Chapter Thirty-Three
Evan
The drive to the second house was exquisite torture.
Nora sat beside me, her cheeks still flushed from the hallway and her sundress riding high enough to remind me every second that her silk was tucked firmly in my pocket.
I kept one hand on the wheel while the other rested on her thigh—innocent at first, then sliding higher in a slow, deliberate crawl.
My fingers traced the sensitive skin of her inner leg until I found her slick and swollen, already aching from the friction of the first house.
She sucked in a sharp breath when my thumb grazed her—light, teasing circles that offered no rush. It was just enough to keep her wet, her breathing shallow, and her body squirming against the leather seat without letting her find the release she was chasing.
“Evan,” she whispered, the sound a ragged half-laugh and half-plea.
I smiled, my eyes fixed firmly on the road. “What?”
“You’re evil.”
“I’m a Holliston,” I murmured, my voice dropping an octave. “We’re known for being thorough . . . unfortunately.”
Her head tipped back against the headrest, her hips lifting a fraction as she chased the heat of my hand.
I gave her one more lazy, dragging stroke before pulling back to trace the crease of her thigh, leaving her hovering on the edge.
She let out a soft whimper, her gaze darting toward the road and the valley beyond—toward her father, my family, and the war neither of us had ended yet.
Then, with a defiant exhale, she shifted, opening for me a little more anyway.
“Keep that up,” I said softly, “and we won’t make it to the front door.”
She laughed—breathless and gorgeous. “You started it.”
I had. And I had no intention of stopping.
We pulled up to the cottage, a place with a wraparound porch and a sprawling backyard that sloped toward the open gold of the fields.
A wide wooden swing hung from an old oak, swaying gently in the afternoon breeze.
I killed the engine and turned to her. She was glowing—her eyes glassy, her lips parted, and every inch of her radiating confidence.
I leaned over and kissed her slow, tasting the salt and the sharp edge of her arousal on her tongue. “Let’s see the yard first.”
We walked the perimeter hand in hand, Nora pointing out the flower beds gone wild and the way the light hit the porch in the afternoon.
I nodded and murmured my agreement, but mostly I watched her—the way she moved lighter and freer, as if the mountain had finally cracked something open inside her and she was finally letting it breathe.
We circled back to the swing. I stopped and let a slow smile spread across my face. She caught the look immediately. “What?”
I stepped behind her, my hands settling on her hips to guide her down. The thick wooden seat creaked as she settled, and I knelt between her legs—slow and reverent—pushing the hem of her blue dress up over her thighs.
“Evan, we’re outside,” she gasped, though her hands were already gripping the ropes for balance.
“Let them look,” I muttered, leaning in to kiss the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. “Let the whole world see that I finally found my heart.”
I didn’t rush; I wanted to worship her. I wanted to hear every jagged sound she made when she realized she was the only thing in my world that mattered.
I kissed the length of one thigh and then the other, my lips open and warm against her skin.
Her breath hitched every time I brushed closer to her center, and when I finally reached her, I licked once—a long, flat stroke that made her hips buck.
“You taste like mine,” I murmured against her, the words a low vibration. “Like something I should’ve fought for a long time ago.”
Then I feasted.
My tongue circled and flicked, my fingers sliding inside to find that perfect, aching spot while my thumb kept steady pressure on her.
Her thighs trembled against my ears, her knuckles turning white as she gripped the ropes.
She wasn’t something I was stealing anymore; she was something I was finally allowed to keep.
“Look at me,” I said, pulling back an inch.
She did—her eyes wide, dark with trust, and framed by the wild canopy of the oak tree. I pulled my fingers free and held her gaze as I licked them clean, the movement slow and deliberate. Her moan was broken and desperate.
“Evan—”
I slid them back inside, my tongue working faster now as she rocked against my mouth, chasing the final edge.
When she came, it was loud—my name torn from her throat as her body spasmed and her thighs clamped around me.
I didn’t stop, keeping the rhythm gentle until she was trembling and laughing through tears of sheer sensory overload.
She collapsed back against the ropes, her chest heaving as I rose and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, grinning like an idiot.
She looked up at me, dazed and radiant. “If we get this place . . . renovations are happening. But this swing stays. Forever.”
I laughed—a full, real sound that surprised even me. “Deal.”
I scooped her up, my arms sliding under her knees and back, and carried her toward the barn as if she weighed nothing at all. She looped her arms around my neck and kissed the line of my jaw.
“Evan Holliston, carrying me into a barn. Very romantic.”
“Romantic’s overrated,” I said, my voice rough. “I want you naked.”
The barn was clean and simple, a far cry from the high-tech Burke setup. Hay bales were stacked neatly and a loft ladder stood sturdy against the back wall. I set her on her feet and kissed her once—a deep, claiming heat—before backing her against a bale.
She didn’t wait. Her hands were already at my belt, quick and eager as she yanked it free and shoved my jeans down.
I sprang free, hard and aching for her, and she dropped to her knees without a word.
The sight of her—her dress hiked up and her lips swollen from my mouth—nearly finished me before she even touched me.
She wrapped her hand around the base and took me deep, hot and wet and perfect. I groaned, my hand sliding into her hair—not to guide her, but to anchor myself. She didn’t rush; she watched me while she worked, her eyes locked on mine as if she wanted to see exactly what she was doing to me.
She took me with the same slow, deliberate care I’d given her, and as I watched her enjoy the power she had over me, something finally cracked wide open in my chest. All the years of circling, of wanting, and of convincing myself I was better off without this—it all evaporated.
I tried to warn her. “Nora—”
She hummed around me, a vibration that shot straight up my spine and made my hips jerk. She took me deeper, and I came hard, groaning her name as I pulsed down her throat. She swallowed every drop, then pulled back slowly, licking her lips with a devastatingly casual grace.
I hauled her up and kissed her, tasting myself on her tongue, and laughed against her mouth. “Barn exceeds expectations.”
She grinned. “Told you.”
We climbed the ladder to the loft where hay bales felt soft under an old blanket I found folded in the corner.
We stripped slowly this time—her dress over her head, my shirt tossed aside—until we were naked and skin to skin, lying together.
Her head rested on my chest, my fingers tracing lazy patterns on the small of her back.
I looked at the rafters, the sun slanting through the cracks in the boards. “So. Which house do you like better?”
She propped herself on one elbow, her eyes big and bright. “I love both”—she waited a beat—“or maybe I just love you.”
For a second, the world outside the barn pressed in—her father, my father, and everything waiting to break this apart. But she didn’t pull away, and neither did I. I rolled her beneath me and kissed her slow—deep and reverent.
“There’s no maybe in my heart,” I said against her lips. “My home isn’t a house in Firebrook Valley. It’s wherever you are. Even if that means standing in the middle of a war to keep it.”
She smiled—small, teary, and perfect—and I kissed the tear that slipped free. We lay there for a long time, naked and tangled and breathing in sync, with the hay scratching our skin and the sunlight fading into evening.