Frog

Chapter 2

TWO

The familiar sleek black four-door BMW rolled up, and I waved as he got out of the car.

Watching him stride toward me took my breath away.

He looked like he belonged in a fashion magazine, he was so perfect.

The thick chestnut hair was long on top and cut short on the sides and back.

His cashmere-blend wool overcoat accentuated the breadth of his shoulders, and his heavy scarf was wrapped once around his neck and hung over the lapels of the open coat.

I liked the sweater and jeans underneath, as well as the polished boots, and really, all in all, he was a vision, while I looked like a homeless guy he was going to give some loose change to.

I was embarrassed of how I looked, how I smelled, and I knew in that second that I shouldn’t have called, that I’d made a mistake…

“Web,” he cried out.

…until he called my name. Nothing mattered after that.

I dropped my backpack and lifted my arms for him, waiting, and he rushed forward and lunged at me, hitting my chest hard, face pressed to the side of my neck as he wrapped me up tight.

“Why’re you shaking?” I asked into his hair, squeezing him, loving the feel of the hard body plastered to mine, his lips opening on my throat.

“Because I missed you, idiot.” He clutched at me, lifting his head to meet my gaze. “Can you get in the car so I can kiss you?”

“Why, yessir.”

He stepped back, took off one of his leather gloves, grabbed my hand, and laced his fingers with mine. I had no idea how cold my hands were until he touched me.

At the car, he let go of me, and I tossed my pack in the back seat, then climbed into the passenger seat. It smelled like leather inside and was, of course, immaculate.

“Man, I do love this car. She’s a beauty,” I complimented him as the warm air wrapped around me.

He hit the lock on the door, making escape impossible, and I grinned at him over the transparent action.

When his chin quivered, I reached for him. My fingers wrapped gently around the side of his throat, my thumb smoothing over his jaw as I pulled him to me. “Lemme take a long hot shower when I get to your place, okay? Then once I’m clean, I can get in your bed.”

He blinked repeatedly, and I could tell he was on the verge of tears.

“Since when do you cry for me?” I teased him, trying to jolt him out of his mood.

“Since I never thought I’d see you again.”

“That’ll never happen,” I promised him. “And when I finally find a home, maybe you would even consider coming to see me.”

“Or maybe you could just stay here.”

“Cy, don’t—”

“Stop,” he barked at me, hands on my face, drawing me forward, leaning in at the same time so that we met in a rough kiss, hard and furious, the action filled with how much he’d missed me.

I felt the same. Whenever we were separated, I ached for him.

His lips parted instantly for my tongue, and I reacquainted myself with his hot mouth, savoring his presence, intoxicated with him that fast. He crawled over the console between us and was in my lap, all six feet one of him, twisting, straddling my hips, shoving his hard groin into my abdomen.

I was grinding my own painful erection along his crease as his breath got choppy, our hands fumbling, tongues tangling, followed by my long, deep moan and the answering tightness in him.

It felt so good the way he clutched at me, bit my bottom lip, and pressed his chest to mine.

“Missed you,” he choked out. “Always.”

I reached up, my hands on his face leaning him back, and gazed at him. “Me too. Take me home before I fuck you in the car.”

His eyes were slits of need, and when I lifted up, a low, sexy sound, a purring growl, rose out of him. “The car sounds fine.”

I arched an eyebrow. “Does it, Dr. Benning?” I teased him, enunciating his title. “Would we make the society page?”

“Leave it to you to be the one thinking of my career at a time like this.”

I laughed, grabbing him tight, crushing him to me and letting out a deep breath.

“How long can you stay?”

“Couple days,” I said, closing my eyes, the warmth of his body, how hard he was hugging me back, and his breath down the side of my neck making me want to remain there and never move. “God, I love holdin’ you.”

He didn’t say anything, just squeezed me back.

He was quiet on the ride to his place in Potrero Hill.

I loved his house and his sleepy neighborhood, which was far enough from the hustle and bustle of downtown San Francisco but still close to the hospital where he worked.

Over the past three years, I always enjoyed my visits, sporadic though they were.

As we sat in silence, the only sound coming from the rain hitting the windshield, I reached for his hand. “Don’t you wanna talk to me none?” I laced our fingers, resting our clasped hands on my thigh.

“No, Web,” he said, his voice gravelly. “I want to keep you locked in my bedroom for the rest of your life, that’s what I want.”

I chuckled. “You’d get sick of me right quick if I was here all the time.”

He shook his head as he turned onto his street. “That’s the part you don’t get. I could never tire of you.”

I scoffed. “You don’t know from—who’s that in your driveway?”

He frowned, and as he turned in, hitting the electric garage-door opener, the light went on in the monster SUV parked there.

A woman got out of the driver’s side, and the two back doors were thrown open.

Three kids got out, from biggest to smallest, and all dashed into the garage to escape the rain as the door slowly rose.

Cy pulled in and parked, and we both got out as the woman came toward him.

“Cy,” she gasped, and I could tell two things just from glancing at her: first, she’d been crying, and second, she was Cy’s sister.

Same delicate, fragile, sharply cut features; thick, wavy chestnut hair; bottomless gold-brown eyes fringed in long, curling lashes; and golden skin.

Because she looked like him, I felt that immediate kinship.

She sucked in her breath when she saw me. “Oh. I didn’t know you had comp—”

“Are you a cowboy?” the smallest boy asked me, head tilted all the way back as he looked up at me.

I knelt on one knee in front of him, tipping my hat back, taking in the red felt one he was wearing, the boots he had on along with his flannel pajamas, and the rope, made out of heavy yarn, he was carrying. “I am. And I see you are as well.”

He nodded, lifting his boot for me. “I don’t have spurs, though.”

“You don’t need none,” I advised him seriously. “Real cowboys can guide their horses with just the pressure from their legs and thighs. Cowboys only wear spurs in the movies.”

His eyes lit up, and he came over, hand on my thigh as he looked into my face. “Really?”

“Oh, yessir.”

“You ever go to a rodeo?” the oldest asked, moving closer as the middle one, who was just staring at me, edged in.

“Yessir,” I told him. “I’m a bull rider. You?”

“Me?” he said like I was stupid. “I’m not old enough to be in a rodeo.”

I nodded. “How old are you?”

The middle one reached out and touched the brim of my hat as the oldest ran his gaze all over me before answering.

“I’m eight.”

“Oh.” I shrugged. “Yeah, you’re right. I didn’t do no barrel racin’ until I was ten.”

“I’ve seen the barrel racing on TV. You did that when you were ten?”

“Yep. My brother had a beautiful quarter horse named Dave, and he let me ride him.”

“Dave’s a weird name for a horse.”

“Don’t I know it, but you couldn’t tell that to Spencer.”

“Who’s Spencer?”

“My brother.”

“So your brother named his horse Dave.”

“Yessir, he did, and the rest of us had to go along with it.”

“Where’s your brother now?”

“He died in the war. Over there in Iraq.”

“We learned about the war at school.” Then, “My name’s Tristan, but you can call me Tris.”

“Well, it’s good to meet you, Tris,” I said, offering him my hand. “I’m Weber Yates.”

He took my hand and shook it.

“I’m Pip,” the little one said, putting out his hand too, the other sliding over the top of my thigh, petting me, though it was doubtful he was even paying attention to what he was doing.

“His name’s Phillip,” Tristan told me. “He just has trouble saying his name.”

I nodded, taking the sticky little hand in mine before turning my head to the other little boy, who was now leaning against me. “And who is this?”

“That’s Micah. He doesn’t talk anymore. He used to, but he stopped.”

Tristan and Pip had dark midnight-blue eyes, a deep cobalt. Micah’s eyes were lighter, brighter, almost the color of the bluebonnets I had grown up with in Texas. They were all three as cute as they could be.

“You don’t never talk?” I asked Micah.

He shook his head.

“Well, that’s all right. Talkin’s overrated anyhow. You hungry?”

He nodded and put an arm around my neck, leaning heavily.

I looked up at Cyrus and his sister then, and to my surprise, they both seemed sort of startled and at a loss.

“Sorry, I got caught up,” I apologized, rising, bringing Micah up with me since it seemed like that was what he wanted.

“My name’s Weber Yates, ma’am,” I said, touching the brim of my hat.

“It’s real nice to meet you and your boys. ”

Her mouth was open, but no sound came out. She was staring at me and then Micah and then back to me.

“Web, this is my sister, Carolyn Easton. Lyn, this is Weber, whom I told you about.”

“Oh yes, the cowboy.”

“Yes.”

“Can we feed y’all?” I asked her. “Would that be all right?”

“That would be fine,” she told me, her voice dropping out on her. “But, um, they don’t eat anything. They’re the worst eaters ever.”

“Yeah, but…” I turned to Micah. “…cowboys always eat breakfast. Y’all will eat that, right? Some pancakes and eggs and bacon and such?”

Micah nodded.

“I will,” Tristan told me.

“Pancakes!” Pip yelled loudly.

“I can make that,” I told Cyrus.

“No, no, I’ll make it. You need to take a shower and get out of your wet clothes before you catch pneumonia.”

I smiled because the man never stopped worrying.