Chapter 25
Twenty-Five
Storm
“So much better than salads,” she says softly, scraping the bottom of the ice cream container.
“But not better than bubblegum ice cream,” I tease.
“No?” She holds up the spoon, loaded with a bite of rocky road. “Why don’t you let your taste buds decide?”
My mouth twitches, but I shake my head. “I got that for you, Poppyseed.”
Gentle green eyes. “Maybe, but now I’m sharing with you.” Her lips kick up at the edges. “Or maybe I’m trying to convert you so that you side with me over Holly and we get more rocky road on the horizon.”
“I’ll never—”
Before I can finish telling her that bubblegum will always be the best, she shoves the spoon in my mouth and suddenly my tongue is full of rocky road.
“Good, right?” she says as I chew and swallow.
“It’s good, baby.”
A triumphant look on her face.
One that only lasts a second because I add, “But not better than bubblegum.”
Her nose wrinkles, but her eyes are dancing as she finishes the last bite of rocky road and deposits the container and spoon back into the cooler, then flops onto the blanket, her gaze on the trees overhead.
Fuck, she’s beautiful—sunshine kissing her skin, her cheeks slightly flushed from the heat, her hair spread out behind her head.
“You’re staring,” she murmurs.
“You’re beautiful.”
That pink on her cheeks spreads. “Storm,” she whispers, shaking her head.
“You don’t believe me?”
“I don’t—” She sighs, shakes her head. “Let’s talk about something else.”
“Okay,” I agree readily. “How about we discuss those dark circles under your eyes?”
She snorts.
“What?”
A roll of her eyes. “You’re so beautiful,” she says in a decent approximation of my voice. “Only you look like shit with those dark circles under your eyes.”
“Pop,” I begin.
She jabs a finger at her face. “This is me, Storm. These circles are part of me now. Hashtag, Mom life, or whatever.”
I bite back a grin. “You weren’t this sassy when you were a teenager.”
“You flaunted your six-pack around the beach,” she mutters. “It was kind of hard to get mad under that kind of mental strain.”
“Mental strain?” I ask, failing in my attempt to not smile.
She glares at me, but there’s an edge of amusement in her eyes that has me outright laughing when she says, “Yup. Mental strain. Because I could barely resist the urge to jump you.”
“Would it help if I told you that I still have the six-pack?” I lift the edge of my tee.
The amusement that had been spreading through her gaze halts, warms.
No. Heats.
“Storm,” she whispers.
“More mental strain?” I ask.
She nibbles at her bottom lip, that heat in her eyes growing, until the emerald depths practically glow with need.
A slow nod. “Yes.” A beat. “Severe mental strain.”
I chuckle and her teeth press into her bottom lip.
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Laugh.”
My brows drag together.
She waves her hand. “It makes your abs more…ab-ie.”
“Is that a word?”
“Definitely not.”
I laugh again and when she scowls, I catch her hand, press it to my stomach. “You can touch, baby. I don’t mind.”
“You’re evil, Storm Harrison.”
“And yet you’re not pulling away,” I murmur.
That flush in her cheeks grows, but she doesn’t draw back. Her fingers flex and I almost groan as they stroke lightly over my stomach.
“One,” she whispers. “Two. Three. Four.” Her pinky trails lower, dips almost to the waistband of my pants. “Five. Six.”
I want to make a joke congratulating her on her counting ability.
But I’m too focused on that pinky finger.
On the way it drags lightly back and forth across my skin, raising goose bumps in its wake, and…fuck, well, it’s raising my dick too.
Which has me laughing.
“What?” she asks.
“You did this to me that night.”
“Did what?”
I jerk my chin down, and she frowns but shifts back enough to follow my gaze. “I don’t understand…oh,” she finishes on a whisper.
“Yeah. Oh.”
She nibbles at her bottom lip.
“And apparently, I have no better control around you than when I was a teenager.”
“You keep saying I’m beautiful. But you have to know that you’re the beautiful one.”
“Is it my scars and fake teeth?” I quip, and even though I want to press her hand more firmly to me, want to encourage it to trail south, to slip beneath the waistband of my pants and wrap around my—
I pull it free, press a kiss to her palm.
“Not to risk that Wrath of Poppy again,” I say gently. “But I am worried about how little sleep you seem to get.”
Her gaze comes to mine, holds.
But it’s not anger this time.
It’s something softer, something that makes me ache deep inside—and not my dick (though that’s still hard).
“I’m used to not getting a lot of sleep. And I appreciate that you’re concerned,” she adds before I can interrupt. “But it’s only temporary. Soon enough Holly will be older and I’ll get more help at the bar and then the long nights and tired mornings will just be a fond memory.”
I’m not so sure about that.
But I’m also not sure how to fix this for her—short of hiring someone to help at the bar or be there to get Holly ready in the morning so she can sleep in.
I can do both of those…but only if she lets me.
And I’ve barely gotten her to begin to trust me.
If I push too fast…
“You’re a great mom, Pop,” I say, adding when she starts to demur, “Holly is amazing. That’s because of you.”
“And the town.”
“And you,” I semi-repeat, doing it more firmly.
“Let’s get back to you and your abs.”
“Stubborn,” I murmur.
“Where do you think Holly got it?”
I shake my head, exhaling as I smooth back her hair.
“Oh!” she exclaims, wrapping her fingers around my wrist, drawing my hand forward. “Your knuckles.”
They ache—not a surprise considering I was wailing on a tree not that long ago—but I’ve been in a lot of fights over the last years (and especially over the last season), so they’re far from the worst they’ve ever been.
But I’ve never had someone do what she does next—
She bends and blows lightly on the reddened and torn skin. “They must really hurt—”
Not anymore.
The only things aching are my balls.
“I’m sorry,” she murmurs, pressing her lips there.
“You can kiss me somewhere else,” I blurt.
She freezes, her eyes going wide.
Then she grins. “Is that supposed to be smooth, Storm Harrison?”
“I don’t think I have enough blood left in my brain to be smooth.”
Her gaze flicks down. My dick gets harder.
“I see the problem,” she murmurs.
“You don’t,” I groan, tugging free and carefully adjusting myself. Christ, I don’t think I’ve had a boner this uncontrolled since I was a teenager.
Since that tiny red bikini.
My mouth hitches up.
Her fingers trace the curve. “What’s that for?”
“I was just thinking about that tiny red bikini.”
A rueful chuckle. “You’re a dog to a bone.”
I lean in, tuck her hair behind her ear. “Only about the important things.”
“Hmm,” she murmurs.
“What?”
“I’m just wondering about the other important things that you focus on.”
“That’s easy.” I lie back on the blanket, fold my arms behind my head, and stare up at the canopy of pine needles overhead.
Then I wait.
Because for all of Poppy’s admirable qualities, patience isn’t one.
A heartbeat. Two. Three—
Then she’s rolling toward me, her palms on my chest, her face positioned over mine. “Tell me.”
Perfect.
I lean up, weave my fingers into her hair, and…
Finally, I fucking taste her.
Seven years disappear in an instant as our lips touch. She feels the same, tastes the same. Like a drug, like my heart, like my future.
A soft moan slides from her mouth to mine and then I’m rolling us, flipping her to her back, climbing on top of her. Our bodies remember this dance and she parts her legs, cradling my pelvis against hers at the same time she parts her lips, allowing my tongue to slip inside, to tangle with hers.
“Storm,” she whispers when I let her breathe.
But only for a second.
“These lips,” I rasp, taking her mouth in another deep, plundering kiss. “This body,” I say, dragging my hand along her side, tracing her curves. “This big, juicy…” I cup her ass but kiss her temple. “Brain,” I finish with a smile.
Her lungs are working in rapid succession, her eyes are glazed with need, those tempting lips swollen and her body relaxed beneath mine. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
I touch the tip of her nose. “Those are the important parts.”
Warmth bleeding into her eyes and her hands dive into my hair, hold tight. “Tell me again.”
I grin.
And then we’re kissing.
And touching.
But it’s only when I slip my hand beneath her shirt, my fingertips skating over the silky skin of her abdomen on a path straight for the motherland (those glorious tits of hers) when I hear—
“It’s a public beach, children!”
We freeze and my head whips around to stare aghast at Gertie fucking Walkins as she slowly floats by.
“When the fuck did she learn how to paddle board?” I hiss.
“Last summer,” Poppy says on a grin, tugging her shirt down —
And thus ending my quest for the motherland.
I glance at my watch, don’t miss that Gertie lifts her phone and snaps a picture of us.
“Christ,” I mutter.
Poppy sits up, shakes her head. “Unfortunately, I think unless Gerald chases Rain into the river again, we’re going to be front page news.”
“Gerald chased Rain into the river?”
“I’m sworn to secrecy.” A grin. “If you want the details, you’ll have to pry the story out of him.”
I snort, like that will happen.
The man’s as stubborn as me.
“Or…” She leans in and her voice drops to a whisper, her eyes dancing, those kissable lips tipping up into a smile, “Or you can just check out the archives of the Cedar Hollow Gazette.”
I blink.
Then I smile.
And then…
I kiss her again.
Because it’s been seven years.
And I finally can.