CHAPTER ELEVEN SABRINA
CHAPTER ELEVEN
SAbrINA
It’s been a few days since he kissed me like that, but I’m still all hot and bothered.
Hell, I’ve been hot and bothered since he arrived.
The kitchen fan whirs overhead. The sound of Dad and Serena rumbling down the drive rings in my ears, reminding me it’s just me and Coen in the house for a little while.
I wonder if they’ll be back or stay out for dinner.
Maybe I’ll make Coen a bag lunch and leave it outside his door if it’s just us.
That would be the smart thing to do. Just us seems dangerous.
Instead, I go upstairs into the spare room, where the ladder to the attic sits.
Dust rising, I push it over and hook it into the brackets.
I climb up and give the trapdoor a gentle push, turning my head to avoid falling debris.
Nothing comes out. Dad must have been up here recently.
Pushing it all the way open, I climb through and straighten.
The attic is an A-frame, light wood space with finished walls and a circular window to let in the sun. The motion-activated lights switched on when I came up the ladder, revealing the boxes and odds and ends.
My stomach dips.
All of Mom’s stuff she left behind is still here.
She never wanted it, even when I got older and offered to ship it out.
Softly, I tread in a slow circle. My fingertips slip over the dusty surfaces of cardboard, over her records, over the plastic garment bag covering her wedding dress.
They come to a halt on a black, alligator leather guitar case. Dust sits thick on the textured top.
I flex my hand and then wipe it back.
Maybe I’m not ready to open that up. Stepping back, I go to the record player by the window, draped in fabric. Clouds rise as I pull it back.
I smile. I can’t help myself.
Digging through the pile of Mom’s records, I look for the worn ones.
The first one that falls into my hand is the Greatest Hits of Johnny Cash.
I set it in and place the needle, and the strains of the first song waft through the attic.
My face hurts from smiling. Just underneath it is Dolly Parton; I set that on the edge of the table.
That used to be one of my favorites when I was tiny.
The stairs creak.
I freeze. “Hello?”
“Hello?”
It’s him. My heart skips a beat. I open my mouth to say I’ll be down in a second, but he’s already coming up the ladder.
The attic is boiling hot already, but I’m ten times warmer as he appears in a white t-shirt that hugs his shoulders perfectly.
There’s a scuff of dirt across the stomach.
He’s been putting in the work this week on the ranch, proving his cowboy past to the wranglers.
I’m not complaining. Every time I look out the window or walk across the lawn to the barn, I get a show that makes my head spin.
It's probably bad to look, but I’ve been looking.
And that’s why, as his body unfurls from the stairs, I have to drag my gaze back to the record in my hand.
“You need help?” he asks, glancing over the room.
I shake my head. “I was just coming up to look through some things.”
He goes to the record player. “Is this all your dad’s things?”
“No, it’s my mom’s.”
His eyes flick up, intelligent, patient. I like the way he observes people before he speaks. “Bill said she lives in NYC.”
I nod. “Yeah, she remarried. A hedge fund manager.”
“Interesting. That’s a move.”
I shrug, reaching out to lift the needle, but he takes my wrist before I can. The mood changes abruptly, tension rippling at the contact of warm skin. Mouth dry, I flick my eyes up, and they lock with his.
He swallows hard.
The song ends, and the next one starts.
“You can two-step to this one,” he says.
“Oh yeah?”
He moves in, one hand lighting on my back. He might be quiet, but he’s bold. Strains of I Walk the Line dissipate. All I know is looking into his eyes while being in his arms. Everything tingles. Everything is burning hot. Except my feet; those are cold with nerves.
“Here,” he says softly. “You just move. Like this.”
He does, dancing me slowly down the center of the attic.
I keep up with him, which is a miracle with how empty my head is from being so close.
It’s a little bit of dancing, but it's enough to change everything.
We slow down and come to a halt by the trapdoor.
His fingers tighten around mine. We both go still enough to hear our heartbeats.
“I’m having a bit of trouble,” I whisper.
“With what?”
“Behaving.”
His pupils dilate, and he leans in and kisses me. My pulse goes wild, and my body melts, fingers wrestling from his so they can tangle in his t-shirt. This time, he doesn’t hold back. His mouth parts my lips, and his tongue brushes past them, curling for a second before he pulls back.
“Go on, get down the ladder,” he orders.
He doesn’t have to tell me twice. We scramble down, and I make for the door, but he grabs me by the nape and slings me back around to face him.
Shocked, I fall into his chest. His mouth meets mine again, and his hands slide under my shirt to pull it free.
Then, he lifts me in his arms, and we fall into the guest bed together.
“I don’t have a condom,” I pant.
He kisses between my breasts, down my stomach. “I have one.”
Oh, he came prepared. Interesting. I don’t have time to think about it, because he bites my hip, and my spine arches. His mouth drags across my stomach. His teeth close on the button of my jean shorts. His tongue flicks, and they’re unbuttoned, his teeth pulling down the zipper.
Oh God, I think I’m soaked.
My head falls back. I can’t resist him.
We shouldn’t be doing this, but I don’t want to tell him to stop.
He pulls my jeans off, and they hit the floor with a finalizing thump.
He dips his head down and kisses my clit through my panties.
Oh God, that goes right to my core. His teeth close over the fabric just below my navel, and he drags it down, leaving me naked except for my bra.
I gasp, and then his mouth is on my pussy.
Licking, pushing his tongue inside—oh, goddamn.
I wriggle, and he grips my hips, holding me against the mattress.
The first time, he was hesitant.
Not this time, clearly.
He licks me from clit down to my pussy, shoving his tongue in as far as it can go, fucking me with it. In, out, curling up and swiping at the sensitive spot just inside.
My hand tangles in his hair.
“Fuck, baby,” he moans, not looking up. “You taste good.”
“Do I?” I murmur, breath hitching.
He lifts his head, sliding two fingers into me to the middle knuckle.
Pleasure moves out in a quick wave. My head goes empty as he fucks me with them, loud, wet.
Then, he pulls them free and slides his palm up my chest. His tongue drops to my clit again, flicking and sucking.
The fingers just inside me slide over my lower lip.
I’m so horny that, though I’ve never tasted myself, I part my mouth and let him push them inside.
The taste is a little sweet. Dimly, I’m aware he’s got his mouth locked on my clit, licking fast, pushing me relentlessly closer to the edge.
The two fingers in my mouth move in and out.
Euphoric, I suck them the way I would his dick.
Oh…that’s it.
Pleasure bursts. A hot wave, an explosion.
My trembling thighs lock around his head. My body rocks with the waves. A moan rumbles from below.
Alright, so he was holding back the first time.
I expect him to sit up, roll on the condom, and fuck me, but he stays where he is.
My orgasm ebbs until I’m a shivering mess on the bed, thighs tingling.
His mouth slips from my clit and goes down to my pussy, licking the entrance.
A low rumble comes from his throat. This is somehow the hottest and the most embarrassing thing simultaneously.
The few men I fucked weren’t this into giving head.
I didn’t realize how it would make me feel to be in the spotlight, how overwhelming.
But I’m not uncomfortable enough to ask him to stop.
I don’t want him to.
This is a new sensation. I’ve never had anyone eat me out right after orgasming.
Everything is so sensitive, to the point of making me whimper aloud.
My toes curl so hard, they ache. It’s overwhelming.
I’m trying to breathe through it, but I can’t.
My hand comes up and pushes his head out from between my thighs.
He looks up, catching his breath. “What’s the matter, baby?”
“It’s just…a lot.”
His eyes narrow, the corner of his mouth curling. “Stick with me, baby. Breathe through it, wrap those legs around me. I’m gonna make it worth your time.
I hesitate. I want it. God, I do.
My head sinks back, thighs parting. He rumbles his appreciation and goes back under.
I run my fingers through his hair, trying to distract myself from how overwhelming everything is.
His right hand comes up and runs firmly over my hip, kneading my thigh, cupping it.
My hips melt into his touch. He licks my pussy, but this time, it’s less fervent, more a soft intro than the bridge leading into the chorus that just tore through my frame.
The bed is so soft, I’m melting into it.
It’s a hot afternoon. I roll my head to the side.
The window is shut, but it’s old, and a faint breeze still flutters the curtain at its lace edge.
It feels somehow significant that we’re doing it in the spare room.
Mine feels like there’s too much history there.
The steward’s house doesn’t feel like home.
Here, in the guestroom, is something new.
This time, it doesn’t take long.