Jackson
My lips brush hers, and I tighten my hold on the counter to hide the fact that I’m shaking. I giggle—and it really is a giggle, like I’m drunk on the possibility of her kiss. That barely-there touch is all I need to know that once I start kissing her, I’ll never want to stop.
Her hands cradle my face, ever so gentle, with a smile begging to be licked away.
At long last, I kiss her. Delicate and tender. Her hands plunging into my hair. My tongue gliding across her lips, tasting the way they part with a gentle sigh.
For the first time, I’m kissing Kate.
For the hundred thousandth time, she’s kissing me.
I’ll relive this in every dream, and finally, I’ll know for certain it’s a memory. Her kiss is sweet and hot and demanding. Her wrists link behind my neck, pulling me deeper until my cock’s tugging at the fabric of my boxers and I’m pressing myself into her with a moan vibrating deep in my chest.
By the time I trust my knees not to buckle, there are deep grooves in my palms from the square counter edge, and I wipe them on the soft fabric of my boxers before running a hand down Kate’s spine.
Her back bows, arching her into me, filling my lungs with her breath.
Memories of kissing my wife before may be gone, but my body’s quick to remember.
Our kiss is unhurried and deep, with passionate strokes of our tongues and the occasional suck or nibble on a bottom lip. I hold Kate tight to the counter, running a hand through her hair the way she’s done to me countless times.
Kate’s hands coast over my naked upper body, knowing every curve and dip better than I do.
Meanwhile, I explore her, traveling the length of her torso, the satiny fabric catching on my rough skin.
Desperate to familiarize myself down to the most minute details, I’m undecided where to touch.
Selfishly, I want it all. She feels better than any dream—and I’ve done my fair share of dreaming about this moment.
The thin fabric of her tank top catches on an upward stroke, and my palm flattens to span her rib cage.
Kate moves into the touch with a soft sound that sears my nerve endings and makes my dick throb.
My thumb strokes small circles and hearts against the side of her breast, caressing her the way she deserves.
We kiss and kiss until my lips feel bruised and her chin’s reddened from the scrape of my beard. Kate’s mouth pulls away from mine, our foreheads connecting with panting breaths heating the gap between us.
“You’re still the best,” she says, a little huskily.
“No, you are.” I chase her lips, tasting every bit of Kate.
She toys with the elastic waistband on my boxers, slipping a finger underneath to nurture my insatiable need for more.
Kate kisses me again, teasing and playful, clearly wanting more with the way she’s fidgeting with my underwear.
She nuzzles into the space between my collarbone and jaw, and her front teeth nip at the hollow of my neck.
There’s no way she doesn’t feel my hard dick pressed to her thigh.
I wonder if feeling me rock against her is making her wet?
My heart tips and spills into my stomach at that thought. I want her so bad it hurts. But I care about her so much, I can’t have her. And that hurts, too.
“God, I missed this.” Her voice wavers. “I missed feeling your hands all over me. I missed you making me feel good.”
Fuck.
The trust and desire in her gold-flecked hazel eyes destroys me.
Kate deserves rose petals on the bed and gentle lovemaking with her sweet, attentive husband.
She doesn’t want to be fucked against the counter by a man who isn’t in love with her—yet.
Three little letters carrying the weight of those three little words.
I want to love her the way I loved her before, and maybe better. Once I’m a man worthy of her, I will love Kate Wells the way she deserves.
I take her hand, raising it to my lips, and dust soft kisses along the sharp ridges and valleys of her knuckles. Then I take a step back. Put some space between us before my dick makes decisions my heart can’t pay for.
Bleary-eyed, with kiss-swollen lips, she blinks at me in confusion.
“I, uh…” I nervously lick my lips. They taste like her. “What’s your middle name? I just realized I’ve never asked.”
She holds my gaze, glassy eyes reflecting the soft glow of the stove light behind me. “You stopped kissing me because you wanted to know my middle name?”
“I asked you on this date so I can get to know you. I want…I want to feel like you’re my wife again. And what kind of husband doesn’t know his wife’s middle name? Or…hell, any number of things I don’t know about you.”
The way you feel and taste and sound when you come, for starters.
“Renee.” She bends at the waist to reach out and catch my wrist, pulling my arm across the empty space. “Kate Renee Wells. Before you, I was a Dumont. So…there. Now you know.”
I take a single step in her direction. Pebbled nipples poke through the thin fabric of her top, begging to be toyed with, and I silently negotiate the terms of what might be allowable. If I learn enough about Kate first, fondling one of her full, rounded breasts should be fine.
“What did you want to be when you grew up?”
Her free hand cups the back of her neck, tilting her face toward the ceiling. “When I was a kid, I wanted to compete in dressage in the Olympics.”
My eyes widen. “Wow, you were that good of a rider?”
Laugh dolloped in wistfulness, she shakes her head. “No, definitely not. But that didn’t mean I didn’t want some sort of natural talent to appear out of nowhere.”
“And then you became…a nurse? Is that what your job was when you took care of my mom? I know you told me once before, but…”
“A care aide,” she softly corrects me. “When I was a teenager, I spent a lot of time with my grandpa while he was in hospice. He had some of the best people helping him every day—making sure he was comfortable and felt loved in his final days. I wanted to do that for people.”
“Being a world-famous equestrian would be cool, but I think the path you took was more important.” Another small shuffle toward her.
“And it gave me everything I didn’t even know I wanted. This ranch, your family, our kids, you. This life is so damn good, and I wouldn’t have any of it if I hadn’t become your mom’s care aide.”
How fucking good of a guy was Old Jackson that this perfect woman wanted to marry him?
“What did you want to be?” she asks, then quickly scrunches her face with a regret-filled wince. “Sorry, I forgot for a second…. Shit, sorry. Disregard. I’m an idiot.”
I bark a laugh. “Wait, this is fun. I can make up anything, and nobody can prove it’s not true. I wanted to be an Olympic swimmer—wait. Can I swim?”
She smiles only with her eyes. “Yes, you can swim. One time I watched you do a backflip off the rope swing down at the river. Maybe you could’ve been an Olympic diver.”
I snap my fingers. “That’s it. That’s what I wanted to do. Then I would’ve met you at the Olympics in some far-off country.”
“So your imaginary career goal is simply a means to meeting me?” Her whisper is hoarse. “That’s a gross misuse of kismet.”
“A childhood dream that brought me anywhere but this moment would’ve been a waste of time,” I confess.
The joy in her eyes makes my heart skip a beat, and I step in to feel her warm palm against my chest, her fingers threading through the fine hair.
And suddenly—fuck, so much for me keeping my distance—we’re kissing again and my hands curve to fill the valley along her spine. She whimpers into my mouth, hands cupping my ass and pulling me to her.
“Kate.”
Her pelvis rolls to drag against my crotch. I’m aching to feel her. Hands, mouth, pussy. Any and all of it.
“Kate,” I weakly protest. “We should go to bed.”
She bites my lower lip. “You think?”
“And sleep.”
Kate’s touch immediately drops. I watch the haze of lust leave her eyes, replaced with disappointment. “Oh, sorry, I…I shouldn’t have—”
“It’s not you. You’re perfect, Kate. You’re you and I’m…not me. Or, shit, it sounds stupid saying this out loud.” I gnaw at the inside of my lip. I expressed this thought to the therapist and now I’m lost for the right words to say.
She doesn’t say anything, but nods, barely. Takes the stupid, unintelligible bullshit I’m spewing with a straight face. Her muscles tense, a slow twitch in her arm. A slow, careful motion. But one that indicates she’s preparing to run.
“I just…” I swallow. “I don’t feel like your husband right now. And I’m scared if I cross that line too early, I’ll only feel further from him.”
If words had the power to inflict physical pain, I think mine just stabbed her right in the chest.
“It’s fine. I thought—it doesn’t matter what I thought…. I shouldn’t have pushed you to do something you clearly don’t want to do.”
“I want to touch you, Kate. Kit. So fucking bad. It’s like my body remembers you and my brain’s still trying to catch up.
And fuck, I want to know you the way you know me.
That’s the hardest part of all this. You haven’t changed.
You still look at me like I’m yours…like nothing’s broken.
I want to know what it’s like to love you again.
I don’t want to take something that was built on love and reduce it to muscle memory…
.” I fight to catch her gaze and hold it, whispering my darkest truth: “And if I…if I never remember what it felt like to love you, I don’t want what we do now to seem like I was only using you… pretending.”
Watching the hope in her eyes crash and burn, and the subtle flinch like something inside her folded in on itself, I hate that I was honest. Everything would be easier if I ignored the niggling guilt in my gut and gave in to the sparks of chemistry between us for tonight.
I told myself—told her—that I wanted to do things the hard way, but not like this. Not in a way that hurts her.
Kate blinks hard, but she doesn’t cry. The tiny muscles below her eyes spasm for a moment. When her voice finally comes, it’s quiet and controlled. “Okay…thank you for being honest.”
“Kate,” I start, already regretting everything I said. “I didn’t mean to hurt—”
“No, truly. I mean it. Thank you for telling me. I’d rather you be honest than fake it—that would’ve been so much worse.” With a stifled exhale, she wraps her arms tight around herself. “I’ll, um…give you some space tonight. Go back to the guest room.”
“I don’t want that.”
“I know,” she says, already stepping away. “But I think maybe I do.”
I watch her calmly leave, her hand brushing against the kitchen archway on her way out. Quiet footsteps disappear quickly in the night, and the stairs creak gently under her weight as she heads back to the guest room.
A balled-up fist slams down hard on the counter. Once, twice, then three times.
You fucking idiot. Your wife wanted you to touch her, and you pushed her away.
It feels as if my heart’s been torn from my body and run through a shredder. I hate this. This isn’t the hard way, it’s the excruciating way. And just when I think it can’t get worse, I return to a bedroom that feels like her, sheets that smell like her. My heart and head pound.
I don’t sleep.