Chapter 14 #2
Odette and Estelle had only been in the house for two days now, and in those two days, they had beaten Sheridan down so hard, criticizing everything she did, disparaging who she was as a person, that she was a shell of who she’d been just a short week ago.
Nothing she did was right in their eyes, and frankly, he was tired of them bullying her.
That’s what they were doing and he hated it. Hated seeing her take the verbal blows that never seemed to let up. He hated that he had to keep coddling her family, too, pretending to be nice, when all he wanted to do was ask them to leave. No, order them to leave and never come back.
Delilah squeezed his arm. “Every word they say to her is derogatory.”
“I know.”
“And just plain cruel,” Royce piped in as he snaked his arm around his wife’s waist and pulled her closer.
In an effort to calm her? Or perhaps, to calm himself?
Obviously, Royce had strong feelings about what was right and wrong, and the way Sheridan was being treated was just plain wrong.
“If they say one more horrible thing to that sweet young woman, I will have something to say about it. I know it’s your house, Wyatt, but Delilah and I have no issue asking them both to leave. And the sooner the better.”
Coming from Royce, that was saying something. He didn’t have a rude bone in his body.
“I’ll take care of it.”
“See that you do. Sheridan is a wonderful person. She doesn’t deserve how those two bruhas treat her.”
Wyatt raised an eyebrow. He knew his mother was really upset when she chose a word in Spanish rather than English.
He leaned forward just a bit and kissed her on the cheek.
“You’re a good woman, Delilah Cabot.” And then he patted Royce on the shoulder.
“And you’re a good man. I’ll take care of it. Good night.”
He left them standing in the kitchen and went upstairs.
He entered his bedroom to see the object of their conversation already dressed in her nightgown, standing in front of the mirror on the bureau, her gaze steady but unfocused, as if she wasn’t really seeing her reflection at all.
Or perhaps she was and didn’t like what she was seeing.
He sat on the divan and pulled off his boots, but his gaze kept going back to her. “Are you all right?”
She shook her head but didn’t say a word. Instead, she picked up the brush from the bureau, and started brushing her long hair, the strokes not gentle and easy, but angry. He winced.
He rose from the divan and walked toward her, then took the brush from her hand. “Let me.”
He pulled the bristles through her golden locks, from the top of her head to the very ends, which were just about to the middle of her back, and kept doing it, stroke after stroke after stroke until the tension finally released from her shoulders and she let out a long sigh.
“Tell me. What happened?”
“They said I was just like my mother.” She pulled in a shuddering breath. “They said I wasn’t worthy of being loved, just like she wasn’t.”
What a hurtful thing to say to one’s own blood. He put down the brush, grasped her shoulders and turned her to face him, but she wouldn’t look at him. Instead, she focused on the buttons of his shirt. “Look at me.”
She lifted her head and it broke his heart to see the tears standing in her eyes, the lashes wet.
“They’re wrong, Sherry. You are.” He pulled her closer and dropped a kiss on her forehead, then pulled back so he could look in her eyes again.
“You’re a beautiful, kind-hearted person.
A good person despite them. Or maybe because of your grandmother and aunt.
You see how they are and you don’t want to be like them.
” He swiped the tear rolling down her cheek with his thumb. “You are worthy.”
“Show me.”
He stared into her eyes, watery with tears, the warm peridot color darkening, then slowly lowered his head and captured her lips with his. She sighed as he deepened the kiss, his tongue slowly caressing hers.
He pulled her closer, pressing her body against his, feeling her soft curves mold to him, reveling in her warmth.
After sleeping beside her, willing himself not to touch her, drawing on every ounce of willpower he possessed and failing miserably, he was finally free to show her exactly how he felt and what he wanted.
He moved her toward the bed, his mouth still upon hers, drinking in her sweetness, dispelling her sadness, proving to her that she was indeed worthy of being adored, of being loved.
He laid her gently on the mattress, his mouth never leaving hers as he yanked on his shirt, sending the buttons flying.
He didn’t care. He shrugged out of his shirt, then leaned forward and possessed her mouth once again, even as he shucked his trousers.
Naked, as he wanted to be, he joined her on the bed, stretching out almost on top of her, but not quite.
His mouth never left hers, filling himself with her essence.
He unbuttoned the fancy buttons that held her nightgown closed, then spread the edges, revealing her magnificent breasts to his eyes. And they were magnificent. Round. Pert. Heavy as he lifted one slightly.
“Blow out the lamps,” she begged.
He smiled instead and simply lowered his head to lick at her nipple, watching with amazement, and not a bit of dissatisfaction, as the pale pink nub tightened.
And then he drew it into his mouth, sucking gently, his tongue smoothing over it, making it tighter and more sensitive, even while his hand squeezed her other breast lightly.
He tasted the sweetness of her skin, the scent of her perfume, subtle but heady, familiar yet somehow, at this moment, exotic yet innocent.
A hiss escaped her and he couldn’t resist smiling as her hands held his head and her back arched, pushing her breasts closer to his face, silently asking for more. Much more.