CHAPTER 6
brIELLE
The music is pumping around me as we finish performing. For the first time in a long time, I’m looking forward to stepping off stage. Where dance usually takes my mind off everything else, it’s not working for me today.
And I know why.
It’s the reverberating memories of waking up alone, paired with the feeling of whiskey-colored eyes taking in every movement. The intensity of his stare has my heart pounding in my chest and has nothing to do with the effort I’m putting into the dance steps.
The memory of waking up alone washes over me and it takes tremendous effort, and years of practice, to not let it show on my face. I hate it, but I also understood.
I might not have meant to fall asleep in Everton’s arms last night after he showed up at my place unannounced and told me he was reclaiming me and never letting me go, but it was the best sleep I’ve had in years. Of course it was. Because Everton was holding me.
We never really got to experience sleeping in each other’s arms when we were younger, not like last night—and I don’t even know how long he stayed in my bed.
Sure, there were nights when we would lose track of time and held each other for far too long after escaping to a corner of Sagebrush’s barn, but there was never a bed involved back then.
Maybe it was better that Everton didn’t wake me when he left my place, whenever it was. I probably would have clung to him and begged him to stay.
Which would have been incredibly selfish considering he has a daughter to think about.
Still, waking up alone was the fucking worst. I would have almost been able to convince myself the night never even happened and was just a dream brought on by seeing the only man I’ve ever loved after so many years.
But the way my body ached with satisfaction had a grin lifting my lips which couldn’t be denied.
It wasn’t my imagination. I really did swing the door open last night to find Everton Connors standing on the other side like we hadn’t spent 18 years apart.
He told me I’m his and that he was claiming me again. And I let him. No, that’s not even true—I begged him to do it. I gave myself over to him without any reservation.
I would do it all over again.
Then I woke up alone and my heart stuttered in my chest for a moment. I was waffling between disbelief while reliving every moment and trying to be understanding about not waking up in his arms. Honestly, I was a mess.
And then there was the little voice, the one who loves negativity and bringing me down when I’m at my highest. That fucking voice whispered in my head about Everton not meaning his words and only chasing a past which has no hope for a future.
That he was just after the nostalgia of it all because we were thrown together without warning.
That voice is the fucking worst.
When I finally pulled myself together and forced myself out of bed, I found a note on my kitchen counter. A note from Everton. It felt surreal, honestly.
Tiny Dancer,
Sliding out from underneath you was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. You were sleeping so peacefully and having you in my arms is fucking everything. But I needed to get back to Rian.
I’ll see you soon.
~E
That was it. Sweet and confusing. Talk about a rollercoaster because my heart soared when I saw that he left a note at all and then it sank when I read it. I’m not sure what I was expecting, honestly. Something more? The declaration I desperately needed?
But I also knew I wasn’t being entirely fair. We don’t have the same lives we used to have. We have responsibilities; him more than me. There is now a lot more to life than classes, chores, and the carelessness of youth.
All I had was an empty bed and a note on my kitchen counter.
I’ve been out of sorts all day because of it. Dancing, which is normally my solace and where I can let go of all my questions about life and all the uncertainties we can’t help but experience just by virtue of breathing, wasn’t as helpful as it normally is.
It’s possible I couldn’t find my normal serenity because I could feel whiskey-colored eyes watching me. At least I didn’t trip over my own damn feet because of the intensity of his gaze. He didn’t miss a single turn and, fuck, I’ve been so turned on.
Finishing for the night is almost a relief which is something I’ve never felt about performing before. It’s not my fault. It’s all because of him.
As much as I want to race to the back and grab my bag so I can slip into the night and head home, I force myself not to rush. The last thing I need to do is call attention to myself.
I take a long drink of water before quickly changing without looking around. It kind of feels like a hell hound is nipping at my feet. He just happens to wear leather and ride in on chrome pipes.
Interacting with the other dancers barely registers, but I know I smile at the right time and say the right things. No one calls me out on the forced brightness.
The feeling of the night closing in on me only grows when I step out into the hallway to head home. My shoulders are practically at my ears.
I take a step, but then the air in my lungs rushes out when I go airborne. I’m unceremoniously tossed over a very broad shoulder. I don’t need to see a damn thing to know whose shoulder I’m dangling from.
My bag slips, but I’m able to grab it with a strangled groan. “What are you doing, Cowboy?”
His hand lands on my ass and the sound of it fills the hallway. I can only hope no one else is witnessing this little biker display of possession happening right now.
When we step onto the elevator, my body relaxes and I try again, “Seriously, what is going on? Where are we going?”
“I’m taking you to my room in the clubhouse,” his words are clipped, but they’re not angry.
He sounds like a man on edge and barely holding on. As if I wasn’t already turned on and making plans to go home and take care of the problem myself.
Because all I had was a ‘see you soon’ without any real knowledge about what that would mean. But here we are and, apparently, I’m going to get to see far more of Elysium than I anticipated. My body is buzzing.
“I’ve been watching you all night. Dancing. Fuck,” he grits out, “you used to only dance for me. As I watched you I realized I’m a possessive asshole who can’t stand the thought of you dancing for anyone except me.”
With a ding, I hear the woosh of the elevator and then we’re moving again.
“I was just doing my job,” I point out knowing damn well that performance is performance and it’s not like there was a pole involved.
Everton growls and the way it reverberates through me has me clenching my thighs together. Without warning, his hand lands on my ass again and I let out a yelp.
When he steps inside a room and the door closes behind us, silence descends. His movements are slow as he maneuvers me to slide down his body. And I feel it all.
I shudder as I push my hair back off my face and look up into whiskey-colored eyes filled with heat and fraying control.
My heart thuds once in my chest before it starts racing as he takes my mouth in a kiss that is all possession.
He yanks me against his chest, our bodies aligning, as my fingers curl around the edge of his cut because it feels like I’ll float away if I don’t hold on.
“Fuck,” he grunts into my mouth, and I swallow down the sound.
My movements are slow as I run my hands up his chest to gently push his cut off his shoulders.
I don’t let it hit the floor, grabbing it and hanging it on a hook near the door, his hold on me never loosening.
When I push his shirt up, wanting it off to allow me to see the tattoo on his chest, the one he got for me, he has to help me since he’s a little too tall to make it easy on me.
Everton smirks down at me and my pussy clenches around nothing. The look in his eyes is predatory, and I find myself stepping back as he steps forward. He stalks toward me and I retreat in kind. When the back of my knees hit the bed, I realize he has me right where he wants me.
His touch is filled with reverence as he quickly strips me and them himself. I let out a surprised yelp when he picks me up by my hips when I expected him to push me back onto the bed. He easily maneuvers me until he’s sitting back against the headboard and I’m straddling his hips.
“You’re going to ride me,” his large hands clamp down on my hips, “until I can’t take it anymore and need you under me.”
My fingers run through the hair on the top of his head as I rise up on my knees. I feel the crown of his cock slide between my pussy lips. Our eyes stay locked and I can feel the way his soul eases into mine as I sink down until he’s filling me and his fingers flex on my hips.
“Yes,” he hisses, the muscles of his neck straining. “Now move.”
My nails bite into his shoulders as I follow his command. My hips swivel as I test out sliding up his shaft and then dropping back down. Every time I take him deep inside of me, he thrust his hips upward and I let out a low moan.
When my head drops back, my body arches and Everton doesn’t waste the opportunity. His mouth descends on one of my hardened nipples and sucks hard. I shudder as my movements become faster and harder.
I ignore the way my thighs are burning because chasing my pleasure with this man, the man I desperately want to be mine, is incandescent in every way that matters.
His fingers dig deeper into my hips, and I can only hope he’ll leave bruises behind.
I crave to see the evidence of his need on my body.
My heart is pounding in my chest and pleasure coils in my belly. It’s almost too much, but at the same time it’s not enough. Not nearly enough.
It feels like my body is straining for something.
“I need,” I gasp, my head tilting down so I can look into his eyes, my words a pleading gasp, “more.”
“Fuck, Tiny Dancer,” he growls and rolls us.
My legs wrap around his waist, and he doesn’t miss a stroke as he plants his forearms on either side of my head while powering into me. Every thrust has me reeling as I whimper with how fucking good it is.
“I’ve got you,” his words feel like a vow, like so much more than passion.
As my heart stills for one fleeting second, I desperately want to believe him. I allow myself to sink into it, into him, into everything his gaze promises.
“Everton,” his name is a keening sound.
His lips find mine as I cling to him and anything else I might have said is swept away by the understanding, the knowing, I taste on his lips.
“You’re going to coat my dick in your juices,” he grunts against my mouth.
His hips slam into me and bliss washes over me when I’m thrown over the edge and flung into my orgasm. I come hard, my pussy walls squeezing his length. But he doesn’t stop.
He powers right through my pleasure, his jaw clenched tightly and his eyes filled with something I’m too far gone to figure out. When his movements stutter, I know he’s close.
And then I feel it.
I feel every jet of his cum as he fills me. The warmth of it soothing the uncertainty of waking up alone.
Everton’s eyes bore into mine, the possession blanketing me as his chest heaves.
The high of how good it feels to be with the only man I’ve ever loved—the ghost of that past wrapping around me and begging me to give in—simmers into something manageable, he rolls off me.
But he reaches for me and pulls me against his side with an ease which has me letting out a sigh.
His hand trails up and down my arm like he can’t stop touching me.
I know I should move.
I know I might wake up alone again.
None of that matters as my eyes slide closed. Whatever happens next, I’ll deal with it.
But a little bit of hope slides through and whispers that this is real and can last.