Chapter 5 #2
“Probably not,” he said, his voice rough. "We decided we were better as friends."
"We did."
His forehead dropped to rest against hers. She could feel his breath against her lips, could feel the heat of him through the thin cotton of her tank top. Her heart pounded, which was ridiculous—she'd been shot at tonight without her pulse climbing this high.
"Dove."
"Yeah?"
"I'm going to kiss you now."
“Okay.”
His mouth found hers, and for a long moment, the world narrowed to just this—the taste of him, his hands sliding into her hair, the soft sound he made against her lips when she pressed closer.
When they finally broke apart, they were breathing hard.
"That was a bad idea," Dove said.
"Terrible."
"We should stop."
"Definitely."
He kissed her again. Deeper this time, hungrier, his hands finding her waist and pulling her flush against him. She went willingly, her fingers fisting his shirt, every rational thought dissolving like morning mist over the swamp.
"Bedroom?" he murmured against her throat.
"God, yes."
He took her hand and led her down the hallway, past the dozens of photos of his parents hanging on the walls, past the cardigan on the couch and the lavender scent of a woman's absence.
Dolly was bellowing again outside, a prehistoric song that should have been terrifying but somehow felt like approval.
The bedroom was dim. The only light came from the moon through warped blinds and the faint glow from the hallway.
The air was thick. The fan overhead pushed it in slow, dutiful circles that did nothing to cool her skin.
She registered the bed—heavy cypress frame, an old quilt with soft places worn thin—and then Trent’s hands found her hips and thought scattered.
He kissed like he’d been holding his breath for hours and finally remembered how to inhale.
She rose into it, into him, into the simple movement of his mouth and hands. Wood creaked. A gator bellowed again, lower and farther off. The noise threaded under the thud of her pulse.
“Tell me to stop,” he said, his breath rough against her lips, not really asking.
“I’m not gonna do that,” she said, and pulled him back down.
He tasted like cold coffee with a dollop of cream.
His stubble scraped the edge of her jaw and sent a tingle sliding beneath her skin.
When his fingers slipped under the hem of her tank, she lifted her arms. Cotton skimmed up, and cool air licked the sweat collecting at the base of her throat.
She shivered, and his mouth moved there like he’d felt the tremor through his palms.
She knew her body. Knew what worked and what didn’t.
This—this worked. The weight of him when he pushed her back onto the mattress.
The spread of his hands on her ribs, wide and warm.
The way he paused when he reached her bra, a half-second of silent question that she answered by arching up so he could get it off.
His mouth closed over her nipple and her spine went taut, the quilt bunching lightly under her shoulder blades as she shifted closer. He was solid between her thighs as she hooked her legs around him.
He kissed a line down her chest, tongue catching in the shallow dip of her belly, and she went liquid in the places that had been locked tight since the gunshots.
He worked the button of her jeans, and denim rasped over her thighs, over her knees, and snagged on her heel.
He tugged, she kicked, the jeans gave, and she laughed—breathless and a little wild.
He stilled at the sound.
“Hey,” she said, reaching down to smooth her palm over his jaw, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth. She wasn’t good at being gentle. She tried anyway. “Stay with me.”
His exhale touched her wrist. “I haven’t gone anywhere.
” He turned his head and kissed the center of her palm.
“That laugh—I just remembered the first time I heard it, and I’m not sure I’ve heard it since.
” He dragged the flat of his tongue there.
Heat pooled low and insistent. “You need to—we both need to laugh more often.”
“We can do that later. Right now, I need you to take off your shirt.” She needed fewer layers between them, needed his skin on hers without the barrier of cotton and grief.
The soft whoosh of fabric cleared his shoulders, followed by the faint thud of it hitting the floor. Moonlight traced the edges of him—broad shoulders, the scar near his ribs. She reached toward him and pressed her mouth to that pale line, tasted salt and old stories, felt him stiffen, then ease.
When she rolled, he went with her, flat on his back, and she straddled him, her knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his hips. He swore, a raw syllable that punched heat into her.
She braced her hands on his chest, the flex of muscle there unspooling the resistance that had been wound too tight inside her for too long.
She moved because she couldn’t not, a slow grind that let the thick ridge beneath his jeans sit exactly where she wanted it.
Pressure, friction, relief that bordered on pain.
He clutched her hips and held her there, grounded her in place while she chased the drag of that sensation again.
Cloth was in the way. She reached behind and hooked her thumbs in the waistband of her underwear, dragging them down.
He helped, knuckles grazing the curve of her ass.
It wasn’t neat, but it didn’t matter. She sat up, bare and open, and for a beat, the fan’s lazy whir sounded like the hush of surf.
Ridiculous, with swamp water outside. She couldn’t stop the thought. She didn’t want to.
“Condoms?” she managed, because she might be suspended over a knife’s edge, but she hadn’t lost all sense.
“I’ve got a few, but are we going right to the finish line?
” He reached between her legs, teasing and probing.
He'd proven to be an unselfish lover—a lover who paid attention to the wants and needs of his partner. The first time they’d slept together, he joked that he had one simple rule in bed.
And that was she comes first. Thing was—with Trent—there wasn’t an ounce of falseness to that statement.
“Finish line. I’m desperate.”
He chuckled and reached for the nightstand. “I aim to please.” The drawer stuck, then gave. A ripped corner of cardboard, the crinkle of foil—the ordinary sounds whispered like a promise. “Take this for a second while I get out of these jeans.”
She watched as he shimmied out of his pants and kicked them across the room.
He reached for the condom in her hand.
“I’ll do it.”
He groaned. “You're the only person I know who’s managed to make this part a turn on.”
“Are you serious?” She tore the packet with her teeth and tossed the foil to the floor. She cupped him, stroking gently. “Any time my hands and eyes are on this part of your body, you’re turned on.”
“I’m turned on the moment you enter a room,” he said through ragged breaths.
She swallowed—hard—while trying to remind herself it was a line tossed out while she was pleasuring him. It didn’t mean anything. It certainly wasn’t meant to encourage her to keep expecting this.
His thigh muscles flexed and tightened as she rolled the condom over him.
He reached for her, hands gentle on her thighs, and she sank down in one long, powerful glide. Her body took him in the way that made her teeth catch her lower lip. She exhaled toward the ceiling, and for a moment, she sat still, allowing herself to feel every inch of him inside her.
The moment passed, and she had to move. Slow at first to feel every precise shift, to memorize the way the mattress dipped, and the quilt rasped her knees, the way his thumbs stroked the curve where thigh met hip— a dance that was equal in tenderness and pressure.
Heat gathered—a tide pulling at her in steady increments.
She set a rhythm and rode it, chased it, adjusted when his grip tightened and he thrust up to meet her.
She leaned forward, planted a hand by his head to keep her balance, and he took that opportunity to mouth her breast again, tongue and teeth teasing the hard point until she swore and rolled her hips harder.
He groaned, and the sound flooded her with a fierce, dizzy satisfaction.
The room narrowed to the wild rasp of their breathing. Outside, something splashed. The swamp went about its business. Inside, they created their own weather.
She felt the moment her control started to splinter. It came on fast, a hot coil tightening low and deep. The wrung-out ache tipping toward relief. She chased it shamelessly, angled her hips to catch the pressure exactly where she needed it.
“Look at me,” he whispered.
She stared into his warm and kind eyes. This was a man who loved fiercely and deeply.
She’d seen that in the way he cared for his mother.
Even in the way he treated his friends. Especially his two best friends, Cullen and Fallon.
But he was also a man who kept people at a distance.
He didn’t let many in. But when he did, he was loyal to the bone.
She wasn’t quite sure where she fit—perhaps somewhere in the middle of that and she tried to tell herself that was enough.
He lifted his head, wrapped a hand behind her neck, and brought their lips together in a wild and passionate kiss. It didn’t last long, but it sent shockwaves across her muscles.
He braced his feet, and drove up into her in hard, sure strokes that punched little sounds out of her throat she couldn’t have swallowed if she’d tried.
“Oh, god, yes,” she heard herself say, tone unfamiliar and rough.
She broke around him—a relentless, rolling flood that took her apart and put her back together with the edges smoothed down. She held on, nails biting his shoulders, gaze locked with his and rode until her muscles trembled and her breath wouldn’t come in even pulls.
She sagged forward, forehead near his, sweat slicking their skin where they touched.
He was still thick inside her, still straining.
She found the last of her rhythm and kept going, slower now, a steady grind that dragged him after her.
She felt his rhythm shudder and then spill.
She absorbed it all and she stayed still until the tension bled out of him, leaving them a tangled mess against the old quilt.
The fan ticked. Her heartbeat climbed down out of her throat and took up residence in her chest again.
When she finally eased off him, the realization of how much she cared about this man hit her like a round she hadn't seen fired. She wasn’t sure she’d ever cared this much. Wasn’t sure she’d even wanted to.
But here she was, falling for a man who was falling apart at the seams.
Silence settled, not awkward, just thick. Her skin cooled in tiny patches where the air hit sweat.
Trent tugged the quilt up enough to cover her hips.
His fingers brushed her thigh in the process, a casual stroke that tightened something low in her belly in a softer, slower way.
She closed her eyes and let herself float for a minute, the sound of the swamp folding in at the edges of consciousness like a lullaby sung by something with too many teeth.
Tomorrow would come whether she invited it or not. She turned her face into the warm curve of Trent’s shoulder and breathed him in—cedar soap mixed with salty air, sunshine, and sawgrass.
“You okay?” he asked, quiet, the words a puff against her hair.
She nodded against him, the movement small. “You even have to ask.”
He reached down, laced their fingers under the quilt like he’d done it a hundred times, and held on.
Outside, something splashed again. The gators went silent. She wasn’t sure if that was more terrifying than the bellowing. She felt sleep pull at her like a tide she refused to fight. Not tonight. Not here, with his hand warm in hers.
Later, there'd be time for the hard conversations and harder choices. But for now, she'd enjoy this She'd enjoy him.
She closed her eyes, and the darkness came easy.