13. Naomi
NAOMI
It’s been three days since Wyatt broke Stellan’s nose, and Silver Spoon Falls has returned to its default setting of sleepy and boring and I’m enjoying the change of pace.
The sun set not long ago and Wyatt is standing next to sofa, close enough to touch from where I’m sitting.
He’s wearing old jeans and a tight black t-shirt that shows off all his muscles.
He’s been acting twitchy for the last hour and I’m starting to wonder what’s going on.
He keeps checking his phone, adjusting the thermostat, running his hand through his hair.
I try not to stare but I do, because watching him fuss around our house is secretly turning me on.
He finally blows out his breath and kneels down in front of me. “Are you okay?” I ask.
I notice sweat shining on his brow and wonder what is going on. He glances at me, then away, then back again. “I have something for you,” he finally growls, and pulls a tiny blue box from his pocket.
My brain short circuits and I can’t breathe.
He pops the box open I gasp at the size of the diamond. It’s huge, and beautiful. And freaking perfect. The thought of Wyatt picking this out by himself warms my heart.
He doesn’t say anything for a second. He just holds it out, waiting.
His hand is steady but his jaw is flexing, the only sign he’s not actually made of granite.
“I’ve been dreaming about this moment since the first night I saw you,” he says.
His voice is low. “I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”
I blink, and then blink again, because this is not something I know how to process. “You’re serious,” I say, but it comes out as a question, because part of me is still not convinced this is all a dream.
His lips twitch, but he manages to keep a straight face. “Dead serious.” He slips the ring onto my finger, and it fits perfectly. “I want to make you mine. Today, tomorrow, for every day I get.”
I still can’t process what’s happening. I laugh, a weird, breathless sound. “You want to marry me?”
He nods, and for the first time I see a flicker of real fear in his eyes. Not the kind of fear that comes from staring down a loaded gun or an angry groupie. It’s the kind of fear that comes from putting your heart on the line and hoping to god it doesn’t get run over by a truck.
I look down at the ring, turning my hand so the diamond catches the light. It’s a thing of beauty, and it looks obscene and beautiful and totally right on my finger. My hands are shaking so hard I can barely focus.
He is still waiting. The silence stretches out until it’s just him, me, and the sound of my own heartbeat thumping in my ears.
“Of course I’ll marry you,” I finally whisper. And then, because the inside of my head is chaos and the only way out is through, I grab his face and kiss him with everything I have.
It’s not a delicate kiss. It’s the kind that bruises lips and knocks teeth and leaves both of us panting. His hands tangle in my hair, one arm wrapping so tight around my waist I’m pretty sure I’ll have fingerprints tomorrow.
When we finally come up for air, we’re both breathless and a little stunned.
We end up collapsed together on the couch, me half in his lap, our bodies tangled up and warm. I rest my head on his shoulder and stare at my hand, watching the ring sparkle in the lamplight.
For a while, neither of us says anything. There is nothing left to say. The world outside could be burning down, but here in this room, I am safe and whole for the first time since I can remember.
Finally, I say, “We’re going to have to tell my mom.”
He snorts. “I’ll leave that up to you.”
“Oh come on, you know she loves you.” I pause, considering. “She’s going to want to plan the wedding right away.”
“As long as you’re happy with the wedding, I don’t care.” He shrugs, lips pressed to my forehead. “You can have whatever kind of wedding you want, fever. Elvis chapel in Vegas, courthouse, backyard barbecue. As long as you show up, I’m happy.”
I close my eyes, thinking about it. I don’t want a big wedding. I don’t want to wear a poofy dress and pretend to care about centerpieces. I want to marry him somewhere beautiful, somewhere I can walk barefoot and not worry about tripping over my own dress.
“Can we get married on a beach?” I ask.
He grins, slow and easy. “We can do it tomorrow if you want.”
I smile, feeling the last of the nerves bleed away. “I’ll need at least a month to prep. Minimum.”
“Fine,” he says. “But not a minute longer.”
At some point, I tell him I’m thinking about going back to school for maybe law, or counseling, or something that would help women like Casey. He says he thinks I’d be amazing, that I could do anything, and thank my lucky stars Wyatt Byrne walked into my life.
He tells me about a job offer he got from Giant Carmichael’s Security Firm.
It would mean working a more normal schedule which sounds like heaven to me.
Working night shift has been wearing on both of us.
I tease him about having to wear a suit, and he threatens to handcuff me to the bed if I keep making jokes.
“Promise?” I say, waggling my eyebrows.
He laughs, a full-body sound that rattles my bones. “You’re going to keep me on my toes,” he says.
“Definitely.” I pause. “Forever.”
“Forever,” he echoes. And for the first time in my life, the word doesn’t scare me at all.
Sunday morning is my favorite time in the world, especially when I wake up tangled in Wyatt Byrne’s arms with the Texas sun pouring through the bedroom window.
I roll over, and Wyatt is gone. There’s a Wyatt-shaped crater in the mattress next to me, still warm.
I flop onto my back, stretching as I stare at the ceiling, counting my lucky stars.
My lady parts are deliciously, gloriously sore in all the right places, and my hair feels like it’s been through a tornado, or at least a very energetic round of couch sex.
The bedroom door swings open and in walks my fiancé with two mugs of coffee.
God, I love calling him that, and I’m going to use it at every opportunity.
He’s shirtless, but wearing my favorite pair of his jeans, the ones that hang a little low on his hips and look like they were custom-made for his ass.
His hair is a disaster and his eyes are a sleepy, molten green.
“Morning, fever,” he says, voice half a growl and all affection. “You want sugar in your coffee or are you sweet enough?”
I prop myself up on one elbow and shoot him the stink eye. “That’s the worst pickup line I’ve ever heard.”
He sets the mugs on the nightstand and sits down next to me. “I can do worse,” he promises, then leans in for a kiss that tastes like toothpaste and black coffee and something all Wyatt. Safety. Belonging. A kind of joy I thought only happened to other people.
I forget all about the coffee as he slides a hand into my hair, his fingers tangling in the mess of it, and I can feel the heat of his palm against my scalp.
His laugh is low, a rumble that vibrates through me like an earthquake.
“Jesus, fever. You’re going to kill me. I’m too old to fuck like bunnies through the night. ”
I smirk, my lips curling like I’ve just won the damn lottery. “I have every faith you can keep up with me.” My voice is a purr, dripping with confidence as I let the sheet slip down giving him a full view of my naked tits.
“Why don’t I start trying right now,” he growls, and before I can even think, he’s got me flat on my back, the mattress sinking under my weight.
He’s on me in an instant with his hips pressing into mine. I feel the hard ridge of his cock through his jeans, already straining against the zipper. “Fuck me,” I breathe, my hands flying to his shoulders, holding on tight.
He doesn’t make me beg. His mouth crashes down on mine, hot and demanding then his tongue slides against my lips until I open for him. The taste of him is intoxicating and I moan into his mouth, my hips arching up to meet his.
His hands are everywhere, rough and impatient. His mouth leaves mine, trailing down my neck, sucking and biting until I’m squirming beneath him. “I can’t get enough of you,” he mutters against my skin, his breath hot and wet, and I can’t help but laugh, even as my body burns for him.
“Good,” I gasp, my fingers fumbling with the button of his jeans. He helps me, shoving them down his hips, and his cock springs free, thick and heavy in my hand. I stroke him once, twice, feeling the way he pulses in my grip, and he groans, his head dropping to my shoulder.
“Fucking hell,” he growls, his hands sliding down to my waist as his body presses into mine. His cock slides against my wetness too freaking slow.
“See, you’re not too old keep up,” I whisper, my voice shaking with need, and he laughs, a dark, delicious sound that sends shivers down my spine.
“Damn right,” he roars and presses forward, filling me in one hard thrust that has me crying out his name. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t give me a second to breathe, just fucks me with a rhythm that’s relentless. His hips slam into mine with a force that has me seeing stars.
“Don’t stop,” I moan while wrapping my legs around his waist. I pull him deeper and he grunts as his hands grip my hips so hard I know there’ll be bruises tomorrow.
I don’t care. All I care about is the way he feels inside me.
The way he stretches me, fills me up, fucks me, says he’s trying to claim every inch of me.
His mouth finds mine again, swallowing my moans as he drives into me harder, faster, until I’m teetering on the edge, my body trembling with the need to come. “Please, I’m so close,” I gasp, and he growls against my lips, his thrusts becoming even more frantic.
“Come for me,” he demands, his voice rough and raw, and I do, my body shattering around him as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over me. He follows me over the edge with a groan. I feel his cock pulsing inside me before his body collapses on top of mine.
We lay there for a moment, both of us breathing hard, our bodies slick with sweat. “Told you you could keep up,” I murmur, my voice lazy and satisfied, and he laughs, the sound vibrating through me.
“Barely,” he mutters, but he’s grinning as he rolls off me, pulling me into his arms. “But I’ll always try my best for you.”
And I know he will. Because he loves me.