Chapter 34
Thirty-Four
Since the first day Nash strolled into Old Vines, there’s been a connection between us. A draw. Much like these recent days around him, I spent that whole first summer trapped in a magnetic field of him and me.
It was that unbridled attraction that led to all the mistakes we made. Led him to take a job without talking to me first, and me having a baby he doesn’t have a clue exists.
I was in love with Nash back then—I still am—but I was also in lust with him.
Besotted, as my mother would say. And that combination—that overwhelming need to be with another person, body and soul—is what ruined us.
Not a single rational decision gets made while under the influence of the lust-love cocktail.
At least not for me.
At least not when it comes to Nash.
The eight years of history between then and now have done nothing to dampen it. The gossamer thread pulling us toward one another is just as strong. I felt its tug since the second I walked into Thirsty for History that first day.
Which is why when I get out of the shower, instead of smiling at my reflection and letting my mind go to the most perverse places it wants to go regarding the night ahead, I completely freak out.
We’re about to slip right back into a feverish physical free-for-all as soon as he gets home. I know it by the look he gave me when he walked out the door and the way it made me tingle.
Instead of leaning into it, I’m battling a million what-ifs.
What if he hates me when he finds out about Bennie?
What if we’re making the same mistake we did before?
What if it’s not like it was before? What if I haven’t remembered it right, and how it was before wasn’t even that great?
What if Nash didn’t mean anything he said, and I end up being shattered all over again?
What if, what if, what if?
When I’m being ridiculous clashes against I’m going to die, I know I can’t let myself touch him.
Not the way I want.
Not yet.
Not until he signs a blood oath saying we won’t end like last time, and I tell him about Bennie.
Which is why, instead of lounging naked in Nash’s living room, spread-eagled on his couch and waiting to receive him when he gets home, I am fully dressed in underwear—unsexy fullback cottons—a T-shirt, overalls, and, for good measure, mismatched socks, and sitting in the guest room.
In the dark.
Last go-around, we made our first mistake on day one by getting so lost in each other that we missed every important conversation.
If this is going to work, it can’t be the same.
I don’t care how many fingergasms he gives me or how badly I want him.
I don’t care how much he begs or how smooth those begs are.
I refuse.
We will not repeat history.
I will control myself, and he will too.
This time, we’ll do it right. Slow. I will tell Nash about Bennie first, then see where it goes.
I can do this.
Only when the sound of the front door opening and closing echoes through the house, my heart leaps to my throat.
Maybe I can’t do this.
Frank’s claws tap against the floor, followed by Nash’s barefooted steps.
My phone rings in my hands, making me jump.
When I answer, Nash asks, “You hiding from me?”
A nervous laugh puffs out of me. “I didn’t know what to do.”
The door to the bedroom opens, and a slice of light cuts the darkness. “Not this.”
He ends the call, but I don’t move. I can’t. I’m a forty-two-year-old, fully dressed, freaked-out statue.
He sits next to me on the bed. “I expected—” He regards my choice of nightclothes. “Less.”
My body betrays me by purring like a kitty.
“We can’t.” I study my lap. “I was thinking about that. Because of last time.” I’m thirsty. “This time should be different.” Very thirsty. “Slower. We should…” Talk about your child. “Go slow.”
He fights a smile. “Slower than eight years?”
Despite my nerves, I laugh. “Yes.”
I’m prepared for him to fight me, for him to tell me all the ways I’m being ridiculous and how badly he wants to touch me. I’ll resist. I have to. We can’t get in any deeper until he knows everything, and I’m not ready to ruin us by telling him.
How rational.
When he says, “Okay,” I’m thrown. Because okay is categorically not a fighting word. Maybe he’s having doubts. That sets off a whole new round of what-ifs.
“Okay,” I echo.
He stands with a sigh. “But will you at least sleep with me?”
Sleep. I can manage that.
Maybe.
I follow him to his bedroom, almost convincing myself this will be fine. I’ll make it through this night, tell him about Bennie tomorrow, and we will be good. But when Frank plants his ass in the doorway and Nash slams the door in his face, the air becomes charged and feels anything but fine.
It feels intimate.
Intimate enough, even the long shadows stretching across the bedroom walls from the small lamp look like sex.
Nash steps in front of me and runs his fingers through my damp hair. “You’re nervous.”
I let out a shaky exhale.
“Maybe.”
“It’s just sleep,” he says. “Just us.”
Just us.
He unbuttons his shirt, slipping it off along with his shorts, then stands in the middle of the room wearing only his boxers.
I stare. Overcome. Not by how perfect Nash looks, but by how much I still love him.
It defies logic.
We only had three months together eight years ago, but that was all it took for me to hand myself over to him for the rest of my life.
All I want to do is kiss him. Touch him. Be close enough to him I embed myself so deeply in his skin that I can never be removed.
This might be a disaster.
He tugs at a strap on my overalls, smirks, and says, “You can’t sleep in these.” He undoes one strap, then the other, the click of each buckle sending chills down my arms.
When they drop to the floor, I regret my underwear choice, but as I stand in my T-shirt and mismatched socks, Nash looks at me like I’m a sight to behold.
Nash.
Right here. Waiting for me after all these years.
The enormity of that burns my eyes. Instead of reaching for him, I crawl into bed.
He follows suit, but the lamp stays on. The sexy shadows stay stretched across the walls. A graffiti message of everything I long for in light and dark.
He rolls onto his side to face me. I do the same.
Our heads are on separate pillows, but our faces are inches apart. Our synchronized inhales fuel our exhales.
He brings a hand to my face and drags his knuckles along my jaw, making my eyes flutter closed. “This okay?”
I nod, but don’t speak. Because even though Nash is touching my face, the ache of it spreads like a brushfire under the top layer of my skin.
He keeps doing it, dragging his knuckles along my jaw. My arm. My neck. My nose . . . and not a single place where a weaker version of me would long for those knuckles to be.
I keep my eyes closed and the beige blanket clenched between my fingers.
“Hey,” he says, making my eyes open. “I meant it when I said I’d wait. This is enough.” He yawns. “Long day anyway. I’m beat.”
Before I can respond, he leans forward—thank God!—to peck me on the forehead—no!—then reaches over to turn off the lamp. He rolls onto his belly, folds his arms under the pillow, then. . . closes his eyes.
I have never been more disappointed in someone’s compliance in my life.
My heart is pounding.
My body is throbbing.
And he’s . . . going to sleep?
And with that, a whole new round of what-ifs pummel into me. What if this is the only night we ever get? What if I tell him about Bennie tomorrow and he never wants me in this bed again? And we’re just going to sleep?
There are a million reasons to wait, and only a single selfish reason not to. I want this. Us. Even if just once.
My eyes adjust to the dark and trace his profile. His eyes are closed; his breathing is steady.
Is he already sleeping? This is a new skill.
I’m vibrating with need. Itching from it. I’ll never be able to sleep in this bed so close to him. I either leave this room or let myself touch him, and there’s no way in hell I’m leaving this room.
Still on my side, I release my death grip on the blanket and reach for him. The arm closest to me is the one covered in ink, and with a soft touch, I trace his tattoos with my index finger. Every swirl and every line. Every date and name.
The bastard doesn’t flinch.
The nerve.
I don’t care how beat he is.
Yet him sleeping doesn’t stop me. Doesn’t change the way my fingers draw lines across his body like a road map, along his arm and down his back, or squash the way I imagine him rolling over to rip off my shirt before driving right into me.
“Nash?” I whisper.
He snorts a single snore.
What?
He’s sound asleep, and I’m so turned on I might die. Of all the scenarios I imagined for tonight, this was not one of them.
I bring my mouth to his elbow and give a quick, gentle suck.
Nothing.
My mouth travels up the entirety of his arm with licks and nibbles.
Nothing.
I’m on my hands and knees now, leaning over him and peppering kisses across his back and shoulder.
“Nash,” I whisper between them, “are you awake?”
Silence.
I put two fingers to his mouth, push them between his lips, and hook them around his teeth. My entire core tightens with want. Suck my fingers, Nash.
He. Breathes.
I jerk my fingers from his mouth and sit on my knees, staring at him. Wondering if I’m going to have to take care of myself just to get this out of my system.
And then I see it. The smirk, half hidden by the pillow.
Without moving or opening his eyes, he says, “That you taking it slow?”
His eyes open to meet mine, and my jaw drops. Before I can die of humiliation or smother him with a pillow, he rolls onto his back, grabs my hips, and pulls me on top of him.
“You’re a bastard,” I say, settling into my straddled position, my knees hugging his ribs.
His chest rumbles with a laugh as he grabs my hand to kiss my wrist, then—briefly—suck my fingers.
“A bastard whose elbow you sucked while he was sleeping.”
I lean down so my face is close to his, our noses touching. “It’s the only way you’re bearable.”
He threads his fingers in my hair, and the look in his eyes shifts from playful to serious.
“Tell me you want this.”
I nod because I do. Even if I am doing the wrong thing by not telling him about Bennie first.
I reach for his mouth with mine, but his grip in my hair stops me.
“I need you to say it.”
“I want this, Nash.”
His name is barely off my lips when he crushes his mouth to mine. The kiss that starts slow turns to a storm of sucks and licks and the heat of a blue flame.
Beneath me, he’s hard and ready.
I rock my hips against him. Faster. Fast enough, I might grind our underwear clear off.
He peels off my shirt, and his fingers dig into my back. When his mouth finds my breasts, my head drops back and a moan escapes my lips.
I can barely breathe from how good it feels. How right.
This.
Him.
In a swift motion, I’m on my back, and he’s on top, between my thighs and fumbling his way out of his boxers, wicked smile on his face.
His fingers hook around the waistband of my underwear, and he—slowly—slides them down my legs and throws them across the room.
When he’s leaning toward me again, his mouth coming for mine, I say, “Wait.” He stills. “My socks.”
He puffs out a breathy laugh. “What?”
My hips chase his for friction, but still I say, “I can’t have sex wearing socks.”
He chuckles but obliges, kneeling upright to extend one of my legs to rest on his chest. My muscles scream; I make a mental note to take up yoga. He peels one sock off, sending it in the same direction as my underwear.
He kisses my ankle. My calf. My thigh.
Then.
He lifts my hips and drapes my leg over his shoulder.
And there his kiss is, between my thighs, the wet warmth of his tongue all there is.
His mouth might be between my legs, but I feel every lick in the way my heart beats and lungs breathe. He swirls, and he sucks, and I am consumed.
I tangle my fingers in his hair and pull myself as close as I can to his mouth, my back arching off the bed as I do.
He growls against me, and I whimper.
I whimper, and I whimper, and I whimper until the pulses of pleasure turn constant, and I come right in Nash’s mouth with a sock on one foot.
I’m in the middle of seeing stars as his mouth travels up my body. My belly. My ribs. My sternum. My jaw.
He’s above me, then his mouth is on mine. There we are on his tongue.
I laugh, breathless.
“I’ve missed that.”
Between nibbles of my lip, he says, “Not as much as I have,” then reaches toward the nightstand.
I grab his arm and shake my head. It will be a cold day in hell when Nash Fletcher fucks me with a condom.
Even in the dark, his gaze gets hotter.
Back on top of me, lined up and ready, he rubs his nose against mine. “I’ve missed you so damn much, Rue Conway.”
All the pleasure and want in my body morph into an emotion so much more powerful.
There are so many things to say, but not one of them does this feeling justice. Love isn’t big enough. Need isn’t strong enough.
I know I’m crying because Nash wipes my tears away.
I don’t say anything. I don’t have to. He knows. He always has.
Our next kiss is unhurried as Nash slides inside me with a single thrust of his hips. I swear from the severity of it. From the oh-so-good stretch to the initial bottoming out.
His forearms on the bed, he hovers over me as my fingernails dig into his back and my legs wrap around his waist.
Then he starts to move, rhythmically gliding in and out of me. “Fuck, Rue,” he whispers. “You feel good.”
So does he.
He shifts his knees, lifting my hips at the perfect angle to take me with a tight grip of my hips. Once again, he’s moving, and the skin-on-skin sounds of us fill the room. Sloppy and delicious.
In . . . out . . . in . . . out turns to in, out, in, out before becoming a completely animalistic inoutinoutinoutinoutinout.
His teeth are gritted. He’s close. I’m closer.
I barely get my “I’m coming, Nash” out before the next drive of his hips catapults me over the edge, making me scream and whimper as I go.
With his hands filled with me and me filled with him, he’s not far behind me as the filthiest of words come off his lips. The chants of my name fill the space between praises of how good he feels inside me. How right at home. How long he’s been waiting and how much he’s missed me.
Breathless and slick with sweat, he falls against me, laughing in my ear as our hearts ricochet between his chest and mine.
“Shit,” he says, panting as he kisses my neck. “I missed that.”
“I missed you,” I say, buzzing in a blissed-out afterglow.
“Hm.” He rubs his nose against my cheek, and I trace the lines of a tattoo on his shoulder, dazed as he says, so easily, “Well, I love you, Rue Conway.”
Bliss morphs to emotion right in the middle of my chest.
Then we spend all night making up for lost time.