuddling mean?” The brightness in his eyes dims. He isn’t proposing marriage, and I should just drop this, but I’m not getting myself into a sticky situation again.
Nor am I willing to put this precious family in one.
I won’t put Ford in danger. Or the girls.
And I’m not going to allow myself to think something is more than it is. The old Cadence returns.
“Cuddling means commitment.”
Ford releases my hand, and while I expect him to stagger backward, he stands firm.
“I’m not looking for commitment, Cadence.”
“Neither am I,” I state, finding I’m the unsteady one. Why can’t he commit to me? Why hasn’t any man been able to?
Ford watches me a long minute. “Then what was that?” He nods toward the kitchen.
“Fun?” The word tastes bitter on my tongue.
Ford continues to stare at me before swiping his hand down his face.
He lifts his hand again, fingers to his nose.
“I can still smell you.” He sucks the tips.
“Taste you. And you want to call that fun?” He breathes deeply.
“That was fucking amazing. And while I’m not certain about many things, I have no uncertainty about how I feel when it comes to you. I want you.”
We continue to stare at one another, my heart hammering in my chest and between my thighs. I want him, too, but I won’t admit it. I can’t. Despite my reputation, my heart can’t take another breakup, and neither can his.
“Ford, we’re going to go our separate ways in a few months and this,”—I point between us—“isn’t smart.
You have the girls and baseball. And I have my music and—” And what?
It’s not like I have someone waiting on me when I return to my career.
I’m a one-woman show in that aspect, but I also have people relying on me to come back, to hit the studio, and to produce more songs.
“It just wouldn’t be a good idea.”
Ford continues to watch me and just when I think he’ll turn and leave me standing in the hallway alone, he steps forward, wraps his arms around me once more, sliding one around my shoulder blades and the other against my lower back.
Pressed into his chest, I inhale deeply.
Leather. Fresh grass. And a twinge of manliness.
Ford kisses the top of my head, then steps back. “Let me walk you to your room.” He holds out a hand and I slap mine against his, but he catches my fingers before I can pull away.
And I briefly wonder if Ford could catch me in other ways.
+ + +
Where are you?
You can’t hide forever.
Are you with him?
The texts are never ending, and most days, I turn off my phone to avoid them.
There doesn’t seem to be anything I can do to stop the cyber-harassment; other than change my phone number which I am refusing to do because hope doesn’t die easily within me.
Why should I hide? I want Evan to just stop it.
Neither of us needs the scandal of a public broadcast that we’d had an affair.
For now, Sterling Falls is my safe haven.
Zelle, Winnie, and June are an excellent distraction.
Our hike the other day had been amazing.
Ford is a great dad, although a bit standoffish at times.
I suspect he’s barely keeping his head above water between his recovery and his girls.
I don’t push for information about his ex.
The girls never receive a card, gift, or phone call from their mother.
As far as I can tell, she is completely out of the picture.
While I want to pretend nothing had happened between Ford and me in his kitchen, he has made it impossible to forget.
He doesn’t bring it up, but he doesn’t keep his distance.
Little touches against my lower back, a swipe across my hand, or a fingertip along my wrist drives me crazy whenever we are close to one another.
The weirder part is how often we are near each other.
In the kitchen as I set out dishes for dinner.
In the bathroom tag-teaming with the girls. In the family room on the couch.
Ford and I are like magnets, drawn to one another despite my declaration that we are a bad idea.
And if I thought I could keep away from him, I was crazy.
“What are you doing?” Ford whispers as I enter his bedroom a week after our kitchen escapade. With my back plastered to the door, I stare at him as he sits on his bed, arm elevated on a pillow with an ice pack over his shoulder. His back rests against the headboard.
I didn’t know what I was doing. I only knew I couldn’t stay away any longer. “Sneaking into your room?”
Ford humorlessly chuckles before his expression tightens and his jaw ticks. “Thought you said we were a bad idea.”
“Maybe not bad. Just not smart.” I was trying to be logical, but logic had gone out the window. I’d seen Ford too often with a towel wrapped around his waist after a shower or shirtless and working his arm. His body is a lean, mean machine and I want to know how it works with mine.
“So, you being in my room is . . .”
“Reckless.” My gaze drops to something bright and yellow and sitting on his nightstand. Stepping forward without thinking, I point. “You kept it.”
Ford glances at the rubber duck with a baseball cap on its head beside his bed. “It’s my good luck duck.”
I laugh. “I thought you’d toss it, considering you weren’t happy to see me.”