Chapter 23
Twenty-Three
Briar
My eyes are so swollen from crying, I can barely read the words on my kindle screen.
But even if I could, the romance novel I’ve been reading in my spare time isn’t making me feel better.
For once, getting lost in the fantasy of a man falling at my feet isn’t what I want.
Because in the last couple of hours, I’ve hurt two good ones.
West because…well, he’s not Colt.
And Colt because…he’s Colt.
The Colt of my dreams, my fantasies, my heartbreak…and a different Colt who I’m still learning, who’s told me things that shatter my heart all over again and then piece it back together.
And I told him to go.
When he has nowhere to go.
My lungs hitch and I slam my eyes closed, trying to breathe deeply. I need to stop crying. I’ve shed so many damned tears I should be a shriveled up skeleton by now.
But I can’t seem to get them to stop.
And now I can’t read, not from my swollen eyes or because it’s painful watching the main characters move toward their happily ever after, but because my vision has gone blurry.
“Ugh,” I whisper, dashing away the offending tears.
I need to go to sleep.
Frankie will be up bright and early, and I’ve got to get ready to tell her that I…kicked her father out.
Great.
That’ll be fun. Can’t wait—
The door to my bedroom flies open.
I gasp, thinking that Frankie’s sick or some maniac has broken into the house. But even as those thoughts are crossing my mind, I’m freezing.
Because a big hand is catching it, stopping the wooden panel from slamming into the opposite wall…
And Colt is striding into my bedroom.
I can’t ignore the thrill that brings.
I just don’t have all that long to process it…
Because the next second, he’s swinging the door shut.
Click.
The lock goes and my breath catches.
“What are you—”
His head whips toward me, blue eyes blazing with something I can’t read—or maybe it’s that he has so many emotions flying through his face, I can’t detangle them all.
Rage and hurt.
Need and heat.
Softness and pain.
And yearning.
So deep and intense it calls to that well inside me, the one that’s existed from the moment this man walked out my door five years ago. One that’s grown, yawning and gaping, its deep black depths reminding me that despite all I have and no matter how lucky I remind myself I am…
My life is empty.
Without this man.
Even as I’m thinking that, he starts moving again.
Toward me.
Toward my bed.
And not stopping until he’s right beside it, his eyes full of that flurry of emotions but his tone deadly calm.
“You’ve been keeping things from me.”
I clench my Kindle a little tighter, lungs suddenly constricting. “Wh-what are you talking about?”
He just stares at me for a long moment.
Then he says, “You know exactly what I’m talking about, baby.”
I blink. Swallow. “Colt.”
Something ripples through his eyes when I say his name, but he just murmurs, “Talk to me.”
“About what?”
“Baby.”
And when he doesn’t go on, I start to get irritated. “About what, Colt?”
He just lifts a brow.
I huff out a sigh, lift my Kindle. He wants to play the silent game? Great. I can do the same and get lost in my fictional love story.
At least this hero won’t ever leave his woman.
But I barely get my eyes on the screen before he’s plucking it out of my hand and tossing it aside.
“Hey!”
“You and West?” he asks icily.
I still.
Then realize that’s dumb.
That I’ve given away too much.
“West and I are none of your business,” I tell him.
“It damn well is.”
I open my mouth to snap back, but I don’t get so much as a single syllable out.
Because his hands are wrapping around my wrist and he’s yanking me up to my feet and—oh my God…
He’s kissing me.
This is insane.
He’s insane.
I’ve spent the last hours alternating between crying myself out and engaging in enough self-flagellation that I may start turning toward BDSM.
And now the man I fell in love with as a teenager and then again as a woman is here. In my bedroom.
And he’s kissing me.
I don’t think.
I don’t keep lashing myself with guilt, scalding my cheeks with tears.
I just…react.
My lips part and my body melts.
Colt groans, one arm banding around my middle, his other hand diving into my hair, tilting my head back and deepening the kiss. His tongue slips between my lips, sliding into my mouth, tangling with mine…
I moan.
And things explode.
My hands are ripping at his T-shirt, tugging at the hem, trying to yank it over his head.
But since he doesn’t end the kiss, it just bunches up between us. Still, I take advantage of that bared skin, sliding my fingers over his torso. Hard and male.
Mine.
He tears his mouth from mine, gets rid of the tee and then he’s working at my pajamas, shoving down my shorts, pulling up my tank top, tossing it to the side.
Leaving me in just my underwear.
And not a pair that covers very much.
“Baby,” he rasps, his eyes dragging down the length of me—my face, my naked breasts, those skimpy panties, my legs.
Which are shaking.
“Fuck, you’re beautiful.”
He is too. Strong and lean and a survivor. I want to kiss the scars on his chest, make them disappear. I want to hold him, stroke him, feel him inside me. “Honey, I—”
His hand lands on the center of my chest and he pushes.
Not hard.
But hard enough I end up back in bed.
And he’s climbing on top of me.
His lips find mine again, and this kiss is hot, deep, wet. Urgent. Our bodies out of control, needing to touch, needing to make up for lost time.
When he releases my lips, I’m grinding against his thigh, already close, moaning out his name as he kisses his way along my jaw, to my ear, flicking out his tongue, tasting the sensitive spot behind it.
I shiver.
Then I’m moaning again because he’s kissing his way down my throat…and not stopping until he makes it to my breasts, cupping one, closing his lips around my nipple and—
“Colt!”
“Mmm,” he groans, sucking harder, using his free hand to palm my other breast, to tease the nipple there with sweeps of his thumb.
I dive my hands into his hair, holding tight to the deep brown locks.
Keeping him against me.
Needing him close.
He switches breasts and I melt, because God that feels good.
So good that I barely notice his hand sliding down my side.
But I do notice it when his fingers dip under the waistband of my underwear.
I stiffen, a bucket of icy water pouring over me.
He feels it, stopping, lifting his head from my breast and meeting my eyes. “Baby?” he asks and it’s a rasp.
I look away, shame and guilt and need warring.
His hand slips out of my underwear, comes up and cups my jaw. “Talk to me,” he says gently.
I swallow hard, tears threatening again.
And I don’t know if it’s that I’m exhausted, if it’s because it’s late, or if it’s because this is Colt…but I tell him the truth.
“I’m not ready for this.”
Silence.
His big body going so, so still.
Then he sighs softly and rests his forehead against mine. “I know.”
I blink, look up. “I’m sorry.”
His eyes are gentle. Warm. “Don’t ever apologize for stopping when you’re uncomfortable.”
“I—”
His fingers flex. “Not ever. You get me, baby?”
I want to bristle at the order, purely out of principle.
But his words are sweet.
And they get even sweeter when he asks,
“But does this mean you’ll come to dinner with me tomorrow?”