Chapter Thirty-One
Everett
I wake up holding her.
The scent of her perfume and sex all around me. My face buried in her soft, coppery hair. My chest against her back.
At some point last night, she stole the covers, which are mostly bunched up in her arms, but I don’t care.
This feels too good.
A quick glance at the digital clock on my bedside table tells me it’s just after seven.
Around four in the morning, when we’d finally exhausted ourselves, we set an alarm for seven-thirty.
So, for a moment, I simply lie still, listening to the sound of Mila’s breathing, enjoying her warm skin against mine and the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest.
Everything about her is sexy. Those never-ending legs.
The satin skin. That gorgeous mouth. Her taste, her touch, her hands on my body.
The way she moves. She’s so fucking flexible and limber.
And the sounds she makes when I get inside her?
The words she whispers in my ear? Harder. More. Right there. I want ruin.
My cock stirs under the sheets, tapping at her ass like a salesman at the door.
I don’t even move, but inside a minute, I’m fully hard.
I suspect she’s awake when her breathing quickens, then I know it for sure when she reaches behind her hip.
Takes my cock in her hand. Strokes me with a firm grasp.
Licking my fingers, I reach between her thighs, careful not to be too rough after everything I put her body through last night. She sighs softly, her back arching. When she’s dripping, I pull one of her legs over my hip and enter her from behind.
I use my hand to make sure she comes first, and only when her moans subside and her body goes limp do I begin to thrust inside her. With every deep, hard stroke, she emits a sharp cry—different from the sounds of pleasure she made last night. Instinctively, I know she’s too sore for me to finish.
Pulling out, I roll her onto her stomach and straddle her thighs.
I slide my dick between them and rub the length of it along her slick, wet pussy while she moans into my pillow.
When I’m close, I fist my cock with one hand while filling the other with one luscious round cheek.
I don’t last long. A few hard pulls and I’m making a sticky wet mess on her ass.
Watching my cum drip onto her skin is so filthy hot, I never want it to end.
Grunting like a beast, I keep stroking my dick until every last drop is gone.
When it’s over, I brace a hand on either side of her and hang my head. “Sorry,” I say, out of breath. “Did I hurt you?”
“No. I’m just a little tender this morning.”
“I could tell.” I drop a kiss between her shoulder blades. “I’ll be right back. Don’t move.”
In the bathroom, I grab a clean hand towel and run the faucet until the water warms. After wetting the towel, I wring it out and hurry back into the bedroom just in time to hear the alarm going off. I hit the snooze button. “Good morning.”
She giggles, turning to look at me. One side of her cheek is resting on a pillow, which she’s hugging to her chest—I’m never washing that pillowcase again. Her face is flushed, her lips are puffy, and her hair is a mess. “Good morning,” she says softly.
She’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
I clean her up with slow, gentle strokes. “Is the towel too hot?” I ask, concerned about the red patches it’s leaving.
“No, it feels good. I just have the most sensitive skin on the planet, so all you have to do is look at me and it will leave a mark.”
“I did more than look last night.” That’s when I notice other blemishes on her body. A bruise on her hip. A scratch on her shoulder. An abrasion—from my scruffy jaw?—on the back of her thigh.
“Yes, you did. I enjoyed every minute of it.” Another giggle, this one full of mischief. “And don’t worry, the marks will fade.”
I hope they don’t.
I catch myself before I say it out loud, afraid the sentiment will sound too possessive. Too harsh. Maybe even too kinky. I don’t want her to think I enjoy inflicting pain on her. I don’t need to own her. And I certainly don’t want to hurt her.
It’s not really about the marks, I realize, watching her get out of my bed, resisting the urge to toss her right back into it. It’s whatever this is with us—that’s what I don’t want to fade. This time together. This connection.
This feeling.
Fifteen minutes later, we say goodbye at my door.
I have nothing on but a pair of jeans. Mila has on the little blue pajama shorts she arrived in and a green John Deere hoodie of mine she discovered hanging on the back of the bathroom door.
She asked if she could wear it home, which made me stupid happy.
It’s gigantic on her, hanging down below the hem of her tiny shorts.
But seeing it on her makes me want to throw her over my shoulder all over again.
Merlin, ecstatic to make a new friend, is trying his best to jump up and lick her face. I drag him off her, even though I understand the instinct. Mila laughs, leaning down to show him some love.
“What a cutie,” she says as he slobbers all over her—again, an urge I fully comprehend. “Is he always this way with strangers?”
“Pretty much. Merlin is not a guard dog. If an intruder gets in, it will be me protecting him.” I watch as he lies down on the floor and looks up at her adoringly, hoping for a belly rub.
Laughing, she gets down and obliges. “Well, you’re good at it. Isn’t he, Merlin?” A moment later, she gets to her feet. “I should go.”
“I hope your mom is doing better. Will you let me know?”
“Of course.” A hesitation. “I’m not sure when I’ll be able to—”
I shake my head. “Don’t worry about it. I’m just glad you came over. Even if you did hog the covers all night.”
She laughs, covering her face with her hands. “I am a total cover hog. But I get so cold!”
“I will gladly volunteer to keep you warm whenever body heat is needed.”
Dropping her hands, she looks around, as if noticing our surroundings for the first time. “Wow, you weren’t kidding about the walls in here. Your taste in interior design is…stark.”
I pinch her side. “So fix it for me, Freckles.”
“Be nice, or I won’t help you with your phytoremediation.”
“My what? Oh, is this what you were talking about last night?”
“Yes, and I bet you can’t tell me a single thing about it because you were not listening.” She gives me her best angry teacher face, but it’s still fucking adorable.
“Yeah, I barely passed Mrs. Shelton’s class either. Will you explain it to me again when you’re not naked?”
“Will you stop calling me Freckles?”
I pretend to think it over. “Only if you move in with me.”
She laughs. “We spent one night together, Everett. That seems like a drastic step two.”
“Wait ’til you hear step three.”
She scoops up the fuzzy sweater she arrived in last night, which is still lying on the floor where she dropped it. “I better get out of here before I get pregnant.”
“That’s step five. Don’t skip ahead.”
Another laugh bubbles from her. “You’re unhinged.”
“I know.” I catch her one last time around the waist and put my lips at her ear. “But you do something to me.”
I spend the day doing the equipment maintenance I didn’t get around to yesterday, but my work pace is slow.
Not because I’m tired—I feel oddly energized today, even after only a few hours of sleep—but because I’m so distracted by thoughts of Mila.
I purposely didn’t shower this morning, and I can still smell her on my skin.
Sometimes, I just stop what I’m doing, sniff my arm, and lose ten minutes recalling her hair on my pillow, her leg over my shoulder, her hands fisted in damp, twisted sheets.
I can’t remember the last time I felt so consumed by someone.
Around noon, I text her.
Everett: You really need to stop taking up so much time in my head. It’s rude. I’m trying to work.
She laughs at the message and replies.
Mila: SAME. I’m sitting here in this hospital room at my mother’s bedside thinking the dirtiest thoughts. She’s asked me twice what I’m smiling about.
Everett: What was your answer?
Mila: The mayor’s dick.
I’m chuckling at her response when she messages again.
Mila: I said I was just happy her fall wasn’t more serious and that the adjustment was successful.
Everett: Good girl.
Mila: Are you trying to turn me on?
Everett: I wasn’t, but I can if you’d like me to.
Mila: Better not. She just asked me who I’m texting that’s making me blush.
Everett: Then I’ll save it for another time.
Mila: I should get off my phone. The look of disapproval I’m getting is growing more intense.
Everett: Okay. Hang in there. I’m thinking about you.
Mila: XOXOXO
After lunch, the sky clouds over, and by three o’clock, raindrops begin to fall.
Deciding to call it a day a little early, I head home, grab a shower, and sit on the couch with my laptop on the coffee table in front of me.
I want to do a little research on that soil cleanup method Mila told me about.
Of course, I didn’t pay enough attention to even remember what it’s called—phyto-something? I’m forced to Google “plants that eat contaminants.”
Aha—phytoremediation.
As rain drums on the cabin’s roof, I begin to read.
What it is. How it works. How long it will take.
The cost. The risks involved. How it might affect the community.
The environmental benefits. What the site might look like during the process and once it’s complete. Examples of plants and trees that could be used.
A plan begins to take shape in my head, and I can’t wait to talk to Mila about it.
I wish I knew when I’d see her again.
The rain doesn’t let up, so I put Merlin and my toolbox in the truck and head over to my mom’s to fix a few things I’ve been meaning to get to.
My mom is out, and the house is shadowy and silent.
The kitchen smells sweet, like maybe she baked waffles or cinnamon rolls for breakfast. The aroma elicits memories of weekend mornings when I was a kid, before things got bad.
On weekend mornings, my dad would wake me up early to go fishing.
When we got home, the kitchen would smell like this, and there would be breakfast waiting for us on the table.
But there are other memories in this kitchen, too.
I stare at a crooked cupboard door and remember how mad my dad used to get if Gabi or I accidentally slammed them. His head was always pounding on Sunday mornings, his temper foul.
Goddammit, don’t bang those doors!
We weren’t doing it on purpose. The cabinetry was old—no soft-close hinges like modern kitchens have. All it took was a less-than-gentle push, and they’d slam loudly and bounce right back open again.
One summer morning, when I was sixteen and Gabi was fourteen, she was baking muffins, opening and closing cabinets to grab what she needed.
Slumped at the table, nursing his hangover with a beer, Dad had already yelled at her several times about the noise.
I was pouring a glass of orange juice and inwardly pleading with Gabi to be more careful.
I could see his rage building. Sense it buzzing in the thick, hot air.
Sure enough, she closed a cupboard door too hard for his aching skull, and he banged his thick fists on the table and pushed himself up. “Goddammit, girl. I warned you.”
I put myself in front of my sister. “Don’t,” I said as he lurched in her direction. “She didn’t do it. I did.”
“I saw her.”
“You saw wrong.”
Gabi started to cry. She knew what came next.
“Go upstairs,” I said over my shoulder.
She scooted out from behind me just as our father threw a right hook at my face, catching my jaw.
He tried to throw a second punch, but this time I was able to move out of the way. He fell forward onto the counter, knocking Gabi’s bowl full of muffin batter and a carton of eggs to the ground. Bouncing backward, he toppled onto the floor.
Our mother appeared in the kitchen doorway, a stricken look on her face. She hurried to his side and helped him up. Leading him out of the room, she looked at me over her shoulder, her eyes full of tears.
I shook my head and motioned for her to go. Later, she’d come to my bedroom and cry, begging my forgiveness for not doing more. But what could she do? She wasn’t going to leave him. She thought her duty was to stay by his side.
When she left, I cradled my sore jaw. Moved it from side to side.
My sister was trembling in the corner. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, tears streaming down her face. “I’m so sorry. It was my fault. I hate that he punishes you for things I do.”
“It’s okay. He’s got shitty aim.”
Choking out a laugh, she ran at me and threw her arms around my neck. “Why don’t you hit him back?” she asked, her voice muffled against my chest.
“I don’t want to hurt him,” I said. “I just want to protect you.”
I’m fixing the hinges on a cabinet door when my phone vibrates on the counter. I glance at the screen and see a text from Mila.
Mila: Hey, I have a little time and I’d love to see you.
My pulse kicks up. I set down my screwdriver and reply.
Everett: Want to meet me in town? Grab some dinner?
Mila: Actually, I was wondering if you’d like to come over. I have a lot of groceries here, and I could make us something.
Everett: You do not have to cook for me. You’re already taking care of your mom.
Mila: I enjoy cooking. Especially for someone who will appreciate it.
Everett: In that case, what time is dinner? And what can I bring?
Mila: You can come over now. Bring your appetite.
Everett: You know what you’re asking for, right?
Mila: ??