Slipping my cock inch-by-inch into her slippery pussy, Rachel writhes, moving like she knows what I like to see – a woman who loves what I feel like and how I move.
She grabs onto the hand that’s gripping her hip, her elbow bent high. Her fingers trap mine there and I squeeze back as I thrust slowly, loving the gorgeous view of her body.
She grabs onto my headboard and I keep moving slow and steady, knowing she’s sore, until her body gives in to me completely.
She cries out as we cum together. “Holy shit,” I moan as the pulses rack through our bodies.
We’ve done that all four times last night, even the shower. It’s taken me to a whole new level of confusion at how I’m going to be able to let her go. It’s not that sex is everything, it’s that this kind of connection isn’t common. I’ve never felt it before.
I’m good in bed. Anyone I’ve been with will tell you that.
Mostly, because I love it. All of it.
But simultaneous orgasms are not an ‘every time’ thing. Especially not the first night you’re with someone. Not unless something greater than just sex is going on. I feel that with her. There’s an energy between us that is tearing me apart and putting me back together.
In the aftermath of this slow morning fuck we kiss for a long time until suddenly her smile fades.
“I have to call my mom.”
“I know. Mine texted me already.”
Rachel makes a face. “Are you serious?”
“She thought I was going to stay the night in Atlanta. So did I.”
Laughing, Rachel asks, “So…you got us in trouble with our parents is what you’re saying?”
Stroking her naked body as I remain inside her, I say on a low laugh, “Yep. Guess no T.V. for a week.”
“Oh please! You never got in trouble. That was always me!”
“Parents are more lenient with boys.”
Rachel stares at my smile and reaches up to touch my nose. “I like how you’ve grown up.”
Like I’m going to say something sweet I lean in to whisper in her ear, “When did the braces come off, Jaws?”
She hoots at my reference to the bad guy in James Bond’s Moonraker. “You used to call me that! I forgot. That was so mean!”
Staring down into her smiling face, I ask the question that’s been gnawing at me, “When’s your flight?”
Her smile falters as she blinks at me. “You knew I was leaving today?”
“I do now.” I push a lock of sandy-brown hair from her forehead, tracing her skin. “What do you do there, Rachel? For a living.”
“I’m a writer,” she whispers. “Editorials for blogs and newspapers. I have a few non-fiction books out about travel, too.”
My eyebrows go up. “You’re a travel writer?”
“Restaurants, hidden places, but mostly I like to write about the people I meet, the quirky differences that make each place unique.”
We stare at each other and I know she’s thinking the same thing I am. We both know there isn’t much to write about where I live.
“Nice. They send you to these places you travel to?”
“My publisher does for the books. That’s how I eventually got to be paid for blogging when most aren’t. And I researched successful bloggers early on, building my own core audience until…” she trails off and shrugs her shoulders, misreading my expression for disinterest.
What she’s really seeing, I won’t tell her. “That’s good. I’d like to read some of your stuff.”
She searches my face. “I should go.”
“Rachel, I’m not sorry we did this.”
Something familiar is in her eyes, not from childhood but from other women I’ve been with.
She wants me to ask her to stay.
It’s occurred to me.
No…it’s haunted me ever since I first kissed her last night, and felt something I never had before.
But what could she achieve here? Interview my cows and give up everything she’s built in one of the greatest cities in the world? And by greatest, I mean size and impact.
I’ve been to New York, stopped off on my way to visit Justin when he was at Yale.
I saw the appeal, but only to visit.
Not a fan.
I’m a country boy blood and bone. Maybe that’s why this is so compelling – she’s so different from me. But I know deep down that’s not really why. Hell, I knew it all the way back when we were kids.
As usual Mrs. Connolly shouted at recess, “Jerald and Jaxson Cocker! Get over here! Now!” We stopped chasing Cora and Heather and hit each other on the shoulder, laughing as we made our way back to enjoy our daily scolding.
“They called Jerald ‘cute,’ Mrs. Connolly, and you know that’s a lie,” I explained as my younger brother snickered beside me. I was nine. He was seven, but just an inch shorter. He was my best friend and followed me everywhere, trying his best to think of ways to outdo me.
She wasn’t amused. “How many times are you going to have to hear from me ‘no chasing girls!’ before I send you home?”
Jerald whispered, “Ten-thousand.”
“I heard that!”
Behind her I saw something I wasn’t expecting and my face changed. Rachel Sawyer has just walked out of the library with her arms full of books and her hair curled for picture day. It was normally bone straight.
I stood a little straighter because while we were friends and played after school, I noticed her that day for the first time as a girl, and not a gross-girls-are-stupid creature.
Mrs. Connolly was yammering on about whatever and I nodded like I was listening, but Rachel had just tucked a little of her curled hair behind her ear after a breeze misplaced it. As she did that simple gesture, she glanced over and caught me staring.
She froze.
I walked away from the teacher.
“Jaxson! Where are you going?”
“Sorry, Mrs. Connolly,” I muttered, glancing back over my shoulder. “Rachel’s books are heavy.”
The teacher’s mouth dropped in surprise. Jerald watched me, blonde eyebrows contorted with confusion.
Why would I help a girl with her books, they both wordlessly asked.
I continued on my journey.
Rachel was staring at me like there was no one else around.
I walked up and knocked the books out of her hands. “Oops!”
“Jaxson Cocker!!” Rachel shouted, and I took off running. She chased me. My brother laughed long and hard.
I got in trouble that day, but I don’t remember the punishment.
I only remember Rachel Sawyer’s bright blue eyes locked on me and only me.
Rachel
“Is Dad home?” I whisper as I take my shoes off in the immaculate foyer of my parent’s new house. Mom says wearing shoes inside brings negative energy into your home. I think it’s really from habit of keeping the New York dirt manageable.
“No, thank God.”
Sighing, I lock eyes with her. “Okay, let’s have it.”
“Did you sleep with him!?”
“Mom!”
She’s practically spitting she’s so upset. “Jaxson Cocker. I can’t believe you.” And as though she’s fumbling for what to say, she shouts, “He always got you in trouble! Nice to know things haven’t changed!”
Throwing her arms in the air, Mom flips around for the kitchen where she will no doubt salve her nerves with a Sunday morning mimosa. “This is the worst thing that’s ever happened!” she mutters to herself.
It sounds like she believes that. Which is a bit of an overreaction in my opinion.
But we are church-going folk. At least, she still is. I’ve kinda slipped off the pious wagon. I still pray almost every night, and that keeps my Catholic guilt at bay. I’ve got bigger things to worry about now, though, don’t I? And Mom’s apparently not going to make it easier on me.
I take a deep breath of patience and follow her. There is no avoiding this mess. “First you don’t like Rya
n, and now you don’t like Jaxson.”
“I never liked Jaxson, Rachel. You know that!” She whips open her brand new refrigerator and pulls out an unopened bottle of champagne, reaching in for fresh squeezed orange juice predictably after. Casting a look at my expression, she mutters, “Don’t ride me about this. It’s the only morning I drink and you know that! And I went to church today, praying for you!” Her slippers shuffle to the cabinet for a glass.
“Grab two,” I quietly say.
She glances over the shoulder of her comfy housedress and raises her eyebrows.
“Mom, if we’re going to have this conversation, I need a drink.”
“Did you sleep with him!?!!”
I gape at her, then shut my mouth. “No.”
She huffs back like she doesn’t believe me, “Rachel, I’m serious. This is very important. Did you?!”
Stunned and ashamed, I whisper, “No, mom. We just talked.” To sell my lie, I add, “We kissed. That’s it.”
Shaking her head she hands me the champagne like she doesn’t trust herself not to drop the bottle. I’m no first-timer so when I pop the cork, only a tiny mist drifts out, no overflow.
As soon as we have mimosas in hand, she mutters under her breath before a very large sip, “I saw him a few weeks ago. Knew it was him right off the bat. That Cocker swagger. He also looked dirty. Like he’s got no money. Stay away from him.”
Smiling at her ignorance and superiority, I gently defend him, “He’s a cowboy, mom. He has a gorgeous ranch that’s over three-hundred acres.”
The formidable Ellen Sawyer stares at me a beat then resumes her tirade. “Well, he’s not a lawyer, Rachel! And you know that while Ryan might be career-driven and egotistical, he will always be able to provide for you.”
“What year are we living in?” I groan. “And you don’t have to worry. Jaxson doesn’t want anything more from me than…” She waits for me to say the rest, and because I lied to her, I pretend to act appalled, “…my body! He wanted more. I didn’t give it to him because I couldn’t do that to Ryan.”
Oh my…I’m diving deeper into depravity.
Visibly relieved, she demands, “And what are you going to tell your boyfriend?”
“He’s not really my boyfriend right now. We had a fight and he said he…”
“Rachel!”
Unable to defend my actions in front of one who’s lived through more life experience than I have, who I respect very much, and who also knows me too well to believe it’s over with me and Ryan, I can only sigh, “I’m going to tell him the truth.”
“Don’t you dare!”
Stunned I stare, mimosa suspended in front of my mouth. “What are you saying?”
She takes another gulp, blinking away to the window while struggling for words of wisdom. Finally, her shoulders slump and she whispers, “Rachel, telling someone you cheated only takes the burden off you and puts it on them. I know you didn’t sleep with him, so what is there to tell? You’re not going to see him again, are you?” She waits for my plans.
God, what a horrible feeling this is.
All I want is to see him again.
I shake my head. “No, I’m not seeing him again. It…didn’t go well.”
Except it did.
Waving her hand in conclusion, she says, “Then restrain yourself from putting that on Ryan and your relationship. I wasn’t a fan of the man, Rachel, but you are. And he is very successful. He’s only going to go up! Unless he’s a lying, underhanded lawyer…is he?”
“What? No! He’s one of the good guys, Mom.”
Exhaling, she mutters from behind her slender flute glass, “Then don’t say anything, for God’s sake! It was a night of conversation and that’s all. A ghost from your past sprung up and took a bite out of you. It’s not going anywhere. It will never go anywhere. It can never go anywhere.” She touches my heart, her blue eyes filled with meaning. “So it stays here. And this is where it never leaves.”
I know she means the secret, but for me it hits differently. As much as I know it’s time to go back to my normal life, Jaxson’s taste is still on my tongue. His masculine scent haunts my senses as if he’s standing right in front of me. The pressure of his hands is embedded into my psyche and I don’t know if it will always be.
I already miss all of him.
She pulls back a shaking hand and waits. “Understand?”
“Yes.”
“Am I making sense to you?”
“Mom, don’t be so scared. I didn’t do anything. You don’t have to worry.”
I can do all the worrying for both of us.
She clinks her empty glass to mine. “Good.”
There’s something very personal about her response to what I’ve done – even though she now believes our childhood crush went unconsummated. I’ve never seen my mother shake, or drink this quickly. She enjoys her cocktails, but she has downed that thing like she was hoping there was cake at the bottom.
“Mom…did you ever cheat on dad?”
Her eyebrows fly up. “Me?” She shakes her head with finality. “Of course I didn’t.” But she’s walking away before she completes her sentence. With my hand on the marble counter I didn’t grow up with, and an almost full glass in my freshly trembling hand, I watch her carefully.
This had nothing to do with Jaxson.
The ghost from the past was her own guilt and shame, unhealed.
My church-going, self-righteous mother…just lied to me.
Rachel
My key jams in the lock of our West Village apartment. I swear under my breath then gasp as the door opens revealing Ryan in well-fitting jeans and t-shirt, his dark hair wet from the shower. He must have gone to the gym right before my plane landed. If I’d have flown back here earlier, I might have had alone time to gather my wits. The yapping passenger next to me on the flight did nothing to settle my nerves.
His expression says he’s been waiting for me, and knows we have to talk. “Hi Rach.”
“Hey.” I force a smile.
“Cab ride okay?”
Numbly I nod, still outside in the hall. “It was fine.”
His quiet voice is deepened with sincerity. “I’m sorry, baby.”
My eyes close for a brief second. “Me too.”
On a half-smile, Ryan turns to let me see the apartment is overflowing with flowers. Dozen of sunflowers.
Shit.
“Your favorite, right?” he asks off my dazed look as if he’s not sure he got it right.
“Yes,” I whisper, struggling to believe what I’m seeing. “They’re lovely.”
Memories are peculiar, aren’t they? They imprint you with likes and dislikes you often don’t remember the origin of until it bites you in the ass. I’d forgotten why sunflowers were my favorite until I saw Jaxson’s smirk after he punched Ryan, remembering that day at the abandoned factory for the first time in years.
These flowers don’t stand for forgiveness and apology no matter what Ryan thinks. They stand for a first kiss I shared when I was only nine, one that impacted me in ways I am only beginning to understand.
And now they’re everywhere, in the wrong home.
“Let me get that.” Ryan takes my rolling suitcase, carrying it to our bedroom.
Walking to the largest bouquet I touch soft yellow petals, closing my eyes at the irony.
I’m a piece of shit.
“Ryan?”
“Yeah?”
I jump. “Oh! I didn’t realize you were in the room.”
“I was watching you. You don’t like the flowers, or you don’t like what happened last night.”
Oh dear God.
Helping me out of my coat, he continues, “I shouldn’t have jumped to that.” Off my questioning look, he adds, “To taking a break so fast. I was pissed. Friday night with your parents was a –”
“—Blast,” I dryly interrupt.
Chuckling, Ryan says, “Yeah. Loads of fun.” As he turns to the coat rack I slip out of my
painful heels. “And then that bullshit at the farmers market. I hadn’t even had my coffee yet.”
“Not a great start to a day,” I smile, silently hiding my shame.
“And then suddenly I’m under the gun about marriage and I was just overwhelmed, babe. I snapped.” Walking to me he places his hands on my hips and squeezes. “I spent all night thinking about it. Did you?”
“Umm…of course I did. I’m really thirsty, Rye. Mom made mimosas this morning and we got a little drunk.”
Amused, he starts for our modern kitchen. “Bet the plane ride didn’t help the dehydration, either.”
“Yeah—”
“—I got wasted on the plane last night. I get it.” He pours ice cold water for me as I lean against the kitchen counter we’ve prepped food on for over a year. This was our first place together and everything in it is mingled with memories I can’t help reliving.
As he animatedly tells me about how, out of pure coincidence, he sat next to a couple guys on the plane he knew from college, I sip the water and barely hear a word. Our relationship is playing out for me like it’s a 3D movie on an IMAX screen.
I know human beings rationalize bad behavior, but I’m not lying to myself when I see all the things that showed how we’d drifted apart, now that I’m watching him talk. Maybe that’s why I wanted to lock it down with an engagement ring, because I feared we were on a slow decline destined for failure.
But now here Ryan is acting like his old self, the man I was so attracted to. He’s laughing and mimicking the flight attendant asking them to keep it down. Gone is the sulky irritability, the quickness to snap my head off.
And when I fake a laugh so well that Ryan thinks I’m totally on board and hearing everything he’s told me, he takes me in his arms and kisses me.
“Hey,” he murmurs against hesitant lips. “You’re tense. You’re still mad at me, aren’t you?”
Resting my forehead to his, I whisper, “We haven’t been us for a long time, Ryan.”
His voice lowers. “I know. I’ve been working too much.”
“It’s not all you.”
Cocky Cowboy: A Second Chance Romance (Cocker Brothers of Atlanta Book 3) Page 6
