Chapter Fifteen
Whitney
I’ve been anxious since I heard his truck pull in the driveway.
It’s not overly loud, but loud enough. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t have one of those annoying mufflers like Trevor put on his.
Like all of the things they share in life, they both have a love for big trucks.
Both blacked out with chrome, but Ryan’s is lifted a little higher to accommodate his height.
Trevor makes jokes about how Ryan has little man syndrome, but I know better.
A flash of heat runs through my body as I think about his size.
God, I miss the feeling he gave me as he thrust into me that night, the welcome weight of him laying on top of me, the way our eyes locked when he made me come. Damn, it’s hot in here now.
Fanning my hand in front of my face, I try to cool my wayward thoughts. This past week has been awful. If I didn’t know better, I’d think I’m a teenage boy. After looking it up on the internet though, I know I’m good. This is completely normal, no matter how unnatural it feels.
Putting my palms to my cheeks, I pace in front of the door as I wait for him to knock.
Opening it before he gets there would be a total rookie move on my part.
I’m the older one here, the supposedly more experienced one, and I should be able to keep my crap together.
The knock I’ve been waiting for finally comes, so I take a deep breath and wait at least thirty seconds before I say “coming”.
That’s right, Whitney, act like you haven’t been waiting on him to get here.
The image I’m greeted with is absolutely mouthwatering.
Starting from the bottom, I let my gaze eat him up, for lack of a better term.
His feet are encased in leather boots, maybe motorcycle (definitely not cowboy), leading into dark jeans that don’t fit snuggly but they aren’t loose either (he can move in them), up past a gray and black open flannel shirt that’s rolled up to his elbows, and a white undershirt shows off the dark tan he has.
He must not have had time to shave because he’s sporting the tiniest little bit of stubble.
I shiver, remembering how it felt against my neck the morning we woke up together.
I would love to feel it again. I want to make it a reality, but I don’t know how to go about propositioning him.
His hair is adorably mussed, like he spent the entire ride over here running his hands through it.
“These are for you,” he thrusts the bouquet of wildflowers in his hand at me. “And this is for us,” his other hand holds a loaf of fresh bread.
I’d completely missed he was holding them, the only thing I could focus on was the corded strength of his forearm.
“Thank you,” when I grab them our fingertips touch and the spark is back, the one that burned so bright the night we were together.
The flame so strong it sucks out the oxygen in the room, and both of us gasp.
I’m the first one to pull away. “C’mon in,” I motion him inside. “I’ll put these in some water and then we can eat, dinner’s ready.”
“It smells delicious,” he comes in, shutting the door behind him. “You look gorgeous by the way, Princess.”
That nickname he’s given me takes up a space in my heart that I never thought would be big enough for anyone again.
It’d closed and a lock had been placed around it, tightly squeezing the joy out of most things when I’d been with my ex-husband.
Ryan though, just the sound of his voice chips away some of the stone.
I can’t tell if it’s the southern lilt so much like mine, or if it’s the slightly teasing tone he uses with me.
No one ever teases me. As soon as they see me, they see debutante and assume I can’t have a little fun.
“Thanks, I wore it because it’s so hot today,” I look down at my pale pink sundress, noticing for the first time that I may, in fact, look a little like a princess.
“Damn, I know. Tank and I were bitching about the heat. We had to check the calendar and make sure it’s May, not August. Wearing our vests and all our gear is miserable.”
A feeling of dread comes over me, and I stop a moment to put my hand over my heart. “Promise me both of you will wear those vests from now on without complaining. You both have something to live for, and two people who want you to come home at the end of a shift.”
His eyes soften and a smile spreads across his face. “Believe me, I’ll do everything I can to get home unscathed and so will Tank. I just have to make sure he doesn’t kill me when he finds out the truth.”
“I’m going to tell him,” I assure Ryan. “It just hasn’t come up yet.”
“I don’t want you to tell him without me there. If he gets upset, he needs to get upset with both of us, and you shouldn’t have to deal with it on your own.”
This man says all the right words at all the right times.
It makes me nervous – maybe he’s better than I deserve.
I’ve been willing to write him off at every turn because of his age – almost refused him a chance to let him get to know his child.
I’m seeing I was wrong in presuming I know him.
In the end, maybe he’s more mature and better equipped to handle our situation than me.
Renegade
My stomach growls loudly, causing me to put my hand over it and a blush to cover my cheeks. “Sorry.”
She giggles, grabbing our two drinks as she makes her way over to the dining room table. “I’m glad I’m feeding the beast.”
In my jeans, my cock twitches. She has no idea which beast wants to come out and play.
Whitney Trumbolt has always been a beautiful woman, but she has no clue how hot she looks in the dress she’s wearing tonight.
Pale pink lace shimmers over her body, the length skims just above her knee, and her fuck me shoes?
Shit, I don’t know how she keeps wearing them, but my cock appreciates the effort.
I never understood what people meant about a glow when women were pregnant, but tonight I get it.
She’s absolutely radiant, and if I didn’t know better, I would think she was glowing.
My eyes rake over her body one more time, hoping she doesn’t see me as I get my plate full of potatoes, carrots, pot roast, and the bread I brought.
With my hand on the ladle, halfway between pulling it out of the crockpot and putting it on my plate, I stall.
She’s taken my drink over to the table and bent over, facing me, giving me a view down the front of her dress, only obscured by a pink lace bra.
Her tits are bigger than they had been, not by much, but by enough they are trying to free themselves from their prison. My fingers itch to let them loose.
“Did you need something else?” she asks as she sees me looking over at her.
You sprawled out on the kitchen table with your dress around your waist, panties pushed to the side, and me with my pants down far enough to get my cock out. That’s exactly what I need. I have to remind myself she’s talking about food. “Nope, got everything right here.”
With a few fortifying breaths, I gather myself together and walk over to the table, pulling her seat out for her. “You go ahead and sit down. If there’s anything else you need, let me know and I’ll grab it.”
“Thanks,” she smiles up at me, and it’s enough to make my stomach flutter. “I have it all,” she gestures to the plate in front of her.
As we sit down, I realize how fucking awkward I feel right now. I’ve seen this woman naked, I made a meal out of what’s between her legs, but I’ve never had so much as a real conversation with her. Not really – not when there’s an age difference like there is between her and Tank.
“I hope you like it.”
The soft words are spoken in a way that makes me think she’s nervous, like it matters what I think.
Maybe she wants to please me. Again, the word please does things to me.
I’ve gotta get this shit under control. Maybe next time before I come over, I need to jack it in the shower at least twice.
Taking a bite of the food in front of me, I moan as the flavors hit my tongue.
It’s an explosion of amazingly seasoned and cooked meat, much better than the microwave shit I do most of the time.
It’s hard to cook for just one person and not have enough to feed an army – so I normally buy single serve that cooks up fast. “Damn, you can cook a meal.”
“You like it? I seasoned it a different way than I normally do. Something I found on Pinterest.”
“Fucking amazing,” are the only words I can get out before I go back in for another bite. It’s been hours since I last ate, and the amount of working out I do, I usually like to eat every few hours.
We’re quiet for the next few minutes. I’m shoving food down my throat, and she seems lost in her own thoughts. When my stomach is no longer clawing at itself in hunger, I set my fork down and chew slower, grabbing a piece of the bread.
“How was your day?”
Whitney glances up at me, like she’s surprised I asked. Maybe she’s surprised I care.
“Good,” she takes a drink of her ice water. “I had a meeting with a new client. She’s interested me in doing both a wedding and a business event for her.”
“You don’t do business events usually, do you?”
She shakes her head. “Not so much anymore. When I first started, it was more of an event planning business, but it slowly evolved to weddings. Which is what I like to do more than anything. It’s hands on, and I get to work directly with the bride and groom.
Sometimes it can be plain and simple, sometimes it’s black tie and Cinderella fancy.
I never know what my day is going to bring – that’s what I like about it. ”
“Kinda why I like police work and the task force,” I can relate. “No day is routine, there’s always something different about every shift.”
“What do you do when you’re bored?”
The question catches me off guard and I want to clarify what she’s asking. “When I’m at work or when I’m at home?”
“Either. We don’t know a whole lot about each other except what we have in common with Trevor and what we look like with our clothes off.”
I laugh because she’s right. “If I’m at work, I’m normally with Trevor.
We read news articles to each other, or we talk about sports.
Sometimes we’ll park the patrol car and take a walk, just to get out and do something different for a while.
If I’m at home, I either Netflix something, go workout, or go work in the wood shop I put in behind my apartment. ”
“You do woodwork?” her eyes light up.
This is a part of myself I keep quiet, not because I’m embarrassed, but because it’s important to me.
Not many people know I do it. My grandfather taught me as a kid before he passed on, and what he didn’t teach me, I taught myself.
“Yeah,” I grin at her enthusiasm. “I’m not super good at it, but I enjoy it.
Once or twice a year I’ll set up at one of the festivals, usually the winter one since people want Christmas gifts. ”
“Do you do well?” she asks, very interested in what I’m telling her.
“Usually sell out,” my voice is quiet. I don’t want her to think I’m bragging. I don’t do it for the money, I do it because it’s fun and it makes me feel closer to the one man who gave a damn about me.
“Ryan that’s amazing.”
“Everybody has that one thing they’re good at, right?” I shrug.
“From where I sit you’re good at a number of things.”
I try not to let those words mean as much as they do, but I can’t wait to show her what else I’m good at. When I put my mind to something, I conquer it, and I can’t wait to be great at being a father to our child, along with a reliable partner for her.