39. Alexandra
thirty-nine
The whole ride back, we don’t talk. Almost.
“How was your dinner?” is all I ask.
He clenches his jaw, but that’s all I get. Not even a sideward glance, not a single grunt. He called me his girlfriend, and then he dragged me out. Why isn’t he talking to me? Is he angry? And for what?
The minute we park, he jumps out of the truck and opens my door before I can unfasten my seatbelt. He makes brief eye contact that zings through my core, then takes my hand and holds it all the way inside the bakery, and up the stairs. Not angry.
Just firm.
Possessive.
Okay, then.
As he drags me past the second floor, he takes his phone out. “Hey,” he says. Going by the background noise, he’s calling Grace, and they’re still at The Growler. “She’s home safe… You guys shouldn’t hang out there alone.” Grace’s voice comes through the phone for a few beats, then he says, “She’s not my girlfriend. Tell your friends not to spread rumors. I was just getting her out of a situation.”
My heart dips at his words, but what was I expecting? And what do I want? Not to be his girlfriend.
I should be relieved.
But I’m crushed instead. Stupid.
“Close the door,” he tells me as we get to my room. He turns a side lamp on. “And take that shit off.”
Shit? What shit?
His eyes rake over my body.
Is he seriously calling my clingy green top, my favorite jeans, and my cowboy boots shit? I cross my arms, jut one boot-clad leg out to one side, and tilt my opposite hip to the other side. “What’s wrong with my outfit? That shit’s cute as hell,” I tell him with attitude.
He has the nerve—the nerve—to answer, “You didn’t wear it with me in mind.”
Oh yeah? Um, first, I was thinking about him when I was getting ready. And I know that’s not what he means but seriously? Seriously? I stomp to him. Grab his crisp white shirt and pull him to me. “And did you have me in mind when you dressed like Emerald Creek’s Most Eligible Bachelor to go to that dinner?”
He flinches. “Then take it off me,” he says softly.
My stomach clenches painfully. He doesn’t even try to deny it. He dressed for her. Jealous rage zings through me. Placing both my hands on him, I rip his shirt open, my nails grazing his chest. Buttons fly around the bedroom. I expect him to protest, but all I see in his eyes is desire.
He shucks his shirt off to the floor while I tug at his belt. Suddenly we’re undressing each other hard and furious. I kick my boots off, he pulls my jeans away, and while he grabs a condom, I take off my top and bra.
With his pants mid-thigh, he hoists me onto his hips, pushes us against the wall for purchase, and rips my thin, lacy thong off.
Then he fucks me hard. One thrust and he’s inside me. I pull at his hair, bring his head down to my neck, arch my back at his relentless pumping. His fingers dig deep in my ass as he pumps into me. “Babe… Oh fuck… Babe,” he says.
He lifts his face to mine, his breath short and hot on my face, and our mouths find each other in a hard kiss, teeth clashing, tongues demanding. He presses his body hard into me and the back of my head hits the wall. I wrap my arms tighter around his neck, fisting his hair. My orgasm is close, my thighs tightening around his hips as I ride him.
“Fuck me harder… harder,” I beg. He lifts deeper into me, one hand at my waist, the other under my ass, pistoning me.
“Alexandra, babe. Can’t ever get enough of you,” he says, and I come at his words, a deep, possessive orgasm where I look him in the eye and still can’t get enough of him either.
“I want you to come,” I say. “Please.” We’re both covered in sweat, his hair is matted, and he’s carrying all my weight, but still I want him to go the extra mile and fuck me against this wall. All. The. Way.
I want him to lose himself inside me.
He groans, his hips buck, and he grinds in and out of me at a faster rhythm, reawakening my own desire already. Then his cock throbs inside me, he stills, holds me tight against him, and comes on a low growl, his whole body consumed by a shiver, his arms tightening around me. He pumps some more, riding his own, long orgasm. By the time he comes down from it, my limbs are listless.
He steps out of his pants, and I barely have the strength to hold onto him as he carries me to bed, walking over our clothes strewn on the bedroom floor.
He sets us in bed, him partially seated against the headboard, me cradled in his arms, my knees on each side of his torso, the side of my face against his chest. For a while, he just strokes my hair gently, tipping his face to mine when I lift up to look at him, his nose grazing mine, his lips tracing the contour of my mouth, of my earlobe. Then his eyes darken. “I get that you didn’t like me going to Emma’s. I just wished you’d have told me. Spare me the trouble.”
“Trouble? What trouble?” I whisper. “Oh yeah, the Viking?”
He jerks his head up. “The wh—?” Then he drops his head back as understanding hits him. His lips curl up. “Nah, that was actually fun. Hadn’t done that in a while.”
He sets himself comfortably, adjusting my head on his chest, his hand in my hair. “You hated that, didn’t you,” he says.
“Um… no. It was hot.”
“Me being at her place,” he corrects me.
I still, my stomach clenching. Of course I hated him being there. Playing house. What does he think?
“It was a friendly visit. There’s nothing more to it. The kids were there.”
My heart squeezes.
“What?” he asks.
“It’s almost worse,” I whisper, picturing the perfect family gathered around the table for a nice dinner. The image of domestic bliss.
His arm squeezes around me, like he understands what I’m saying, but I know he can’t possibly scrape the surface of my pain right now. So I take a deep breath. The falling apart can wait.
“Hey,” he says, in the low tone that makes me melt. “I’m sorry this hurt you. I wish you would’ve told me, but I should’ve known. Shoulda read you better.”
“It’s okay,” I whisper.
“No, it’s not.” He pulls me closer into him, and I move my legs to rearrange myself so I’m straddling him, my knees at his hips, and lower my upper body flat onto his.
I listen to his heartbeat.
One hand comes back to my head. The other one lands on my back, and he strokes me.
God. It feels so, so good.
His low voice resonates inside me when he starts talking. “When Skye’s mother found out she was pregnant, she didn’t tell me right away. I heard it from Kiara. She was planning on giving the baby up for adoption without telling me. She didn’t think I’d step up, I guess.” He takes a deep breath. “I went to see her—she lived outside Boston. We met at a fast-food restaurant. I asked her how she was feeling, morning sickness and shit like that. The conversation was going well, I thought. Until I told her I’d marry her, take care of her and the kid. She didn’t have to worry about anything. I’d sort it out.”
He takes a break, and his heartbeat gets louder. Not a good memory.
“She laughed in my face,” he continues. “Literally laughed.” Another pause. “I didn’t think it was funny. At all. But then she stopped and asked me if I was serious. And I said, yeah. She looked at me like I was something the cat dragged in. Not in a million years, she said.”
God that’s awful. I wrap my limbs tighter around him, stroking his shoulder.
“It’s okay, beautiful. Long time ago,” he says and kisses my hair again. “I didn’t really understand where she was, socially. So out of my league, not even funny. I insisted, made a stink, went to see her father. That’s when I understood why she couldn’t imagine being married to me. She came from serious money. Not just big fat bank accounts. The kind of money that gives you power.
“The guy—her father—was decent. He wasn’t going to make his daughter marry me, and I was done with that plan anyway. But he saw my point about wanting the kid, and what difference was it to them anyway? His daughter sure as hell didn’t want to keep it. He was a businessman, used to planning for potential trouble. He saw I could be that to them. So he put his lawyers on it, we had court appearances and shit, and a few weeks after Skye was born, her mother was out of our lives for good. Never heard from her again.
“First I thought that was a good thing. Then I saw that maybe it wasn’t so great, for Skye. She had no mother, and the other kids around did. So I got her into therapy—that was Grace’s idea—and I made sure she had solid female presences around her.
“And that’s how Grace takes her to school every morning, and she spends more time at Emma’s than I would really care for her to, if I’m being honest. But I think it’s good for her to be around a mom, and she asks for it.”
I don’t interrupt him to say that what I believe, is that Skye wants to be around Caroline. But maybe I’m biased. For sure, I’m biased. Emma is stuck up, and Skye is unconventional and fun. Just my two cents here, that I’m keeping to myself.
“So that’s why, when Emma insisted on having me for dinner, I couldn’t really say no.”
“You’re a great dad,” I say. “Skye’s lucky to have you.”
He lifts my chin so he can look at me. “I want you to feel lucky to have me too, Alexandra. I never want to hurt you again the way I did tonight.”
I shake my head. “It’s okay.”
“I know I did. I saw it in your eyes when I left. I should have known better. I’m sorry.” He lifts his head to capture my mouth in a slow, tender kiss. “What do you want from me, Alexandra?”
I hold his face in my hands, raking through his hair, and my body comes alive atop his. My hips writhe on their own, my middle finds his erection.
What I want from him is too big, too scary for me to even consider.
“Mm?” he insists.
“I want you to want me,” I answer against his lips, then dip my tongue into his mouth.
But he flips me on my back, breaking our kiss, and holds my head between his hands. “Fuck, Alexandra, what does this look like to you?” His eyes search mine. “You’re the best thing that’s happened to me since Skye, beautiful. I don’t want to fuck it up.” He dives for my neck and inhales me, then kisses me from my neck to my collarbone, then dips to my breasts, bringing me to the edge already. I dig my nails in his shoulders and nip on his earlobes. He hisses my name, grabs a condom, and places himself at my entrance. His locks of dark hair fall around his face, his eyes are the deepest color they’ve ever been.
“Lemme be clear, Alexandra,” he growls. “You’re mine, and I’m yours.”
His words alone could send me over the edge. As he pushes inside me, I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, meeting him thrust for thrust. Our foreheads connect. We smell of fresh sweat and sex, and the only sounds are his grunts, my moans, and my insides sucking his cock in.
We don’t last long.
He lets me ride my orgasm first, sucking on my nipple, flicking my clit, and swear to god, it turns into a three-in-one orgasm, three waves one after the other as I come first from his nipple action, then from his expert finger on my clit, and finally, finally, a deep inside orgasm that seizes me head to toe, where I hear myself scream.
Then, only then, he comes, and his powerful body thrusting into mine, falling apart in mine, is the most beautiful thing.
Then he flips on his back, cradles me into him, and strokes my hair until I fall asleep.
I wake up at an ungodly hour when he lifts me off him to get up. I hear his shower.
He spent the whole night with me.
I hop in the shower then follow him to the bakehouse, fix him his coffee, and curl on the couch in the den so I’m closer to him while he practices for the competition.
For the next several weeks, this is how we are. When Skye is home, he tries to crawl back into his own bed. Sometimes he forgets. Or he simply just doesn’t want to leave. I’ll never know.