Chapter Ten
Marlowe
Everything is perfect, I tell myself as I snuggle into my pillow, unsure of what exactly broke the thread of my dream.
I've acquired a few great pieces of furniture, and we made plans to visit the next town, which has a much bigger furniture store and a huge flea market on Saturdays, according to the girls.
In broad daylight, it was clear that Turner Richards, the guy I bought the cottage from, hadn't done a good job cleaning out the place. It seems he only had the main bedroom cleaned; the rest of the house was a mess.
I'm just glad there aren't any other things living in the house with me—furry things, or things with scales or wings, or anything that scurries around at night.
I didn't find a single unwanted guest of the vermin kind, and best of all, Benjamin Lawrence hasn't made another appearance.
I guess I showed him. Also, I lock up like a warden at night so he can't sneak in and surprise me again.
Turning my house into a home is an overall great experience. I like it. It's taking shape. I could totally live here and not have a care in the world for the rest of my life.
It's going to be perfect. Well, as perfect as it can be if I don't take into account the grumpy sheriff who arrested me on my first night in Candy Creek and who won't leave my thoughts alone, not for a second. Him and his stupid, handsome face.
I also don't like the fact that I find myself seeking him out—to show him I'm prospering, I tell myself—because I need to see his face again.
I've only caught glimpses of him, a glance the length of a breath.
My heart races, my nipples swell, and my panties feel too tight against my wet clit.
But I'd rather walk straight into a beehive than let him know how I feel, so to cover up the fact that my body is on fire at just the sight of him, I glare at him, hard, without mercy, so he has no idea just how wet I am.
But ugh, the man even bothers me in my sleep. I grumble and turn around. Except I can hear his voice now, calling my name a little too clearly.
"Leave me alone," I mutter.
But he won't leave me alone, and now there's incessant banging somewhere too. What is going on?
Consciousness comes to me in slow degrees. My eyes open against their will. I unlock my ears too. Two things become clear: it's the middle of the night, and the sheriff is banging my door down, telling me to open up.
There really isn't any emergency that warrants him banging my door down at this hour, and I want to scream at him for waking me up. It's unethical, to say the least.
Still half-dazed but furious, I grab a pair of jeans and a loose tank top-style sweater. I want to be fully clothed when I confront him. Besides, he's seen enough of me anyway.
After slipping on a pair of soft boots, I stomp down the hallway, swing the door open with more strength than I knew I had, and for a second, I wonder if I tore it off its hinges. I'm that mad, and there stands the man.
He's so fucking gorgeous, I actually quite hate him.
My hair is a mess, my sweater is not only inside out but also on backward, and I can barely open my eyes.
"Come on," he says, all wide awake and attractive. Ugh.
"It's the middle of the night."
"It's after four in the morning."
"I don't understand your point."
"I'm taking you around Candy Creek. It's compulsory. It needs to be done in person, and I don't want to fail on a technicality like this."
"What are you talking about?" I groan.
He doesn't answer. Instead, he walks away, confident I'm going to follow. Dammit. I follow because what the hell is he doing, and where is he going?
Then the infuriating man walks toward a horse—one of two, mind you. A whole beast of a horse.
"Come on," he says again, as if he wants me to get on the horse. I think not.
"Nope," I say, turning around and heading back to my bed, where a few more hours of blissful sleep await me.
I don't know how he moved so fast or so silently.
One minute I'm wobbling away from him—still sleepy—the next he comes charging toward me on the other horse.
He scares the hell out of me, and I scream loud enough to wake the dead ancestors of Candy Creek.
Then he leans down, scoops me up as if I weigh nothing, tosses me onto the saddle, and plants me right between his thighs.
I'm too far from the ground; I'm going to fall. Also, I'm on a horse. When the girls at my posh boarding school played polo or did anything equestrian, I signed up for chess. There was no chance of a chess piece biting me.
Now I'm sitting on one. The sheriff has one arm around me, his hand splayed across my stomach, his pinkie resting on my bare skin under my cropped sweater, while he holds the reins in his other hand, guiding the horse into a trot.
I'm digging my nails into his forearm, revealed by his shirt sleeves rolled up. He's so ripped with muscle that I wonder if I'm going to break my nails.
"Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god," I cry.
"I got you," he says into my ear, his breath whispering against me as he draws me closer to him, nestling me deeper between his thighs, his hard cock pressing against me, making my pussy throb immediately.
The searing contact of his breath on me and his body against mine creates a new storm inside me, confusing my body completely. I'm in lunge-or-liquefy mode.
"I won't let you fall," he says softly.