Chapter 23
23
[Vale]
T hat night, I tell my brother I have a date on Saturday, sticking as close to the truth as I can.
“It’s new, and I’m not certain it will go anywhere, but I’ve agreed to go on this one date.” My tone suggests it’s a hardship while my insides are a riot of excitement.
I have a date with Cortland Haven .
“Anyone I know?” Stone arches a brow like Cort does.
I shake my head. “I’m not ready to share yet.”
For all Stone’s questioning of me when I was younger, he trusts me now, which builds another layer of guilt on the already existing pile.
However, Stone and I also respect each other’s privacy.
He doesn’t share with me what the hell is going on between him and Emerson Milton, the town’s mayor.
He also knows I don’t have much of a dating life.
This is my first one in forever.
By Saturday night, I’m a bundle of nerves .
My brother Knox has a stepdaughter named Violet.
The irony of her name being our mother’s name did not escape anyone in the family.
She’s a pretty redhead who looks just like her mom did as a teen.
She’s also a junior in high school and can drive, so I ask her to watch Hudson for the few hours before Stone will be home.
While Hudson isn’t too thrilled to spend time with a babysitter , I try to rationalize that she’s his cousin, making her family.
He doesn’t fall for it.
When her younger brother Tim agrees to come over as well, turning the night into a pizza-slash-video game competition for the older ‘cousins’, Hudson changes his tune.
He hero-worships the fourteen-year-old boy who loves soccer as much as Hudson loves baseball.
“Bless you,” I say to Violet when they arrive, and I can finally slip out the door.
“You look . . .” My niece wiggles her brows then taps the tip of her tongue with her forefinger making a sizzling sound.
“Hot.”
I laugh, needing the chuckle to settle my nerves.
“Do you think I look all right?” I might be a tad overdressed in a slinky black number that is more appropriate for a wedding than a stay-at-home meal.
Not to mention, I’m asking the opinion of a sixteen-year-old.
“Honestly, Vale, you look beautiful.” Her reassuring smile sends me on my way.
Cort lives in an A-frame house tucked in the hills around Rogue River.
When I park in his driveway, the soft echo of the river comes from somewhere behind his home.
He steps out onto his porch before I’ve even exited my car, and I inhale.
He looks amazing in a dark, silky shirt and black jeans, and he smiles sheepishly when he sees me.
I no longer worry about being overdressed.
He looks as anxious as I feel.
On the drive over, I’ve given myself a pep talk.
How I shouldn’t be nervous.
This man has seen intimate parts of me but there are deeper layers we don’t know anymore.
Years of absence from each other’s lives.
What if he doesn’t like me?
Quickly, I shake off the negative thoughts, smooth my hand over my belly, and cross the walk to his porch.
“Vale,” he whispers like his tongue is too thick.
His eyes roam up and down my body, and he holds out a hand as soon as I step onto the porch.
Right there, he twirls me around so he can see me from all angles.
“Fuck. You’re so beautiful, Bee.” He cups my cheek and kisses me sweetly.
Not like his typical hunger but more like he wants to savor the moment.
A mental image of this Cort is certainly going into the scrapbook of my heart.
After leading me inside, I get a quick tour of the house.
The living room opens to a large kitchen that curves right and faces an open concept sitting area.
Through the sliding glass doors, a view of the river down below is visible.
A loft is above us with the same view.
Cort points out that one end of the house has two bedrooms. The primary bedroom is in the opposite direction.
Brushing over that information, he offers me a glass of wine.
“I have white or red or rosé.”
His voice trembles a little, and I round the small kitchen island and slip my arms around his waist.
“Hi.” I focus on his eyes.
His shoulders relax and his arms wrap around me as well.
“Hi.” He chuckles softly, blowing out a breath.
“I don’t want to fuck this up.”
“You won’t.” I smile to reassure him.
I’m here. He’s here, and we’re alone.
Pressing a kiss to the top of my head, he pulls away.
“Hope you like steak.”
“I love a good hunk of meat.” I wink and Cort laughs, bursting the initial bubble of nerves surrounding us.
As Cort prepares the steak and pulls pre-cut vegetables out of his fridge, we chat about his family, a safer topic than mine.
“Tate is still a punk ass while Clint is . . . well . . . Clint. A good guy at heart, trying to raise his daughter on his own.”
Ruby James is five years old and in kindergarten with my niece June.
The two girls are becoming fast friends, and their connection might be a rebuilding bridge between the families.
“Trinity is still a spitfire.” Cort shakes his head.
I’m well aware of what he means.
After her divorce, she really went through a glow up and opened up herself.
She’s very vocal at our Sterlet meetings about how a woman can meet her own needs.
Often spoken like a woman truly scorned.
“I see your mom sometimes, at the grocery store.” I smile as I twirl my glass of wine in my hand, watching the liquid gently swirl from side to side.
“She has always been nice to me.”
When my mother died, her friends tried to rally around our family.
Seven kids ranging from twelve to newborn was a lot to tackle.
My dad decided not to handle it; instead, sinking himself into bottle after bottle.
From what I’ve been told, my mother’s friends stepped up and tried to step in, but Dad shut that down over and over again.
Mary Haven was particularly close to our mother, especially as several Sylvers line up in age to the Haven kids.
Stone and Cort. Judd and Tate, who never got along.
Sebastian and Clint.
Trinity is between Knox and Ford.
“Your mother taught Sebastian and I how to bake,” I remind him, still smiling down at my glass of wine with fond memories of standing in the Haven kitchen mixing up ingredients and rolling balls of dough for holiday cookies.
“When I was little, I wanted to be adopted by your family.” I shrug and lift my glass, hoping to disguise the emotion in my voice.
The memory has come out of nowhere, but it’s an honest recollection.
Before I crushed on Cort, before everything fell apart, I wanted to be a Haven.
Their home was warm and bright, and full of laughter and love, not harsh words, physical repercussions, and dirt.
“You know my dad wasn’t much of a loving man,” I continue, lowering my glass to the counter.
Cort stands on the other side of the island, his arms spread wide, and hands braced on the top.
He’s stopped moving and given me his full attention.
“I remember,” he whispers.
He’d been a witness many times to the way my father spoke to Stone, but Stone, and Cort for that matter, were gone when the true wrath of our father was unleashed.
When insults turned to injury.
He cut Judd the most with his words, skipping to Ford next.
His physical abuse went to the scrappier set of Knox and Sebastian.
Somehow, Clay knew how to deal with our dad, but he’d left the house as well.
Cort keeps his gaze on me.
He’s already admitted he remembers what happened between my father and me.
Ten years old, and my father was drunk.
Crawled into my bed, his breath hot at my ear.
I’d been frozen in place, uncertain how to react, my throat clogged with fear.
Sebastian’s voice is what I heard first, yelling you sonofabitch .
Knox was next.
I’d closed my eyes, squeezing them shut, knowing they were about to fight again.
My dad and Knox went at it constantly the year before he left for the Navy.
That night was the catalyst for our father’s death.
He took his own life.
I lick my lips. “Probably why I was such a wild child in my late teens and twenties,” I weakly attempt to joke, referring back to my dad not being a loving man.
“Chasing love in all the wrong places,” I add, huffing and dismissively waving my hand.
“I think there’s a song about that.”
Cort tilts his head, sympathy in his eyes.
“Little Bee. ”
“Anyway.” I bitterly chuckle, picking up my wine but pausing before taking another drink, “That got heavy fast.”
Phew , I don’t know where any of that came from, and I feel itchy and exposed, like I’ve revealed too much about myself.
Cort doesn’t take his eyes off me, watching me in that way he does, like he can see inside me.
However, I don’t want him to see all the broken pieces.
Slipping from the stool, I round the counter.
“Put me to work.” It’s the best way to take my mind off the memories and bring me back to this moment, where I’m safe, standing in Cortland Haven’s kitchen.
“Tonight”—Cort watches me—“I take care of you.”
I chuff, prepared to tell him I take care of myself.
On the tip of my tongue is a secondary retort: I don’t know what that would feel like .
I have no idea what it means to have someone take care of me.
Cort certainly took care with me last weekend, but I mean on a deeper level.
Someone looking out for just me.
My needs. My wants. My dreams.
As if knowing I’m about to argue, Cort keeps his steely eyes on me and unbuttons the cuffs of his shirt.
He methodically rolls up the right side and then the left.
My gaze instantly drops to his forearm.
“Oh, you got your bandage off. Let me see.” Without thinking, I reach for Cort’s arm.
He pulls back and I’m reminded that touching him comes with caution.
No sudden movements.
Noted . While I’m curious why that is, I don’t ask because I’ve already dampened the evening by bringing up my dad.
In an attempt to brush off the twinge of hurt at his retraction, I weakly smile and glance up at his face.
“Well, I’m glad you’re better.” That was some bandage he had on his arm before.
Slowly, Cort lowers his shoulders and stretches his left arm toward me.
He closes his eyes a second and flips his arm so I can see the inner part of his forearm.
Prepared for a deep cut or a nasty burn, I gasp when I see what’s really present.
Swallowing thickly, I say, “That permanent marker should have washed off.” Because a week out from drawing that silly bee on his inner arm, there shouldn’t be any trace of the mark.
What I see isn’t anything made with a marker, though, but definitely permanent ink.
“Cort,” I whisper, looking up at him again.
“Told you I’d never forget.”
My gaze falls once more to the tattoo etched into his skin in a perfect replica of what I drew.
A buzzing bee.
That’s forever , my head registers but my heart warns, don’t you dare hope .
With his arm steady, I point at the permanent artwork with a shaky finger, before pressing my forefinger to his warm skin and skimming over the bee and the little trail of dots behind it.
I want to throw myself at this man.
Wrap my body around him, tackle him to the floor, and beg him to take me.
Thankfully, he’s saved by the beep of the timer on the microwave.
“Grill should be ready.” He clears his throat, and I wonder if he’d been thinking the same thing I had.
I want him to mark me, in a way that’s better than the first time.
I want to have a permanent reminder of him as well.
When we eat at the kitchen island, Cort sits sideways, having pulled my stool close to his, and spreading his knees to bracket me in on my stool.
His left foot is casually on the low rung of my stool while his right knee is pressed against mine, keeping us connected somehow while we eat .
The steak is great, grilled veggies amazing, and the company exceptional.
The date is the best I can ever remember having.
With history between us, both good and bad, we easily recall shared moments as kids or similar experiences from having grown up in a small town.
An ease exists that’s always been there and the magnetic pull between us becomes a strong force.
When we finish the meal, Cort and I linger, finishing off the bottle of wine and laughing about stupid pranks and former dates on my side.
He admits he hasn’t dated much in the past.
“Bailey sort of took the wind out of my sail.” It’s the first time Cort’s mentioned his ex, and as much as I want to learn all about him and what happened, I’m not ready to discuss her .
“Anyway,” Cort sighs, reaching out and tucking my hair behind my ear.
“Tonight is about you.”
From the wine to the meal and even the conversation, I certainly feel like the center of his attention.
“Let me take care of the dishes,” I say, slipping from my seat and breaking our knee-to-knee connection, before Cort catches my wrist.
“Vale.” Our eyes lock.
“Leave ’em.”
“We don’t have to.”
But Cort is already shaking his head.
Just a slight left-right.
“Bee, who takes care of you?”
“I do,” I tease flippantly, but something dark in Cort’s eyes chops up my laughter.
“No, who really takes care of you?”
“Cort.” I blink, pulling my eyes from his, and tugging at my arm.
We don’t need to get heavy again.
It’s been a great night.
Slowly, Cort stands and removes the stool between us.
He steps up to me, cups the side of my neck and leans down to kiss me.
Just once, soft and sweet, like when I first arrived.
I want him to ravish me instead.
And I think that’s where we’re headed when Cort leads me to his bedroom.
Only once there, I’m met with a collection of candles on the bedside stand along with a jar of my honey cream.
“Did you steal that from me?” We don’t sell my stuff at Reflexology, so the only place he could have gotten a jar of my homemade balm is by taking it from the massage room.
Or my bedroom.
“I wouldn’t say stealing,” he teases.
“Oh, are you gonna give it back?” I joke.
“In some way, yes.” Cort nods toward the bed.
“I want you to lay down, head on the pillow.”
“Cortland,” I groan.
With his hands on my shoulders, he presses me to sit on the edge of his large bed covered with a dark-colored comforter.
“Tonight, it’s your turn for a massage.”
From my seated position, I stare up at him, thinking he must be kidding.
Then I glance at the candles and the cream and accept that he’s not.
“Do you even know how to give a massage?” I counter, wanting to sound playful but my throat is thick again.
“You can teach me.” He nods toward the bed.
“Lie down.”
My dress isn’t exactly massage friendly, but I do as Cort asks, swiping my hair to one side as I place my cheek on his pillow.
Instantly, I’m surrounded by his scent.
Balsam fir and a twinge of asphalt.
I want to press my nose further into the fragrance but resist.
“May I?” His fingers touch the zipper pull, mid-back, on my dress.
I nod and blow out a deep breath.
He’s taking this rather seriously, so I try to relax.
Unfortunately, the slow unzipping of my dress is like butterfly kisses against my skin, triggering flutters in my lower belly.
Cort spreads the two sides of my dress apart and unclasps my strapless bra with a quick snap.
With my back fully exposed, and my head on the pillow, I hear Cort open the jar of honey balm.
He rubs his hands together and then places them on my back the way I initially touch him.
“This is kind of an odd angle.”
“Sit on my legs.” The invitation comes out sultry and rich, and the second he straddles my thighs, I’m in trouble.
The river outside his window doesn’t compare to the wetness that pools at my center.
Cort does as I suggest but doesn’t put his full weight on me somehow.
Then he rubs his hands up and down my spine, digging his thumbs into my upper back and stroking up my neck.
Damn, that feels good .
He continues kneading his thumbs into my muscles, working one side to the other along my upper back before moving downward, along my spine, and eventually digging into my lower back.
My dress only spreads so far near my backside, above my hips, so Cort slips his hands beneath the material, squeezing at my lower lats.
I flinch and giggle.
He stills. “Ticklish?”
“Maybe.” As I told him once, a girl can’t give away all her secrets.
Cort softens his touch but still works on muscles I didn’t know were aching.
I stand on my feet most of the day but wear comfortable, supportive shoes for the task.
Still, my body isn’t as young as it used to be, though I work at keeping it strong.
Eventually, Cort removes his hands from the inside of my dress, and I think the massage is complete but then his palms settle on my ass.
He squeezes over the silky material of my dress, and I tense my legs.
“No-go zone,” he questions, instantly lifting his hands.
“I’m good.” I’m more than good.
I’m melting into this bed.
Cort massages the globes of my ass but then shifts his body lower, cupping underneath the swells and moving on to my thighs.
Starting at the back of my knees, he shimmies my dress upward to where the curve of my backside meets my legs and wedges himself between my spread legs.
He digs in once again, kneading the back of my thighs, working down to my calves and stroking over my bare feet.
With my eyes closed, Cort’s scent on his pillow filling my nose, and his hands laid gently on me, I could fall asleep, if I wasn’t also turned on.
“Feel good, Vale?”
I purr in response.
Cort slowly slides his hands up my legs, humming to himself as he strokes featherlight over my flesh.
“I’ve got another way to make you feel good, sweetness, but there’s no pressure.”
I’m in a vulnerable position here.
Belly down on his bed.
Legs spread around his knees.
Hands beneath his pillow.
“I didn’t bring a toy,” I admit, recalling he never actually touched me the other night and there’s nothing I want more.
I blow out a breath, trying to settle my apprehension.
Cort climbs over me, presses a kiss to my exposed shoulder, and whispers at my ear.
“Let me touch you.” He kisses my shoulder blade next.
“We’ll go at your pace. I just want to make you feel good. Take care of you.”
He means right now.
Tonight. And tears prickle my eyes, but I nod, giving him permission to play.
Sliding his hands over my hips, he hooks his finger into my panties and drags them down my legs.
He rubs his hands back up my calves and thighs and then dips between them.
In this position, I feel both exposed but exhilarated.
And when Cort swipes up my seam, I bend my knees a little bit, chasing his finger.
“It’s been so long,” I mutter, revealing more about myself.
“Same,” Cort whispers as he continues to explore.
He pops up on his knees and leans over me, balancing on one arm while his other hand traces lazily up and around sensitive parts, driving me nearly mad, before settling right where I need him.
I whimper in relief and arch my back, pressing against his fingers, hoping to stay out of my head.
As if Cort senses my hesitation, he leans closer to my ear.
“You’re so beautiful, Vale. Sweet and soaked. I can’t wait to taste you one day.”
I could beg him to taste me now, but I’m too turned on by his words, by his touch.
By the possibility of another date with him.
“One day . . . you gonna let me put my dick in you, Bee? Gonna let me savor that sweet honey dripping over me, coating me, marking me again?”
“Oh God,” I groan, lifting my backside higher, wanting him to go deeper.
Cort slides a finger inside me but quickly pulls out and returns to the sensitive bundle of nerves where I need him.
I’m wound tight again before he drops two fingers inside me.
“Jesus, Vale. The way I know we’ll fit.”
I grind back against his hand before he withdraws his fingers once more and meets my clit, rubbing in sharp, short circles that cause me to cry out within seconds.
I bury my face into his pillow and scream as an orgasm like no other rips through me.
“Oh my God.” I turn my head, not even certain what’s happening to me, feeling wetness spread, as I continue to ride out the two fingers Cort slipped back inside me.
Eventually, I collapse back to the mattress, a sprawled-out mess.
“Did I . . . did you make me . . .” I can hardly ask.
I think I squirted .
Cort leans forward and kisses my shoulder, his lips lingering a moment.
“Can’t say that’s ever happened before.” He smiles against my skin, and I picture a smug, proud look on his face.
“I’m so embarrassed,” I admit, but everything about that orgasm was better than anything I’ve ever experienced.
Cort slips to my side and our eyes meet.
“I never want you to be embarrassed with me. I enjoyed that.” His fingers tickle up my back.
“Why don’t you close your eyes a second, while I clean up?”
I nod because I honestly don’t think I can move.
The back rub. The new-to-me release.
I’m weightless and spent, and within seconds, I’m dozing off.