Chapter 27
Twenty-Seven
Briar
I make short work of packing up the car, getting a month’s worth of cardio schlepping all the beach shit back and cramming it into the trunk far less efficiently than Colt had on the way to the beach.
But that rogue wave really scared Frankie.
And Colt.
And me.
I don’t know how he even sensed something was wrong—turning away from me in the middle of a sentence, instinct sending him down the beach before I could blink.
Then I had.
And I saw it.
The unusually large wave shooting up the shoreline, taking Frankie by surprise because it was so much bigger than the others had been where she was playing. It swept forward, dragging her under and out into the ocean between one breath and the next.
She was just…gone.
Then Colt was rushing in after her, plucking her from the frothy whitewash, the heavy wave that was churning up sand, turning the already dark and cold water into something impossible to see through.
But he had seen through it.
He had found her.
Before I even reached the water, he had Frankie in his arms and was marching up the beach.
I hadn’t even had time to think.
To panic.
One second, she was gone and the next, she was safe.
Colt carrying her up the beach.
“Daddy?” I hear as we’re leaving Frankie’s room after giving her a bath, getting her fed, and tucking her into bed…and spending a lot of time reassuring her (and ourselves) that she’s safe.
Let’s just say that my daughter had plenty of ice cream and cuddle time.
“Yeah, honey?” Colt murmurs from next to me, immediately reversing course and moving back into her room.
Daddy.
That does something to my heart—settles deep, opens it wide…and I give in.
Who am I kidding?
I’ve been giving in from the moment Colt slipped out of the shadows.
Now seeing my daughter do the same, watching the gentle way he tucks her in, smooths back her hair…gives into her plea for him to read just one more book.
Something that definitely won’t be just one more.
And…it’s done.
Colt used to be the man I loved.
Now he’s the one I love.
I close my eyes as that feeling ripples through me.
Then I exhale quietly and leave them to their moment.
I get ready for bed, knowing that Colt is going to be right beside me, that he’s going to hold me close.
He’s been doing that every night since he found out West and I broke up.
But tonight is going to be different.
I’m…ready.
So, I go to my dresser, pull out a nightgown I never thought I would wear—one that I bought with the man who stole my heart as a teenager and never gave it back in mind. One I knew he would love…if he was alive.
Which he wasn’t.
Except he is.
I slip into my bathroom, wash my face and brush my teeth, then step into the shower to run my razor over my legs, my bikini line, under my armpits.
Then I lotion up, brush out my hair, spritz myself with perfume.
And through it all, I don’t rush.
I have time because Frankie is going to request that he read her multiple books, and he’s going to give in and read them to her. Then he’ll sit with her until she drifts off.
So, I fuss with my curls and oil the ends. I make sure the tight burgundy lace clings in all the right spots.
And only when I hear the bedroom door open and close do I feel nervous.
But I just suck in a breath, hold it for a second, and exhale.
Then I step out of the bathroom.
Colt is at the side of the bed, emptying his pockets onto the nightstand, plugging in his phone. “She’s out,” he says. “And I only had to read three extra—”
His head lifts, words cutting off.
The look on his face…God, I’ll never forget it.
Heat and desire blaze through his expression, scorch me from behind his sapphire blue eyes.
Then it all goes soft.
“God you’re beautiful, baby,” he rasps.
I nibble at my bottom lip, those nerves making a reappearance. “My body has changed since having Frankie.”
Half of his mouth turns up. “Mine’s changed too.” Guilt ripples through me, and I open my mouth to apologize. But he keeps talking. “Come here, baby.”
“I— Colt—”
“Fuck it,” he says, prowling toward me. “I’ll go to you.”
And he does.
One moment, he’s across the room. The next, he’s right in front of me.
He doesn’t speak, just runs his hands reverently over my body—down my arms, my side, my hips, pausing where the material bisects my thighs, then back up my front, dragging the material with them, slowly baring my skin, inch by inch by inch.
His eyes are fixed on me as he pulls it free, drops it to the floor behind us, and my breath hitches. Because the heat is back, growing in intensity until it’s the fiery blue inferno.
And I willingly jump into the flames.
I grab the hem of his T-shirt, tugging it up, drawing it over his head, tossing it aside.
He’s beautiful.
He’s mine.
And he’s been hurt again and again.
“What did they do to you?” I whisper, my fingers and lips and tongue gently stroking over the pink scars on his chest, his belly.
“It doesn’t matter.”
I freeze, glance up, mouth opening to tell him it very much matters.
He keeps talking before I can.
“Because I could lose myself in the memories of you,” he says and even as I’m sitting in the beauty of those words, he’s moving, lifting me into his arms and carrying me to the bed.
“You were in every thought, every dream, every fantasy I held tight to. And with you in my head, my heart, I wasn’t there. ”
He sets me on the bed, crawls over the top of me, my legs instinctively parting so he can settle himself between them.
“Instead, in my head I was here.” He brushes his lips over my forehead, my cheeks, my nose. “Right here, baby.”
I exhale shakily, reaching up to touch his jaw, the bristles there abrading my fingertips in the best possible way.
He presses his mouth to my palm, face soft in that way that settles deep, his eyes that gorgeous inferno, his body hard and lean and still regaining strength, but still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my life.
“I’m falling in love with you,” I whisper.
Soft. Scorching. Mine.
“I’ve been in love with you for five years.”
Another thing to settle deep, another memory to hold tight to.
And when he kisses me, he gives me more.
Our mouths sealed together, tongues sleek darts, our lips moving in perfect sync.
When it feels as though I’m going to pass out, he kisses his way to my ear, laving at the lobe and making me shiver. Then his lips are dragging down my throat, softly pressing against my collarbone.
He’s gentle, worshiping me.
Touching me as if I’m the most precious object in the universe.
And I touch him right back, smoothing my hands over his back and torso, dipping into his hair and holding him to me when he makes his way to my breasts, kissing them, scraping his stubble along their undersides, gently taking my nipples into his mouth and suckling slowly and lazily.
It’s unhurried, as though we have all the time in the world.
And maybe we do.
Because when he’s spent long minutes lavishing attention on my breasts and is kissing his way down my stomach, lips tracing over each of the silvery stretch marks left over from my pregnancy, I’m not in any hurry.
Except to touch him, to hold him, to feel his hair on my skin and his hands pushing my legs wide and his mouth going in between.
Except to let him slowly bring me up to the precipice of an orgasm, to keep me there for long moments, both of us fighting the fall, knowing that this moment can’t last forever, but wanting to draw it out for as long as possible.
So, I don’t beg him for release when he gently kisses the inside of my thigh, I just touch his jaw and murmur, “Now, honey.”
His eyes on mine, holding.
Then he nods, slips out of his pants, and slowly comes back over the top of me, his long, lean body the sweetest type of weight.
He braces himself on one elbow and kisses me.
Kisses me long and wet and deep.
Then, when he lets me breathe again, I whisper again, “Now, honey.”
A flare in those deep blue eyes. “You sure?”
I nod, repeat. “Now.”
And then he’s pushing inside, doing it slow and steady and unhurried. He’s big and it’s been a long time and he’s spent long minutes worshipping every inch of me.
Which means it doesn’t take long for me to be close again.
For his deep, sure thrusts to be sending me right up to the edge again.
“Colt,” I whisper.
Sweat is gleaming on his forehead, his eyes burn into mine, and his breathing is hitching in a way that tells me he’s right there with me. “Fuck, you feel good, baby.”
“Right back at you, handsome.”
He groans, settles his forehead against mine and keeps stroking into me.
“I love you,” I whisper.
His eyes close.
His strokes speed up.
His hand comes between my legs, thumb brushing my clit and—
Then I’m there—bursting into a thousand pieces, trusting that the man inside my heart and body will catch them all, will keep them safe.
And when I emerge, safe and sound…
I do the same for him.