Chapter 22
ALLYSON
“Ifeel like when we were kids and I’d drop you off after a date, praying that your parents didn’t answer the door. I knew if they saw my shit-eating grin, they’d know exactly what I’d been doing with their sweet little girl.”
The nostalgia turns into something sexier as he does a slow perusal, hot and hungry, down my body before smirking like he can see right through to what’s underneath.
“But now, instead of getting caught by your folks, I’m checking the windows to see if Cooper’s looking out.” Bruce chuckles but leans forward to look through the windshield, scanning every window. “No movement in the blinds. Looks like we’re in the clear.”
Tonight has been amazing. More than amazing, I correct myself. I knew I was going to go out with Bruce and we’d end up fighting or fucking. We definitely fucked, but it was something bigger than a cheap thrill and we both know that.
He patiently let me unpack one of my boxes of demons, listening thoughtfully and without judgement, and that meant more to me than he’ll ever know. He made me feel not just okay, but . . . worthy. And letting me set the pace was something I hadn’t even known I needed, but he did.
He’s still watching me for the clues. He’s been nothing but transparent about what he wants, but still, he lets me lead.
To me, that shows just how strong and good Bruce is, all the way to his core, and how much faith he has in me to know my own heart and find my own way.
I know he hopes I find my way back to him, but I think he’d understand if I truly wanted to go a different way.
It’d hurt him, no doubt about that, but I think he was being brutally honest when he said he just wants me to be happy.
I want that too.
“Cooper’s not home tonight. Michelle said he could sleep over at her house just in case .
. . you know.” I blush even though there’s no reason to.
I’m a grown woman who wants to have sex with a man who wants me.
There’s nothing wrong with that. I’m not sure if I’m telling myself or society at large that single mothers can be sexual creatures with wants, needs, and desires beyond their kids, and that it’s not only okay, it’s damn healthy.
My old therapist and my currently throbbing pussy say so.
I don’t examine my words, just let them come freely and wildly. “Want to come in?”
“Fuck yes,” Bruce rumbles before getting out of the truck and damn near high-stepping to get around to my side. Instead of helping me down, he turns and gives me his back. “Get on.”
I laugh, thinking he’s kidding. “I am almost thirty years old and a mother. I do not do piggyback rides unless I’m the one giving them, and Cooper’s been too big for that for years now.
I’m also too big for you to carry me like that.
” I try to hop down from his stupidly jacked-up truck, but his broad back is blocking me.
He looks over his shoulder. “You ain’t got your sandals on, and I could carry you one-armed.
We can do that instead, if you’d rather?
Want me to throw you over my shoulder, smack your ass on the way to the house?
Might be harder to unlock the door if you’re hanging upside down, though.
” He shrugs like he doesn’t care because he’s winning this battle of wills either way.
He paints a rather specific and sexy image. And while I might be all on-board with dating as a single parent, having Bruce carry me caveman style might be a little beyond the pale. I can only guess at the gossip if word got out about that.
Reading my face in the light coming from the porch, he grins like he won. “Piggyback it is. Hop on.” Guess he is winning, because damned if I don’t do it.
I push the truck door closed, and somehow, he beeps the alarm without my feeling wobbly at all. He’s got me secure, his strong hands locked under my thighs, which are spread around his waist. I’ve got my heels in one hand and my key in the other, both arms resting over his shoulders.
It feels silly and childish but also fun. Something I think I forgot how to do unless it was related to Cooper.
You’ve been having a lot of fun with Bruce.
I can hear the voice in my head teasing, but it’s right.
I have had fun more fun in the last few weeks than in ages.
Playing football, even though I suck at it, flirting, and just talking with him have all brought back this light inside me I hadn’t even realized was dim, barely flickering and on the verge of being snuffed out.
At the door, he bends forward so I can unlock it, and then he kicks it shut behind us. The house is quiet, the living room lamp on so the house doesn’t look deserted. Being alone behind a closed door suddenly feels full of possibility.
My sandals and the keys fall to the floor with a clunk, and I squeeze him tight between my thighs, wishing I were on his front instead of his back. I lean forward, my arms crossing over his chest, and whisper in his ear, “Down the hall.”
He angles his head, looking at me carefully. I can’t see myself, but I know my eyes are clear and bright. I’m sure. Of myself, of him, of this.
I point Bruce to the last door on the left, and he stops when he enters.
I watch as his eyes scan my bedroom, and I wonder what he’s gleaning about me that he didn’t already know.
I try to see it through his eyes—fluffy white comforter and enough pillows on the bed to give away my addiction to all things smooshy, a headboard I refinished myself with chalk paint and wax before deciding DIY was something I was never doing again, a white dresser with candles and knick-knacks I thought were pretty, and a cozy chair where I sit and read, usually for work but occasionally for fun.
“Pretty. Comfortable.” It’s just two words, but it’s my aesthetic to a T. It’s stupid, but I like that he gets it.
“You like it?” I ask, but my fingers are tracing the line of his trimmed beard along his neck.
“Love it. My room’s basically a place to crash. So I’m probably not the guy to ask for decorating advice.” He’s answering me, but at the same time, he’s tilting his head, giving me access to kiss his neck as his hands knead my thighs.
It strikes me as sad that he lives so casually.
Nothing about Bruce has ever been casual.
He’s always been full-throttle and had a plan—football, wife, farm, kids.
Somewhere along the way, he got stuck too.
I won’t be so narcissistic as to think it was because of me.
He’s had enough other family drama going on, but we both petered out along the way, losing steam and settling into a rut neither of us saw coming.
Maybe he’s right? Could we somehow put right what went wrong all those years ago? That sounds crazy, but it doesn’t mean it’s not possible. Stranger things have happened, right?
He spins, dropping me onto the bed unexpectedly, and I bounce, laughing.
He turns back, leaning over me and caging me between his arms as his fists dent the fluffy bedding.
I feel pinned beneath his gaze, his heat, his intentions.
But there’s not a bit of anxiety in my body. Instead, I feel safe . . . and needy.
“Cooper’s gone all night?” His voice is pure grit and sex.
I nod, on autopilot as my body simply yearns for his. Every cell inside me wants him, wants to be marked by him, wants to be possessed by him. That should be scary as fuck, but with Bruce, it’s not. Not at all.
Even that plan he always had, his expectations of what his life would be like, what our life would be like, should terrify me because that’s exactly where things started to go wrong with Jeremy. But deep inside, I know it’s different. Jeremy and Bruce are as different as night and day.
If you saw them side by side, you’d think big, rough Bruce would be the night, with its scary darkness, and Jeremy, with his pretty looks, would be the bright promise of each new day.
You’d be wrong. So very wrong.
Bruce is the light-bringer, the one who helped me grow up, reach higher for dreams I thought might be beyond my grasp. Jeremy is the one who put me into hibernation, a dormancy that shunted my progress as he savored my fading glow.
But the sun is back, and he’s looking at me with fiery need, daring me to reach for him again.
“Allyson, we’ve got all night, and as crazy as it sounds after everything we’ve been through, it’s our first time in a bed. Do you know how many dreams and fantasies I had of this? Let me worship you, let me love you. Please.” His voice is low and slow, so transparently hungry for me.
I can feel a hot burn stinging my eyes that he even recognizes this or feels like it’s important.
God, the people who look at him and only see the brutal monster he once was in football are missing the very best parts of this man.
But I’m not. I see every bit of goodness, kindness, and gentleness in his heart.
“Probably as many dreams and fantasies as I had about it,” I confess.
It’s the truth. So many of my teen imaginings were of this very thing.
An entire night to revel in each other, to fall asleep in each other’s arms, and to wake in the morning to a sleepy-soft Bruce was something I wanted desperately.
He falls over me, pressing me to the bed as his mouth covers mine. Softly, he kisses me, stoking the fire between us, not with lighter fluid and a quick flash of ignition but with a slow burn, taking time to build the flames, caring for the embers until we both need more.