by T. K. Leigh
He places a soft kiss on the corner of my lips, then leans back, bringing his erection up to me, spreading my desire around. I close my eyes and lift my hips, silently telling him what I need.
“Open your eyes, Londyn.” His tone is a mix between a demand and a plea.
I follow his request.
“I need you to stay with me.” He kisses me sweetly. “Need your eyes on me. Okay?”
“Okay.” I fight the urge to close my eyes when he rubs himself against my clit, causing another wave of desire to wash over me.
“No going back,” he reminds me.
I shake my head. “No going back.”
There’s something so intimate about our gazes being locked as he eases inside me. My chest heaves, my breathing increasing, this moment more profound than I thought it would be.
“Okay?” he asks.
I nod.
He leans toward me. “I need to hear you say you’re okay. I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You’re not. I’ve done this before,” I joke, trying to lighten the mood.
“I’m not talking about physically, Londyn.” He brings his hand to my chest, covering my heart. “I’m talking about here. Are you okay here? We don’t have to do this if you’re not ready.”
“I’m ready. I’m okay.”
He covers my mouth with his, then pushes the rest of the way in, filling me to the hilt and pausing at the point of absolute bliss, both of us reveling in the sensation as we exhale simultaneously.
He retreats before pushing back into me again, this time going a little farther. I gasp, an electric shock traveling straight to my core.
“Too much?”
I swallow hard. “Again,” I plead.
He groans, burying his head in the crook of my neck, his unshaven jaw causing an ache to build.
“Do you have any idea how good you feel? So warm. So perfect.”
I arch into him, signaling with my body what I need.
When he thrusts into me, I exhale, my nails clawing into his back. “Oh god.”
“More?”
“Yes.”
He withdraws, his motions slow, before driving into me again, my eyes widening at how deep he goes. A shiver rolls through me, my breathing labored. He leans back, a mischievous glint in his eyes as he swipes his tongue against his thumb, then lowers it to my clit, circling it.
“Wes...” I close my eyes, losing myself in the sensation, chasing the euphoria that swells inside me.
“Eyes on me,” he reminds me, his voice gruff.
I snap my gaze back to his, my pulse skyrocketing when I see the raw desire within.
He meets my motions, his thrusts becoming less gentle and more frantic. Nothing has ever felt so perfect, so fulfilling, so satisfying. It isn’t just the physical connection. It’s the emotional. I’ve never experienced something so strong, so incredible. And it’s because I’ve finally met someone I can be vulnerable around. Someone who knows my scars, my faults, and doesn’t judge me because of them. He sees them for what they are. Part of the fabric that makes me who I am. And for the first time, I’m proud of who I am. Of everything I had to overcome to get to this point.
“I won’t last much longer,” Wes pants, nibbling and tugging on my bottom lip. “You feel too fucking good, Lo.”
“Then let go,” I murmur.
“Not until you do.”
“I don’t think—”
“Don’t fight it. Let yourself go. Let me feel you clench around me,” he growls through his heavy breaths.
His tone mixed with his words is all I need to tip me over the edge. I scream out his name, waves and waves of my orgasm cresting and crashing. When I think I’m about to come down, Wes drives into me with more intensity, pushing me higher once more until he grunts, jerking through his own release, my name on his tongue like an erotic benediction as it echoes in the room.
He collapses on top of me, our hearts crashing against each other in a thunderous rhythm. Our bodies are slick with sweat and sex, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. This was raw and real and exactly how it needed to be between us.
“Are you still with me?” he pants.
“I’m still with you.”
“Good.” He exhales a satisfied sigh. Then he leaves a kiss on my temple. “Don’t move.” Extracting himself from me, he slides off the bed and makes his way into the bathroom, returning a few seconds later with a towel. I reach for it, but he shakes his head. “Allow me.”
I had no problem letting him come inside me, but the idea of him cleaning me up feels so intimate. Too intimate.
“You don’t have to. I can—”
“I know you can. But I want to take care of you. Let me take care of you. Please?”
I swallow hard at the desperation in his tone. I nod, keeping my gaze trained on his as he brings the towel between my thighs and wipes away the evidence of what we’ve just done. After cleaning himself off, he joins me on the bed, draping an arm around my waist and dragging me to him, my back to his front.
“You okay?”
I laugh. “You keep asking that.”
“And I’ll keep asking. I don’t want you to have a single regret when it comes to me.”
Turning in his embrace, I brush my lips against his. “Non. Je ne regrette rien, as the great Edith Piaf would say. Or sing, as it were.”
“I didn’t know you spoke French.”
“I was an art history major. It was highly recommended we study a variety of classical languages. Spanish. Italian. French.”
“And you’re fluent?”
“I know the important phrases.”
“Like what?”
“Je t’aime.”
He sighs into me. “Je t’aime,” he repeats in an unrefined French accent mixed with his smooth Southern.
Unlike my professor, who would have scolded him for his bastardization of the beautiful language, I don’t care about the inflection. That’s not important. The meaning behind the words is the only thing that is.
“I love you, Londyn.”
“And I love you, Wes. Hopelessly. Madly. Completely.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Weston
A scratching sound stirs me and I open my eyes, a pair of dark orbs staring back at me instead of the normal emptiness that greets me when I wake up in the morning.
“Were you watching me sleep?” I ask, hooking a leg over Londyn’s waist and bringing her closer. The dim sunlight streams along her delicate features, making her appear ethereal.
She settles against my chest, toying with a few tufts of hair. “Maybe.”
“Any reason for that?”
“I like watching you sleep. You look so…peaceful.”
She has no idea how true her words are. I can’t remember the last time I’ve slept through the night without waking up every few hours. But last night, I didn’t wake up once. If Zeus hadn’t scratched on the door, needing to go out, I’d probably still be asleep.
“I feel at peace,” I exhale. Pinching her chin, I tilt her head back. “Like I’m finally where I’m supposed to be. Like you’re exactly where I’m supposed to be.”
She feathers her lips against mine, her kiss sweet and tender, yet just as toe-curling and soul-fulfilling as the way she kissed me last night.
“You’re exactly where I’m supposed to be, too,” she murmurs as Zeus paws at the door again, this time followed by a whimper. “But right now, I think you need to let your dog out.”
“I think you’re right,” I groan, burying my head in her hair, hating the idea of leaving her, even for a minute. “But what I wouldn’t give to stay in this bed with you.” I circle my hips against her.
“Down boy.” She pinches my side. “How about this. You go let Zeus outside before he ruins your carpet. Then we can spend the rest of today in this bed… Clothing optional.” She winks.
“I like the sound of clothing optional.” Running my hand along the contours of her frame, I cup her ass and squeez
e. “I like the feel of clothing optional.”
“I knew you would. Now go.” She playfully swats me away.
“Yes, ma’am.” I leave her with a deep kiss, then slide out of bed.
As I pull on my pajama bottoms, she rolls onto her side, propping her head in her hand, shamelessly watching me. I can’t help but smile at how comfortable she seems in my bed, the duvet draped casually along her waistline. She doesn’t even try to cover her exposed chest. Which only makes it even more difficult to leave her. But I’d rather not waste a single second of today by cleaning up after Zeus.
Returning to her, I lean down and place one last kiss on her nose before walking out of the room, Zeus excitedly following and barking as I make my way downstairs. He all but knocks me to the floor when I open the sliding glass door, darting through my legs and into the freshly mowed back yard, causing the few birds perched on the top of the portico to disperse.
“Dopey dog,” I muse. It’s what I get for bringing home a stray dog that had been frequenting one of my firm’s construction sites after I first moved back to Atlanta.
I never fancied myself a dog person, my life normally too busy and hectic to take care of one. But he kept following me around, something drawing him to me. After I brought him to the vet and learned he had a nasty case of heartworm that would kill him if left untreated, I knew I couldn’t let the poor guy suffer. So I paid for his treatment, left him at the vet for a few days, then brought him home. It’s almost like he knew we needed each other. He needed someone to take care of him. And I needed someone to help me get over losing Brooklyn.
While Zeus does his business, I pad into the kitchen and start a cup of coffee. A buzz sounds, and I unplug my phone from the charger on the counter, unlocking the screen. The first thing I usually do in the morning is answer the myriad of emails waiting for me. But not today. I deserve a day off. A real day off when I don’t even think about work. I haven’t taken one of those in years.
Instead, I open up my latest text exchange with Julia and type out a new message to her.
Wes: Mission accomplished, Jules.
Her reply comes almost instantly.
Julia: Mission accomplished? As in the thing you’ve been working on for the past few months? And not Gampy and Meemaw’s house?
Wes: Yes. Londyn is here. In my bed, to be exact.
Julia: Then why the hell are you texting me? Go spend time with her.
Wes: I plan on it. I had to let the dog out and am making her coffee, but I wanted to update you.
Julia: I’m happy for you. Just don’t fuck it up. Better yet, don’t let Lydia fuck it up.
Wes: I’ll do my best. I’ll call you later.
Julia: Sounds good. Love you.
Wes: Love you, too. Give Imogene lots of hugs and kisses from me. And from Zeus.
Julia: You got it.
I set my phone back down and start making the second cup of coffee. Spotting Zeus standing by the back door, I let him in, then pour some kibble into his bowl.
As I’m preparing Londyn’s coffee the way I noticed she orders it when we’re together, there’s a knock on my front door. I straighten, wondering who’d be here at ten o’clock on a Sunday morning.
“Weston, darling,” my mother’s shrill voice sounds. “It’s me.”
I expel a breath, pinching the bridge of my nose. She’s the absolute last person I want to see, even more so than usual, considering Londyn’s upstairs.
“I know you’re home, Weston,” she continues when I don’t immediately respond. “Your car’s out front.”
“So is another,” I mutter under my breath, which is probably the reason my mother chose to stop by today when I haven’t seen her in months.
These days, I tend to avoid her at all costs. I put on a smile and remain cordial in public, but the rift she caused after her treatment of Brooklyn in front of my friends and family — in front of Brooklyn’s friends and family — isn’t one I think will ever be repaired. Not unless she finally admits she was wrong and apologizes, something she’ll never do.
Wanting to get this over with sooner rather than later, I trudge to the front door and pull it back.
“Well, it’s about time,” she huffs, pushing past me and into my house as if she owns it, dressed in a navy blue skirt suit reminiscent of Jackie O.
I tower over her by nearly a foot, but I’d learned appearances can be deceiving. She may be petite with perfectly coifed, dyed blonde hair and kind blue eyes, but she’s as vindictive as they come.
“And is that how you answer the door?” Her analytical gaze scans my frame that’s clad only in a pair of pajama pants. “It’s indecent, Weston. I raised you better than this.”
Zeus chooses this moment to take a break from eating, growling and barring his teeth. He’s usually a gentle, loving dog, one that can’t even kill a lizard when he’s lucky enough to catch one. The only person he hates is my mother. Then again, I’ve always found dogs to be rather astute judges of character.
“Zeus, stop,” I admonish.
He looks at me, as if asking if I’m serious. Even he doesn’t think my mother deserves my attention.
“And as far as your concerns about the way I dress, this is my home. If I want to walk around naked, I have the freedom to do that. So why don’t you tell me why you’re here so we can get this over with.” I cross my arms in front of my chest, leaning against the large kitchen island.
“I was on my way to brunch with a few of the ladies from church. I noticed your car was in the driveway, like I said, and decided to stop by, since you haven’t been around much lately. I suppose you find it more important to spend your Sundays at that old shack as opposed to attending church like the good Christian I raised you to be.”
The one benefit from growing up around someone as phony and pretentious as my mother is she taught me how to fake it like the best of them. So, instead of rolling my eyes so hard they practically pop out of their sockets at her insinuation of being anywhere near a devout woman, I simply smile.
“Is that the only reason? To say hi and berate me on my lackluster church attendance when I’ve never exactly been a big believer?”
“I can’t stop by to see my son?”
“I’ve been around long enough to know you don’t do anything that doesn’t benefit you. So why are you really here?”
She opens her mouth, feigning indignation, then quickly snaps her jaw shut. “As it turns out, Caroline de la Roche is home for the weekend. She’s recently divorced. It’s not ideal, but I suppose when you get up there in age, as you are, you can’t be as choosy as you once were. She’s coming to brunch with her mother. I thought it would be beneficial for you to attend, as well.”
“I’ll tell you the same thing I have every time you’ve tried to set me up with another one of your friend’s daughters. I’m not interested.” I turn from her, hoping she takes the hint and ends the conversation. But I should know better than that. She’s almost as stubborn as I am. But what makes it worse is she’s also extremely narcissistic.
“When are you going to be interested, Weston? People are talking. It’s not right for a man of your age with your upbringing to still be single. Some say you’re gay. Others claim you’re in love with Julia because of how close you are.”
I whirl around, my eyes on fire. “She’s my sister. Who the hell are you hearing this stuff from anyway?”
“That’s not even the worst of them,” she continues, relentless in her search for the truth.
“Oh really? What’s next?” I gesture down to the dog. “That I’m in love with Zeus here? Because, while we do share a bed on occasion, his rank morning breath doesn’t do it for me.” I give her a sarcastic smile.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Weston,” she chides.
I lean toward her. “What’s ridiculous is your friends and their unusual occupation with my social life. It’s completely normal for a man over the age of thirty to be single. Hell, I don’t know if I even want to be married.�
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She looks at me, aghast. “Why wouldn’t you want to get married?”
“Because you and Dad are so happy?” I shoot back. “Sorry to be the one to tell you this, but the two of you never exactly set a shining example of a happy marriage. You’re more like a walking advertisement for why you shouldn’t get married.”
She blinks repeatedly, incensed at the idea of anyone questioning her. “That’s not the point.”
“Then what is the point?”
She hesitates, pinching her thin, pink lips together, debating her next statement. “Well, if you must know, Helena Beaumont said something this morning that caught my attention.”
“I’m sure this will be life-changing.”
“She mentioned she saw you at the art museum yesterday.”
My face heats, my expression falling. I have a feeling I know where this conversation is headed, and I don’t like it. “That sounds right,” I respond evenly. “I was there.”
She edges closer, her voice low. “She also said you were with a woman. A negro.”
I narrow my gaze on her, my stare turning icy. “Mother, I’m fairly certain that term went out of style four or five decades ago. And that negro, as you put it, is a wonderful woman named Londyn. I’d appreciate it if you used her name.”
Her eyes widen, face blanching. “So you’re not denying it then?”
“Denying what?” I lean against the island, acting as cavalier as possible, knowing it will piss her off even more.
“Are you carrying on with her?” she whispers, as if the mere idea makes it difficult for her to speak.
With a smirk, I grab one of the coffee mugs and bring it to my lips. “Define carrying on.”
