Chapter 7 #2
Jaylen stumbles in next, curls sticking up in every direction, wearing jeans and a Green Fields High t-shirt we bought during orientation.
“Coffee,” he mumbles, making grabby hands at my mug.
“Make your own,” I tell him. “And eat something.”
We manage to get everyone fed, backpacks checked, and loaded into the car with minimal drama.
Annalise chatters nonstop about her new teacher and whether there will be swings on the playground.
Nia sits silently, earbuds in, staring out the window with the carefully neutral expression she’s perfected. Jaylen keeps checking his phone.
Drop-off at the elementary school goes smoothly. Annalise practically skips into her classroom after giving me a quick hug. The middle school is also uneventful, with Nia disappearing into the crowd of eighth-graders like she’s been there forever.
Jaylen’s drop-off at the high school takes longer because he stands outside the building for a full minute, staring at the entrance like it might bite him.
“You okay?” I ask.
“Yeah. Just… different.”
“Good different or bad different?”
“Don’t know yet.”
He gives me a quick side hug, which is more affection than I’ve gotten from him in weeks, and heads toward the building. I wait until he’s inside before driving away.
The rest of my day passes in a blur of unpacking boxes, organizing our new house, and trying not to think about four-thirty.
I have lunch with Mama, who spends the entire meal making not-so-subtle comments about how nice it is that Blayne is helping with the dance situation.
I work on a hem for Mrs. Patterson (no relation to Jennifer, thankfully) and manage to thread my sewing machine without help. Yay, me!
By three o’clock, I’ve changed twice and reorganized my sewing room for the third time today.
I finally settle on a simple blue blouse and dark jeans, sober but not too formal, fitted but not too tight.
The kind of outfit that says, “I’m a mom” and definitely not “I spent half the night rubbing my clit to thoughts of your big body.”
I pick up my kids at three-fifteen, and they’re full of stories about their first day.
Annalise loves her teacher and made a friend named Emma.
Nia admits the school is “not that bad” and that her English teacher seems “okay.” Jaylen reports that the football coach wants to see him at tryouts next week and that the cafeteria food is surprisingly decent.
Normal first-day-of-school chaos that should be my focus, but I keep glancing at the clock.
Four-twenty-five.
Four-twenty-eight.
Four-twenty-nine.
At exactly four-thirty, I hear his truck in the driveway.
“That’s Blayne!” Annalise yells, abandoning her after-school snack to run to the window.
“Remember what we talked about,” I tell her, trying to calm my racing heart. “This is work. You can say hi, but then you need to let us be.”
“I know, Mama.”
The knock comes a moment later, and I take a deep breath before opening the door.
Blayne’s standing on my porch holding a garment bag, wearing jeans, another Henley, and his hat. When he removes it, his hair looks deliciously messy.
“Hi,” he rumbles.
“Hi. Come in.”
He steps inside, and suddenly our living room feels smaller. I’m hyperaware of every inch between us.
“Blayne!” Annalise bounces over to us. “Did you bring your suit?”
“I did,” he replies, holding up the garment bag. “Your mama’s gonna make sure it fits right.”
“Can I watch?”
“Annalise,” I say quickly, “remember what we talked about. Say hi, then let us work.”
She deflates a little but nods. “Hi, Blayne. Bye, Blayne.”
“Bye, sweetheart,” he answers with a chuckle.
“This way, please,” I tell him, leading him toward the back of the house to my sewing room.
As we walk down the hallway, I’m very aware of him behind me. When we reach the doorway to my studio, he stops.
“You made changes. Looks even better,” he compliments me, looking around.
“Thanks. It’s coming together.” I gesture toward the garment bag. “Want to show me what we’re working with?”
He unzips the bag and pulls out a charcoal gray suit that looks expensive and perfectly classic.
“Wow,” I breathe out, running my fingers over the fabric. “This is beautiful material.”
“The guy at the store said it was classic.”
“He’s right. It will look great on you.”
The words slip out before I can stop them, and I feel my cheeks warm. But when I look up, Blayne’s watching me with an expression that’s just as heated as what I’m feeling.
“Should I…?” He gestures toward the suit jacket.
“Yes, let’s see how it fits first.”
And that’s when I realize I’m about to see Blayne Madison shirtless in my sewing room, and my carefully constructed composure is about to go to shit.
He reaches for the hem of his shirt and pulls it off in one smooth motion, and just like that I’m looking at more bare chest than my poor heart can handle.
Oh. My. God.
I knew he was built; you can’t miss that chest and those shoulders in his shirts, but seeing him like this is something else…
My cowboy’s chest is broad and defined, with just the right amount of dark hair scattered across his pecs.
His abs are cut in a way that makes my mouth water, and his arms…
Jesus, his arms are drool-worthy. There’s a tattoo on his left shoulder that I can see clearly now, some kind of tribal design that wraps around his bicep, and then there are the scars…
Thin white lines across his ribs that speak of a harder life than the one he has now.
They take nothing away from his pure masculine beauty.
Nope. If anything, they make him look more badass, hotter.
“You okay?” he asks, and I realize I’ve been frozen in place, staring. Openly. For way too long. Hopefully not drooling?…
“Fine,” I manage to croak out. Heat is crawling up my neck, my nipples are hard points, my pussy spasming and leaking, my clit tingling.. “The… try on the jacket… please.”
He slides into the suit jacket, and somehow this is even worse.
The charcoal gray fabric stretches perfectly across his broad shoulders, and with his chest still partially visible under the open fabric, he looks like something out of my dirtiest fantasies.
The kind of fantasies I definitely shouldn’t be thinking about right now.
“How does it feel?” I ask, grateful my voice sounds a bit more normal.
“Good. A little tight in the shoulders, maybe.” I bet…
I step closer with my measuring tape, trying to ignore the way my pulse speeds up. “Let me check.”
I place my hands on his shoulders to “test the fit”, but really it’s more because I need to touch him.
Even through the fabric, I can feel the solid muscle underneath, the heat of his skin.
His shoulders are impossibly broad, and when I run my hands along the seam, I have to bite my lip to keep from swooning.
“The shoulders are actually perfect,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. “Any looser and it would look sloppy.”
“You sure?”
I nod, very aware that my hands are still on his body, that he’s standing perfectly still and letting me touch him. When I look up, he’s watching me with an expression that’s dark, hungry and makes my knees feel weak.
I should step back. I should maintain a professional distance. Instead, I let my palms slide down to his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart under. The fabric of the jacket is smooth under my fingers, but I can feel the warmth of his skin underneath, the solid reality of him.
“I need to check the fit through the torso,” I say, which is only partially a lie. I do need to check it. I just don’t need to take quite this long doing it.
My hands span his ribcage, and I can feel him tense under my touch. His breathing has gotten shallower, and when I glance up at his face, his jaw is clenched like he’s fighting for control.
“Reggie,” he groans my name, sounding rougher than his normal tone.
“Yeah?”
“You’re killing me here, sweetheart.”
The admission hangs between us, heavy with possibility. I know I should step back. Instead, I let my hands slide back up his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart under my palm.
“Good,” I whisper. “Because you’re killing me too, handsome.”
His large hands come up to cover mine, and the contact sends electricity shooting up my arms. His palms are warm and callused, completely covering my smaller hands, and when he laces our fingers together, I forget how to breathe.
We’re standing so close now that I have to tilt my head back to meet his sky-blue eyes. His face is inches from mine, and I can see the flecks of darker blue in his pale eyes, can count the long, thick lashes that frame them.
“This is a bad idea,” Blayne whispers, but he doesn’t step back.
“Probably,” I agree, but I don’t move either.
“You just got divorced.”
“That was months ago.”
“I work with your father.”
“So?”
“So this could complicate things.”
“Life’s complicated,” I reply. “That’s what makes it interesting.”
He laughs, a low rumble that I feel everywhere, the sound going straight between my thighs.
“You sure?” he asks.
“I’m not sure about anything,” I admit. “But I’m tired of pretending I don’t want you, Blayne.”
Something shifts in his expression at that, something hot and possessive that makes my stomach clench with anticipation.
“How long?” he asks.
“How long, what?”
“How long have you wanted me?”
The question catches me off guard, but his hands are still covering mine, his thumbs stroking over my knuckles, and the gentle contact is making it hard to think straight.
“I don’t know,” I say honestly. “Maybe always. Maybe since that first Christmas when I was home from college and you were helping my dad with the new addition to our house.”
His eyes widen slightly. “That was years ago.”
“I know.”
“You didn’t show anything.”
“I know that too.”
“Fuck,” he breathes out raggedly, and hearing him curse sends a thrill through me. “Do you have any idea what you’re doing to me right now?”
“Tell me.”
Instead of answering, he releases my hands and cups my face, his thumbs brushing over my cheekbones. The touch is gentle, reverent, like he’s memorizing the feel of my skin.
“You wanna know what you’re doing to me?” he asks in a rough voice. “You’re making me think about things I have no business thinking about. You’re making me want things I can’t have.”
“Who says you can’t have them?”
“Reggie…”
“I’m serious. Who says you can’t have me?”
The question hangs between us, and I can see him fighting himself, see the moment when his control finally snaps.
“Nobody,” he rumbles, then his mouth is on mine.