Chapter Thirteen #3
Roulette set his unopened beer on the rail and stood.
Crossed to the bird feeder mounted near the eaves and unscrewed the cap.
Seed poured into his palm, then into the feeder, the dry rattle of it carrying in the evening quiet.
He screwed the cap back on. Wiped his hand on his jeans. Sat back down in the chair.
His arm came across the back of the swing. Not around my shoulders -- across the wood, behind me, his hand resting on the chain where it met the frame, close enough that his warmth reached me anyway. The contact was minimal. Deliberate. A touch that said I’m here without needing to say it out loud.
I leaned back into it. Enough to register. Not enough to change the balance of the swing.
We sat there as the last of the daylight went.
The yard darkened. The clubhouse noise faded to a distant hum.
The perimeter lights swept their white bars across the gravel, over and over, the rhythm as steady and patient as the man beside me, and neither of us moved toward the door or away from each other.
His thumb brushed the back of my neck, once, lightly, a touch so brief I might have imagined it. I closed my eyes. The swing creaked softly on its chains. The bird feeder swayed under the eaves. Beyond the fence the world continued its business without regard for what happened inside the compound.
Roulette’s hand stayed where it was. The swing kept its gentle rhythm.
The compound held us in its imperfect peace, and neither one of us was going anywhere.
For now, in the dark, with his warmth against my back, the mailbox key in my pocket, and a deadbolt on the front door that wouldn’t yield to anything less than the right key in the right hand -- that was enough.
He stood first. Held his hand out, and I took it. He pulled me up off the swing with that effortless strength that always stole my breath -- like I weighed nothing, like he could carry me anywhere he wanted.
He didn’t speak. He simply led me inside, the deadbolt sliding home with a solid click that sent a thrill down my spine.
Before I could even set the mailbox key down, his hands were in my hair, gripping just tight enough to tilt my head back, and his mouth claimed mine in the dark of the front hall.
This kiss wasn’t hesitant. It was deep, unhurried, and certain -- the kiss of a man who knew exactly how this night was going to end.
His tongue stroked mine, slow and possessive, while his hands slid down to my waist, pulling me flush against the hard line of his body.
I felt the low, hungry growl he made vibrate against my lips and between my legs.
“Archer,” I whispered against his mouth, testing the name like a secret only he was allowed to hear.
His whole body stilled, then shuddered. His forehead dropped to mine, breath ragged. “Say it again.”
I did. The sound that tore from him was raw -- half pain, half relief -- as he walked me backward down the hall, mouth never leaving mine, one large hand splayed possessively across the small of my back.
We reached the bedroom in near darkness.
He didn’t bother with the lamp. His fingers worked the buttons of my shirt with deliberate patience, peeling the fabric open like he was unwrapping something sacred.
Each new inch of skin he revealed, he kissed -- collarbone, the swell of my breasts, the sensitive underside that made me arch into him.
When my bra fell away, his mouth closed hot and wet over my nipple, tongue circling until I was gasping, fingers tangled in his hair.
I dragged his shirt over his head and ran my hands over the warm, solid muscle of his chest and abdomen, feeling the way his breath hitched when my nails scraped lightly down his sides.
His skin was fever-hot, his cock already straining hard against his jeans, pressing insistently against my stomach.
“Still mine,” he said roughly against my throat, teeth grazing the pulse there -- not a question this time, just a fact he seemed to need to say out loud anyway.
“Still yours.”
His hands went to the button of my shorts next, working it open, and he pushed both my shorts and my underwear down over my hips and off, tossing them somewhere off the edge of the bed without breaking his mouth from my skin.
Then he pulled back just enough for me to see the dark hunger in his eyes, kissed me again, deeper, and lowered me onto the bed with a controlled strength that made my core clench.
He shed the rest of his clothes -- jeans, boxers, gone in a rush of motion -- and settled over me, heavy and perfect.
No hesitation this time. His hand found mine, lacing our fingers together and pinning it beside my head as he notched the thick head of his cock against my entrance.
I was soaked, aching for him. With one slow, relentless roll of his hips, he pushed inside me -- stretching, filling, claiming -- until he was buried to the hilt.
I moaned his name, loud and broken.
“Fuck,” he breathed, forehead pressed to mine, voice strained. “Say it again while I’m inside you.”
“Archer.”
He shuddered hard, then began to move -- deep, measured strokes that dragged against every sensitive place inside me.
The slick sound of him moving in and out, the wet heat between us, the way his pelvis ground against my clit with every thrust…
it built something fierce and molten low in my belly.
I wrapped my legs around his waist, heels digging into his back, urging him deeper.
He gave me what I wanted, hips snapping harder now, still controlled but edged with raw need. His free hand slid between us, thumb circling my clit in tight, perfect strokes until my thighs started to shake.
“Look at me,” he growled.
I did. The intensity in his gaze as he drove into me, again and again, sent me over the edge. My orgasm crashed through me -- deep, pulsing waves that clamped down around his cock as I cried out, body arching hard beneath him.
He followed with a guttural groan, burying himself as deep as he could go. I felt the hot pulse of him coming inside me, his hips jerking with each thick spurt, his whole body trembling against mine.
We stayed locked together for a long time afterward, his weight grounding me, his face buried in my neck as our breathing slowly synced. His thumb kept stroking lazy circles over the back of my hand, still laced with his.
“Stay,” he murmured into my hair, voice rough with emotion and sex -- not really a request, since there was nothing left to ask.
My toothbrush was on his sink. My grandmother’s photo was on his nightstand.
My name had been said out loud in the one room where it counted.
He meant something bigger than the room, bigger than the house.
I smiled against his shoulder, feeling him softening inside me. “I’m not going anywhere. Haven’t been, for a while now.”