Chapter Twelve #3
Then I lift her onto the counter.
She lets me.
More than lets me.
Her legs part around my hips, and the sound that comes out of her when I step between them is going to haunt me for the rest of my miserable life.
My hands brace on either side of her. “Still good?”
“Yes.”
“Words keep coming, Amelia.”
Her breath is shaky. “I’m good.”
So I kiss her again.
The counter is cold. She is hot. Her thighs press against my sides, and my hands want. God, they want. I keep them on her waist, then her ribs, then back to her waist because her shirt is thin and I ain’t a saint. She arches slightly, and my thumb brushes the underside of her breast.
She freezes.
So do I.
I pull back immediately. “Sorry.”
She is breathing hard, eyes dark and wild.
“Again,” she whispers.
My heart slams.
“What?”
Her cheeks go red, but she holds my gaze. “I said again.”
“Touch you?”
She nods.
“Where?”
The question makes her tremble.
Not with fear.
With embarrassment. Want. Freedom trying to learn how to speak.
She looks down, then back up at me. “There.”
My restraint suffers a fatal head wound.
I lift one hand slowly, giving her every chance to stop me, and cup her through the shirt. Lightly at first. Barely. Her eyes flutter shut, and she bites her lip like she is trying to keep the sound inside.
No.
Not tonight.
No more swallowing every noise so a man doesn’t react.
“Let me hear you,” I say.
Her eyes open.
“Derby.”
“Not for me.” My thumb moves once, slow, over the tight peak beneath cotton. She shudders. “For you.”
That breaks something.
A moan slips out of her, soft and shocked and so damn sweet I almost drop my head to the counter.
I kiss her throat instead.
Her pulse jumps under my mouth. Her hands clutch my shoulders.
I keep one hand at her breast, the other on her hip, holding her steady while I taste the skin below her ear.
She smells like soap from my bathroom and smoke from the Lockup.
Her breath catches when I scrape my teeth lightly over her neck.
Then she goes still.
Not frozen.
Listening.
I hear it a second later.
A small sound from the hallway.
August.
Everything in her body changes.
Mother comes back before lover can blink.
She pushes lightly at my chest. I step back so fast I nearly hit the opposite counter.
“Go,” I say.
She slides off the counter, legs unsteady. I reach out, then stop myself.
She sees it.
Something soft and wrecked moves over her face.
Then she turns and hurries down the hall.
I stand in my kitchen with both hands gripping the counter, hard as steel, breathing like I just ran ten miles uphill carrying a body.
I may die.
Not from lack of sex.
From restraint.
Terrible way to go.
The hallway is quiet. Amelia murmurs something to August. He answers in a sleepy mumble. Bed creaks. Then her voice, softer, soothing him back down.
I close my eyes.
Her mouth is still on mine.
Her body is still on my hands.
Again, she said.
I’m in trouble so deep I should start charging rent.
A few minutes later, she comes back to the kitchen doorway.
Her lips are swollen.
Her hair is a mess.
Her eyes find me and stop.
I have never seen a woman look so embarrassed and so hungry at the same time.
“He’s asleep,” she whispers.
I nod because words seem risky.
She touches her mouth with two fingers like she can’t help it.
That nearly ends me all over again.
“You okay?” I ask.
She gives me a look.
A small one.
Almost amused.
Almost shy.
“Are you?”
“No.”
A laugh escapes her before she covers it. “Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. It’s the only thing keeping me from chewing through drywall.”
Her eyes drop.
She sees exactly what she did to me.
Her blush deepens.
Good.
Let her see it. Let her know what chosen desire looks like when a man ain’t using it as a weapon. Let her know she can make me shake and still walk away safe.
“I should go to bed,” she says.
“Yeah.”
Neither of us moves.
“If I stay here,” she says, “I might want to kiss you again.”
“Then you better go.”
Her brows lift, just a little. “You don’t want me to?”
I laugh once under my breath, dark and helpless. “Woman, wanting ain’t the problem. I want you so bad I’m trying to remember if I believe in prayer.”
The look that moves across her face is worth every ache in my body.
Not smug.
Not scared.
Powerful.
Like maybe wanting can be something she holds instead of something held over her.
“Good night, Derby.”
“Night, Amelia.”
She turns to go.
I let her get three steps before I say it.
“Lock it if you need to.”
She stops.
Looks back.
The hallway light catches the curve of her cheek, the softness of her mouth, the fear and heat still fighting in her eyes.
“I don’t think I do,” she says.
Then she goes into the bedroom and leaves the door cracked.
I stare at that crack of warm light like it’s a loaded gun.
I sleep on the couch.
That is the plan.
I don’t sleep for a long time.
Eventually, the house settles. August snores. Amelia shifts once, twice, then goes quiet. Outside, thunder finally rolls closer, and rain starts tapping the roof.
I get up because sleep is a liar.
I check the front lock.
Back lock.
Windows.
The cracked door.
I don’t go in.
I just stand long enough to hear breathing. Kid breathing. Woman breathing. Safe breathing.
Then I step onto the porch.
Rain comes down in a steady sheet, silver in the porch light. Widowmaker sits in the drive, wet and black and mean. The road beyond is empty. Prospects are still posted where Legend put them. One lifts a hand from the trees. I lift mine back.
Then I see it.
A white paper tucked under Widowmaker’s seat strap.
My body goes still.
I cross the porch slow, boots quiet on wet wood, then step into the rain. The paper is folded once, already damp at the edges.
It could have been tucked there before we got home. Could have been slipped in while I had Amelia in the kitchen and my head full of her mouth. Could have come through some blind spot in the trees I’m going to find and close before morning.
Doesn’t matter.
Somebody got close enough to touch my bike.
Close enough to touch the house.
Close enough to make a point while Amelia and August slept under my roof.
I pull it free and open it under the porch light.
A church bulletin.
Pearly Gates Community.
Sunday service.
A smiling photo of Reverend Crowley printed near the bottom like the bastard is selling salvation by the pound.
Across the inside, written in black marker, are seven words.
Families belong to God, not outlaws.
The rain hits my shoulders.
Soaks through my shirt.
Runs down my face.
I stare at the words until the ink starts to bleed.
Then I look back at the bedroom window where Amelia and August are sleeping in my house.
Not fake.
Not anymore.
I fold the bulletin carefully.
Slowly.
Because rage like this deserves manners.
Then I tuck it into my back pocket and smile into the rain.
Pearly Gates wants to talk about family.
Fine.
Hell answers sermons in fire.