Chapter 28
Jenna
I shiver against the counter, my naked body on display for Cal. He rips his shirt over his head, his bare toned chest on display for me for the first time. I have no idea what the fuck I’m doing…
But this isn’t about my brother anymore.
“Take it all off,” I breathe out, as he undoes his belt. Calvin Bradford has a way of stripping me fucking bare, and it’s become…addictive.
He smirks at me, and steps out entirely, his hard cock bouncing as he kicks his jeans off to the side. He comes for me, gripping my thighs and dragging me onto his shaft. I gasp as he thrusts into me, forcing me to take all of him, all at once.
“Is this why you invited me over?” I lean back, as he goes for my neck. “You need to get laid?” I don’t know why it comes out so venomous, but it does.
He thrusts into me, burying himself, and then pauses. “It’d be a lie, if I said it wasn’t a reason. But it’s not the only reason.”
Look at this man, putting together coherent sentences in the middle of fucking. I don’t know why that’s impressive. But it is.
“I can’t get you out of my head,” he rasps, as he thrusts again. “Since I first fucking saw you.”
I reach for him and drag his mouth to mine, holding him to me in some desperate attempt at comforting the inner child breaking down inside of me. He ravages my mouth with his tongue, as he fucks me with more intensity. I dig my nails into his shoulders, breaking skin as my pants turn to cries.
He fucks me violently, his teeth tearing at my skin as our bodies slam into each other. I cling to him, as if he’ll save me from this shitty world. Or maybe even myself.
Cal comes explosively, his guttural groan echoing in the kitchen as I wrap my legs around his waist, holding him against me. I rest my head against his neck, breathing in the strangely comforting scent of him.
I’m lying to this man about everything about myself.
And it’s still the safest I’ve ever felt.
We stay like that for a few beats, until he slips his hands under my ass, and carries me down the hallway. Part of me wants to tell him that I hid in his closet, that I’ve gone through his sock drawer, and that I watched him in his most intimate time with himself.
And I got off to it.
But then he might kick me right back into the cold, and that’s way more terrifying than continuing my lie.
He carries me through the master bedroom to the bathroom, balancing me as he kicks on the water. Only once we’re under the streaming hot water, does he set me down. The warm water hits my skin in way that causes me to close my eyes, and Cal stands behind me, pressed against my back.
“Tell me about you,” his voice comes out gruff, as he reaches around me, grabbing a bottle of soap. “You’re from Dalhart?”
Right. Dalhart.
“Yeah,” I hate myself as the lie slips. “My biological father split when I was toddler. I don’t even know him.” That’s true. “My stepdad adopted me, but he was, uh…” My voice trails off, as Cal starts to massage my shoulders, lathering the soap.
“What did he do?”
I swallow hard, my mind fighting between the now and the then.
“He was heavy handed. Mostly toward my mother. He didn’t do it often, but he was…
cruel.” The trauma pours out. “He made me believe that all men were like that.” And that we had to lie to survive—about how much we spent, where we were, and how we felt.
My mother mentally broke, I ran, but Cade eliminated the problem.
I squeeze my eyes shut. We abandoned him.
“You got out,” Cal’s voice anchors me back in reality. “Of the house?”
“Yeah,” I answer. “Then I went to college, had a couple of bad relationships, and decided I’m never doing that again.”
He chuckles. “I get that.”
“My last boyfriend, almost fiancé,” I tell the truth, “Was just like my stepfather.”
He runs his hands over arms, as I shudder. “And so why are you here?”
I tip my head back, catching my breath as I meet his blue eyes. “Because I already know you’re nothing like them.”
His jaw sets under the stream of hot water. “I can’t make you that promise, Jen.”
My heart skips a beat, because his lack of promise is the evidence. “That’s okay.” I spin around, and stand on my tiptoes, pressing my mouth to his.
Cal kisses me back, his strong hand resting at the base of my neck and his thumb stroking my skin. His cock has already gotten hard again, but he seems to ignore it as he breaks away. He grabs the shampoo and lathers it in his hands, taking the time to wash my hair and engrain all his scents in me.
By the time we step out of the shower, I reek of Calvin Bradford.
“Here,” he tosses me one of his white T-shirts, which I happened to already know is in the second drawer.
I take it from him and pull it over my head, my damp hair soaking it. He pulls on a pair of boxer briefs, and then grabs a remote. He flicks on the TV on the dresser, and then plops down on the bed.
“I never thought you’d be the type to just…watch a movie.”
He rakes his fingers through his hair and grins. “Oh? So I’m not a normal person?”
I laugh, letting myself relax into this fantasy. “I wasn’t sure, if we’re being honest.” I climb into the bed beside him and curl into his chest, knowing this is all too fast and risky. But there’s something about him that, despite those things, feels…safe.
And that’s exactly why I pass out before he even turns on a movie.
***
Oh shit. My eyes flutter open, landing on a ceiling that isn’t my apartment’s. I take a deep breath, and then roll over in bed, unsurprised to see the lack of Calvin Bradford in his own bed.
My mind flashes back to all the NCIS reports still tucked away in my bag I left in the entryway, and that has me flipping the covers back.
I make a quick trip to the bathroom, run my fingers through my wild hair, and then ease out of his bedroom and down the hallway.
I spot Calvin at the coffee pot, filling a mug—not going through my things.
He doesn’t look up. “Hope you like it strong.”
I sink into one of the chairs at the table and dig my fingers into my scalp, hoping the pain will snap me all the way awake. “If it’s weaker than miserably bitter, I’ll be disappointed.”
He snorts, which I choose to interpret as affection. He then turns, arms folded, gaze roving over me.
“Toast?” he asks. “Eggs?”
“Surprise me,” I say, and the words come out with a tremor I don’t intend. It all feels painfully normal. Which is something I’m not even sure I’ve ever known.
He cracks eggs into a cast-iron pan, shells snapping with quick, unshowy violence.
I watch the way he moves with his elbows tucked, steps always squared to the space, like there’s an invisible blast radius around every surface.
There’s a scar on his left hand, a seam of shiny tissue that runs from thumb to wrist. I want to ask about it, but I’m not sure I deserve any answers.
Not with all the lying I’m doing. I fucking hate myself right now.
What would he do if I just told him the truth?
I don’t want to even think of that answer right now.
He plates the eggs and toast, a little pile of fruit, and sets the whole thing in front of me before taking his own seat. He’s silent, the kind of silent that dares you to make it awkward. I resist the urge to fill it, choosing to stab an egg with my fork instead.
He watches me eat. Not in a weird way, not like a predator, but with the focus of a man who’s learned to read intentions by the angle of a fork or the tightness of a jaw. I hate how attractive I find it.
“So,” he says finally, “What will you do once the professor gig is up?”
My pulse jumps. I force a casual shrug, tucking hair behind my ear to buy time. “Isn’t that the question of the week?”
He doesn’t flinch, his voice a little sterner. “Yeah, and I’m asking it.”
It feels like a trap. “Honestly, I don’t know. I don’t really have any plans.”
He takes a bit of his food, taking the time to chew and swallow before talking. “You know, you don’t talk like an academic—like the type I typically run into at the college.”
I arch an eyebrow, like my palms didn’t just start sweating profusely. “Should I start quoting Derrida? Would that help complete the box that I don’t fit into?”
He grins. “Maybe.”
“Well, since we’re doing this,” I let my fork clatter to the plate. “You don’t strike me as the kind of guy who lets a woman he barely knows spend the night.”
“Valid.” He lets that hang, then leans back, mug cradled between his hands. “And that would be truth, but like I said, there’s something about you I can’t get enough of. Maybe the mystery.”
I bristle, an electric flash from gut to jaw. “There’s no mystery.”
His gaze narrows. “Oh yeah, there is.”
“Tell me about your divorce,” I divert the conversation. “I told you about my shitty relationships with men who treated me like garbage. Tell me about yours.”
“Ah, yeah. Maren.” He laughs, just once, but the sound is real. “I’m not an easy man to love. I was gone a lot, and when I was home, I closed off. It was too much, and I can’t blame her at all for that. I should’ve been there for her more.”
I stab at a piece of melon, feeling my own mask slip.
“I don’t see why you think you’re hard to love.
I think that’s the exact type of man most women fall for.
” The comment is a shield, but it doesn’t block everything.
I feel the drag of guilt, the pulse in my throat ratcheting up every time he looks away and I catch a glimpse of the first man I’ve slept with since the boat fire.
He sips his coffee, watching me over the rim as I finish my breakfast. “I think that’s generally not true.” And before I can respond, he clears his plate and mine, stacking them with a precision that borders on OCD.
“You work a lot?” I ask the question as he stands to his feet.
“Yeah, we’re in off-season now. Nobody comes to the farm until mid-November. Gives us time to work maintenance and whatever else.” He glances over his shoulder, eyes meeting mine.
I nod, pretending disinterest, but then take a stab. “What about the veterans you help? I heard someone talking about it at the bar.”
He freezes at the sink, but it’s so fast I almost miss it, him recovering by starting the water. “Uh, yeah. I have this thing where I help them confront their demons.”
I reach for my coffee. “From combat?”
He peers up over the sink. “From life.” He says the name like it’s nothing, like he hasn’t just detonated a small bomb in the middle of the room. I feel the muscles in my thigh contract, thinking about if Bradford is maybe… helping… my brother.
And that’s something I wasn’t prepared for.
I try to keep my voice casual. “Are you helping anyone now?”
He shrugs. “I keep that private.”
Before I can press, there’s a blast of cold morning air through the kitchen, and the man with the big hound comes storming through.
“Turner! What the fuck?” Cal immediately explodes, just as the dog starts barking at me…
Like he recognizes me from last night.
“Gunner, hush,” Turner commands, his voice booming through the quiet of the morning. He then turns to me, his eyes widening slightly. “Sorry about him. He’s been on edge lately.”
“I get that,” I clear my throat, and then wrap my arms around myself. I completely forgot I’m just in Calvin’s shirt. “I’m going to get dressed and leave you two to it.”
I jump up from the chair, grateful for how long the shirt it.
“Your clothes are folded in the laundry room.” Cal gestures off to the mudroom, the one I broke into without his knowledge.
I slip off to the room, glancing down at the healed hand. I step in, and shut the door behind me, letting out a long breath. I grab for my clothes and throw them on, unable to hear the low, tense conversation happening between the two men.
Where is my brother? Is he there? Is he outside? My heart pounds in my chest as I pull my clothes back on and leave the shirt in the hamper. I step back out into the kitchen, to see both men glaring at each other.
“Dr Williams,” Turner nods his head at me, his expression shifting to a smirk. “It’s very nice to see you here with Bradford.”
“Turner,” Cal grits out, and then turns to me. “I have some business to attend to. I’m sorry, Jen. I’ll walk you out.”
I nod, forcing a smile. “Of course. I’ll get out of your hair.”
I fall in step beside him, pull on my coat, and he opens the front door for me, letting in another blast of morning air. I hesitate, just for a second. “Thanks for the date?” It comes out like a question. An embarrassing one.
But Cal softens, his hardened expression shifting. “I want to do this again.”
I don’t know why I do it—maybe to prove to myself that I’m still the kind of woman who takes what she wants, or maybe just because I can’t help it—but I lean in and kiss him.
It’s not a replay of last night. There’s no burst of passion to it. Just a soft, almost chaste touch of lips, a moment that could belong to anyone, anywhere. And it feels nice.
“I’ll hold you to that.”
He puts a hand on the side of my face, thumb rough against my cheekbone. He kisses me once more, gentle, and then lets go.
“Deal. Drive safe,” he says. “I’ll call you.”
And just like that, I’m pushed out.
But at least I’m closer, and I realize that I might be all wrong about Calvin Bradford. He might not be the enemy.
Oh, and I wish I never lied.
Because maybe then I could keep him for real.