Chapter 22 Lennon
TWENTY-TWO
LENNON
When I wake up the next morning, I’m sore in the best way—in a way I haven’t been longer than I care to admit.
It’s not like I’ve had a lot of sex or relationships.
Taking care of Atlee for most of my teenage years and then into my twenties has put a damper on that.
Not that I would change any of it, but it’s true.
One thing I can say is that no man has played my body like Carson Nelson did.
Which is why, even though I’m sore, I’m scooting closer to him.
It’s like that thing where you don’t know what you’ve missed until you start doing it again.
Take candy, for example. I know I love it, I know I’ll eat the hell out of it, but if I keep it out of my apartment, I won’t eat it.
But that first hit I get of it when I allow myself to buy it again?
It starts a chain reaction, where I just can’t say no for a while afterward.
Now I find myself hooking my leg over Carson’s trim waist and opening my pussy up to him.
I’m wet and aching, wanting nothing more than for him to take me the same way he did early this morning.
I’m trailing my fingernails down his flat stomach, and that’s when I feel his cock touching the back side of my thigh.
He’s taking notice of what I’m doing, and that’s what I want.
Smirking, I lean forward and place an open-mouthed kiss on the side of his throat. Reaching behind my thigh, I grab his cock and start moving my fist up and down, starting a jacking motion.
“Carson,” I whisper in his ear, needing him to wake up. “I need you to take care of the ache I have,” I whisper again.
A low sound rumbles up from his chest, somewhere between a groan and a laugh, and his hand comes down to cover mine, stilling my movement for just a moment. His eyes are still closed, but there’s a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth that tells me he’s more awake than he’s letting on.
“You’re going to be the death of me,” he says, voice rough with sleep.
“You started it with what you did last night.” I press another kiss to his jaw, his stubble scraping my lips in a way I feel everywhere. “I’m just finishing it.”
That gets his eyes open. They’re dark and heavy-lidded as he looks down at me, and the want in them hits me square in the chest. He rolls me onto my back in one smooth motion, settling his weight over me, and I arch up into him instinctively.
His mouth finds my throat, my collarbone, the curve of my shoulder, and I let my fingers drag through his hair and hold on.
“Tell me if I need to slow down,” he says against my skin.
“Don’t you dare.”
He huffs a quiet laugh, and then he takes his time anyway.
Because that’s who Carson Nelson is. Even when I’m pulling at him, even when I’m making it very clear that slow is not what I’m after, he moves like he has all the time in the world and intends to use every bit of it.
His hands are thorough and devastating, and by the time he finally settles between my thighs, I’m already shaking.
When he finally slides home, we both go still for a beat. Just breathing. Just feeling the weight of it. I’ve had sex before, a handful of times with men who didn’t much care whether it was good for me or not. This is nothing like that. This is something I don’t have any words for yet.
I hiss as he starts to move. My poor tissues that haven’t been used in so long are fighting back, but I manage to relax and breathe through it.
He moves slowly at first, watching my face the way he does, like my expression is telling him everything he needs to know.
I stop trying to hide any of it. I let him see all of it.
His forehead drops to mine, and we find a rhythm together that builds steadily, like the storm that rolled off the mountains and dumped all this snow.
I dig my fingers into his shoulders, and he groans low against my ear.
I think that I could get very, very used to this.
We set a scorching rhythm where he presses in and pulls out, hooking my thighs around his waist as he presses into me. It feels as if his dick is hitting the back of my throat as his hips swing into mine.
“I’m gonna come, Len. I need you to come with me.”
He reaches down, pressing his thumb to my clit and working against it as he goes on his knees for better leverage. There’s something about the way it causes him to go deeper that takes me by complete surprise.
The pleasure crests in a long, rolling wave that steals the breath right out of me. I press my face against the side of his neck and hold on tight, and he follows me over the edge with my name on his lips, shuddering.
After, we lay tangled together in the gray morning light.
It’s still snowing, and there is zero sunshine to be seen.
There’s no telling how much snow is out there, but I’m enjoying the quiet in here with him.
Not having to talk to each other is a kind of comfort I never thought I’d have.
His hand moves slowly up and down my spine, and I trace an idle pattern on his chest without thinking about it.
Outside, I can hear that the wind has died down some.
Hopefully, the storm is winding down and will be on its way out soon.
“Lennon.” His voice is quiet.
I tip my chin up to look at him. “Hmm?”
His eyes find mine, and there’s a depth in them that makes my breath catch.
It’s not want, exactly, though that’s still there too.
It’s something deeper than that. Something that looks terrifyingly like what I’ve been trying not to name since the first time he pulled up to my car to help me with my flat tire.
The way he looked at me made me feel like I’d been seen for the first time in my adult life.
“I love you.” He says it simply. It’s not said in a big, grand gesture. It’s spoken like he just decided not to hold on to it anymore.
My mouth opens, but nothing comes out.
The world tilts a little on its axis, and I’m suddenly aware of my own heartbeat, loud and pounding in my ears.
I want to say it back. The words are right there, pressing up against the inside of my ribs, because God help me, I think I mean them.
I think I’ve meant them for longer than I’ve been willing to admit to myself.
But twenty-some-odd years of being the responsible one, of being the one who doesn’t get to want things too much in case they get taken away, has apparently locked something up tight in me that doesn’t know how to come loose on command.
Before I can figure out how to say any of that, there’s a knock on the bedroom door.
“Carson.” Jesse’s voice comes through the wood. “Storm has let up some. We need to get back out there and check the herd. Be ready in twenty.”
Carson closes his eyes for just a second.
Jesse picked either the best or the worst time to interrupt us.
When he opens them, he looks more amused than frustrated, which tells me everything about who he is.
He presses his lips together. “Yeah,” he calls back, loud enough to be heard through the door. “I’ll be down.”
His footsteps stomp down the hallway.
I’m still looking up at him, still feeling the shock of what he said pressing down on my chest in both the happiest and scariest of ways.
He looks back at me and reaches up, brushing his thumb along my cheekbone, easy and like he has all the time in the world.
Like the rest of them aren’t probably waiting on him.
“Hey.” His voice is low, meant only for me. “You don’t have to say anything right now.”
I swallow. “Carson—”
“I mean it.” He dips his head and presses a slow, soft kiss to my mouth. When he pulls back, his eyes are on mine. There’s no anxiety in them, no demand. Just a man who is sure of himself and sure of this in a way I haven’t figured out how to be yet. “It’ll still be there when I come back in.”
Something behind my sternum opens a little. In a good way. It allows me to finally breathe.
“Okay,” I whisper.
He kisses me one more time, and then he’s rolling out of bed and moving around the room with the routine of a man who’s been getting up to go out in dangerous situations for a good part of his life.
I pull the covers up and watch him, not bothering to pretend I’m not.
He pulls on his thermal layer, then his jeans, a flannel shirt that makes his eyes shine bright, and his heavy socks.
He sits on the edge of the bed and glances back at me over his shoulder.
“You’re staring,” he says.
“You’re hot, and I’m enjoying the view.”
The grin he gives me is slow and does absolutely nothing to help the condition of my heart.
He stands up, grabs his hat off the dresser, and settles it on his head.
Then he turns around and looks at me one more time, framed in the gray morning light with his coat in his hand, looking every bit like the kind of man that women in romance novels fall for and women in real life convince themselves they can’t have.
I’ve spent a long time convincing myself of exactly that.
“Be safe,” I tell him. My voice comes out soft. Softer than I intended it to.
Recognition of what this costs me moves across his face. “Always.”
He pulls the door shut behind him quietly, like he’s still trying not to wake the house. I listen to his feet on the stairs, the low murmur of voices somewhere below, the sound of the back door opening, and the cold rushing in for just a second before it closes again.
Then it’s just me, alone in the room that still smells like him, the sheets still warm on his side.
I stare up at the ceiling for a long moment.
He loves me. Carson Nelson looked me in the eye with the full knowledge that I might not be able to say it back, and he said it anyway.
Then he told me I didn’t have to answer.
He gave me the space to catch up without making me feel small for needing it.
This is what I’ve wanted my entire fucking life.
I press the back of my hand to my mouth, stare at the ceiling, and feel the truth of it settle into my bones like the disappointment of my parents’ conditional love did back then.
I’m in love with him too.
I’m just going to need a little while to figure out how to say it out loud.