A Brand New Ending (Stay Book 2)

by Jennifer Probst

  One beat passed. Two. She watched him struggle with his conscience. She could see the naked hunger in his eyes as he stared at her.

  Then he moved.

  With a low growl, he lifted her high, opening her door and stepping into the darkened bedroom. Swiveling on his heel, he pinned her back against the wall so her legs wrapped around his hips and his hard shaft pressed into her inner thigh.

  She wriggled to get closer, so that delicious hardness would rub against her sensitive, swollen folds throbbing between her thighs.

  God, how bad she wanted him.

  Her entire body was on fire and practically weeping for relief.

  As if he knew exactly what she craved, he hitched her higher, hiked up her skirt, and ran his palm over the damp black lace of her panties.

  She cried out and shuddered, rolling her hips in silent need.

  “You’re so wet for me,” he gritted out. He took her mouth again with a raw hunger, his tongue sinking deep, his fingers coasting over the sheer lace in teasing strokes that drove her mad.

  She frantically pulled at the snap of his jeans, yanked the zipper down, and plunged her hands inside his pants.

  He groaned her name, moved her underwear to the side, and dipped a finger into her dripping channel.

  She clenched around him in greed. “More,” she gasped.

  “Baby, it’s too fast. You’re too drunk.”

  She squeezed his throbbing dick in her hands in punishment. “Not drunk. Just want you. Get naked.”

  He gave a tortured laugh, jerking helplessly in her grip. “I don’t want you to have regrets in the morning.”

  Mad with lust, she fisted him tight and growled against his full lips. “I dare you to make me come, Kyle. And if you can’t, you can leave right now.”

  “Brat.” He sunk his teeth in the vulnerable curve of her neck and plunged two fingers into her pussy. She shuddered, helpless under his command. “This what you want?” His thumb rubbed her swollen clit while his fingers played, stretching and finding that magical place that made her head spin and her belly clench and her hips twist for more. “Right there?”

  “Yes! Oh God, yes.”

  He took her mouth again, swallowing her cries as he pushed her to the edge and held her there ruthlessly, teasing the swollen bud with tiny flicks of his thumb, forcing her to beg and writhe for the orgasm shimmering before her in all its glory.

  He ripped his mouth away again and studied her face. Forest-green eyes delved into hers, sheened with lust and a reverence that filled her up. “You’re so beautiful. Come for me, Ophelia.”

  He rubbed hard over her clit, curled his fingers, and thrust deep.

  Her head banged against the door and she cried his name, riding the wicked wave of pleasure as it tossed her around and tore her to pieces. He wrung out every last drop of ecstasy, drawing it out, then scooped her up and laid her on the bed.

  She blinked in the darkness, muscles limp.

  He leaned over her, gaze raking over her features, his finger tracing the swollen curve of her bottom lip.

  “I’ve dreamed of you for so long, of having you back in my arms. Tell me you want this just as bad as I do. For us to be together again.”

  The complications of their relationship suddenly hit her full force, but in the dark, in his arms, everything seemed right. “I can’t promise you anything but tonight,” she whispered.

  Pain shimmered in his eyes. His jaw tightened, but after a moment, he slowly nodded. “I’ll take it. But you have to promise to give me everything. All of you. No holding back.”

  The morning meant nothing—a distant time that had no place in this magical moment. It was a bargain that might steal her soul, but right now, nothing else mattered except having him make love to her.

  “Tonight, I’m yours.”

  Resolution beat from the powerful lines of his body. “Then it’ll have to be enough.”

  A sliver of unease crept down her spine, but she was too far gone to have any regrets. In seconds, he pulled off his clothes and stood before her naked.

  He was magnificent. Tall and lean hipped, with swirls of golden hair dusting his muscled chest. He stood with his feet braced, head thrown back, the confidence and pride in his body reverberating from his aura. He was pure eroticism. Mouth dry, unable to say a word to express the need coursing through her, she lifted her arms for him to join her.

  He lowered himself over her, stripping off her jacket and tank, unzipping her boots, unsnapping the hook on her bra, and tugging down her skirt and panties so she lay naked underneath him. Rubbing his rough palms over her hardened nipples, he spent long minutes stroking, licking, sucking—until her breasts were so sensitive she was once again at the edge. She wriggled and hooked an ankle over his thigh, opening herself up.

  He scraped his teeth against her nipple and chuckled. “Oh no, not this time. I’m going slow. I want to see if you have any more freckles.”

  A groan ripped from her lips. “I don’t.”

  “Shush, I’m counting. And if you interrupt me, I’ll have to start all over.”

  He started with her cheeks, dropped to her shoulders, and traced the dots that peppered her pale skin.

  How many times had she cursed the ugliness of those freckles? How many times had he proven how beautiful he thought they were by spending hours exploring each and every one?

  He took his time, licking, tasting, his hands roving up and down her body in soothing strokes. He brushed his lips over her throbbing nipples, ducked lower to her hip, and nibbled at the group of freckles that had always fascinated him, telling her they reminded him of the Big Dipper.

  His tongue dragged over to her inner thigh, his hands holding her spread open for him to play. She tried to struggle to hurry him up, but his grip tightened and he shot her a warning glance.

  “Want me to begin again?”

  “No! No, go ahead.”

  “Twenty-two, right?”

  She shook under the strain. Her entire body throbbed with need. “Yes. Twenty-two.”

  “Very good.”

  Ignoring her aching core, his head ducked behind her knee. He took his time licking the sensitive skin there, then he moved over to her right calf. He grasped her ankle and lifted it up high so she was completely open to him.

  Heat licked at her nerve endings. Her cheeks burned as he looked his full gaze, feasting on every intimate inch, which only made her hotter. When she didn’t protest, he pressed a kiss to her inner ankle and then on the top of her foot, flashing her a wicked grin.

  “Thirty-three.”

  She sighed in relief, her hips arching up in invitation. “Good. Can we move on?”

  He surged up her body, his head between her legs. “Not yet. Have to make sure nothing is hidden.”

  Her mouth dropped open. “K-K-Kyle—”

  Her cry died in her throat as his tongue licked her slit slowly and deliberately, his hot breath teasing all the sensitive, swollen folds. He used light flicks paired with slow rubs over her clit until she was shaking under those talented lips, reaching again for release.

  “I’m going to—oh God, I’m going to—” She shattered for the second time, giving herself up to the delicious release that shook through her body.

  The rip of a wrapper echoed in her ears. And then he loomed above her, hands propped up by her hips, his gaze fierce on her face, his dick pausing at her dripping entrance.

  “Look at me, Ophelia,” he demanded. “I need you to look into my eyes when I make you mine again.”

  The words pierced, dug, splintered. The years drifted away, and she was once again with the only man she’d ever loved, the man who ruled her body and gave her excruciating pleasure over every other.

  He pressed into her sex with slow, steady motions, stretching her to the limit, until she closed her eyes to fight off the slight burn, the agonizing fullness of him taking her completely over.

  He didn’t stop, but surged forward with implacable determination until he w
as finally buried deep. She arched up and pushed at his shoulders, caught between needing more and needing him to retreat.

  A vicious curse left his lips. “You’re so perfect. I’ve missed you so much.”

  His admission made emotion rise up within her. The tightness suddenly morphed into an ache that demanded to be filled. Her nails bit into his shoulders and she rolled her hips and her body relaxed and accepted him fully.

  “That’s it,” he murmured, running his hands over her breasts, tugging at her nipples. “Don’t hold back. You’re safe with me. I won’t hurt you ever again.”

  His words blurred in a haze, lost under the driving rhythm of his thrusts, pushing her higher and higher. He gripped her hips and lifted her to meet him, allowing her no room for retreat or space for hesitation. For one brief second, fear cut through the fog and she tried to resist, fighting the slow spin of pleasure crashing through her, but it was if he sensed it and wouldn’t allow it. With a low growl, he lifted her ass higher, pistoned his hips, and hit the spot that made her nerves shimmer and break apart.

  She cried out his name.

  His fingers bruised her hips, but his mouth was gentle as he kissed her long and deep, his tongue almost reverent. The ruthless, thrilling ride of pleasure contradicted the emotion-filled kiss; she let herself go and fell apart in his arms.

  He gave a low shout and stiffened above her, his face a mask of chiseled features, eyes half-closed, full lips drawn back as he emitted sounds of his own release. Then he lowered himself down, his skin damp with sweat, the musky essence of man and sex surrounding her, and rolled her to the side so she was splayed against him.

  Boneless, she rested her head on his shoulder and reveled in the imprint of his body on hers, the scent of him ingrained on her skin. She closed her eyes, clinging tight to the moment.

  It was enough.

  The echo of his promise drifted in her memory.

  I won’t ever hurt you again.

  No. Tonight had to be enough.

  Chapter Sixteen

  When Kyle woke, she was gone.

  Blinking away the dregs of sleep, he rolled out of the bed and checked the shower.

  Empty.

  The woman had ditched his ass like a cheap one-night stand.

  Humor warred with irritation. He’d reached for her three times during the night, and she’d come to him each time with an eager sweetness that humbled him, gifting him her body with no barriers between them.

  But his fantasy of them cooking breakfast while they goofily smiled and gazed lovingly at each other was just that.

  A fantasy.

  Smothering a groan, he pulled on his jeans and shirt and walked into the hallway barefoot. Silence surrounded him.

  Hell, it was only six a.m. Did she usually get up so early to prepare for the day?

  He wandered into the kitchen and found it empty. Everything was spotlessly clean and organized. It was as if she were a mirage that had disappeared in a cloud of smoke at dawn.

  A glance out the window confirmed her car was gone. Unease slithered through him. He’d awoken sated, tired, and happy.

  Evidently, she hadn’t.

  He brewed a cup of coffee on the Keurig, then headed to his room.

  They needed to talk. After such an earth-shattering night, he couldn’t go back to the cool distance between them.

  He wanted her in his bed every damn night. Wanted her to admit it was more than something physical between them, because God knows he’d lost his heart to her all over again during those intense hours in her bed. He had to try and show her how things could work between them.

  His plan was to return to California to make the big deal, then maybe travel back and forth. A long-distance relationship would be fine for a while, until they worked out a permanent solution.

  He imagined a second chance for them—and this time, he’d focus completely on her.

  Not like before.

  He placed his coffee down and sat down in front of his laptop.

  “How did your audition go today?”

  He paused from his work and studied her. She’d been a bit more distant these past weeks. He knew it was hard receiving constant rejections, but he also knew how competitive the industry was. It was a miracle he’d gotten his big break and was about to deliver a screenplay and partner with one of the best directors in Hollywood, known for their action movies. They’d made Dwayne Johnson a legend.

  “I wasn’t flashy enough,” she said. Her words came out flat, not like the joyful enthusiasm or positivity she usually showed.

  He blinked in confusion. “You? With your coloring and personality? Are they blind or stupid?”

  She smiled, but it was weak. “I’m not blonde, or super thin, and I hate dressing in skimpy clothes just to get a second glance. I don’t know. Things aren’t what I thought they’d be like out here.”

  Irritation flickered, along with shame. They’d been here less than a year. He’d always thought Ophelia had the grit and determination to make anything work. But lately, she’d been moody and sniping about his work hours—and not being the most supportive. God knows, once the script was done he’d have more time to help or pay more attention. Couldn’t she see he was doing the best he could?

  Kyle stopped and stared at the page.

  Ophelia’s words from the other day flashed in his mind in slow motion.

  “I already had it all . . .”

  “I didn’t leave with you to be a famous singer . . .”

  “You never chose me.”

  A realization rolled through him, and the mental light bulb clicked on.

  So far, the book had been told from the hero’s viewpoint. His story. But with any narrative, there were two sides. Singing hadn’t been her priority as he’d originally believed. Her love for him had been the most important, but he’d chosen his career.

  What had Ophelia gone through while he was flush with success, getting everything he’d always wanted? What was she thinking and feeling after moving to California, getting married, and struggling to make sense of everything alone?

  She’d followed him and taken his dreams on as hers. Had he ever seen the truth of what she really wanted?

  No. Because he’d been selfish and so caught up in chasing success, he hadn’t taken the time to really listen.

  Maybe it was finally time to try and understand her side.

  He sipped his coffee and thought for a long time.

  She watched him, head bent over the keyboard, golden hair shining under the low light. His jaw clenched and his gaze was fierce as he stared at the page—his new lover and mistress that demanded all of his time.

  God, she was a bitch. How could she be so happy and proud of him yet feel so lost at the same time? She couldn’t tell him what had really happened at the audition. He didn’t need her to bring him down at this critical point when his screenplay was almost done. It was easier to slough the episodes off, but deep inside her soul was beginning to wither.

  She began cooking dinner, focusing on the steady chopping of the knife flying over the onions and tomatoes, adding fresh herbs to the sauce. Her expectations of how their life would unfold were fraying rapidly. She didn’t like the people Kyle hung out with. Fancy parties where conversations occurred only if favors or connections were being bestowed. Fake tans and bright smiles and empty promises of “I’ll call you” or “You’d be perfect for this job” and friends who weren’t really friends. The social atmosphere confused her, but her husband had begun to thrive, learning to play the ruthless games with a smile that was slowly turning a touch fake.

  She sizzled garlic in the pan and stirred it with a wooden spoon. The audition today had been completely humiliating. The small part on the television show that was supposed to be a reinvented Glee had been perfect for her, and her singing was top-notch.

  Just not her looks.

  They hated her hair and her freckles and said she needed to lose weight. They advised her to change her outfit and smile big
ger, adjust her face when she belted out the high notes because she looked “a bit weird.”

  Her confidence was annihilated. She’d left embarrassed and feeling stupid, beginning to believe television and studios weren’t her calling. But even the local jobs of singing at restaurants and clubs were hard to get into. They’d asked her to perform songs in the style of Britney Spears or Pink, but she was more of an Adele or Alicia Keys singer. That didn’t seem to be as popular.

  But it wasn’t even the consistent rejections that were slowly eroding her joy.

  It was her husband.

  She dumped the pasta in the boiling water and began to slice a loaf of Italian bread. Yes, he was busy and had much less time to be with her, but it was bigger than that. He wasn’t present when they were together. His once-focused gaze had drifted off, as if he were waiting for someone more important to walk by or call. He chattered about the producers he met, and his new hot agent, and how they’d be able to get a bigger, fancier apartment once the script was done.

  He used to make love to her every night.

  Now, he worked. When he did reach for her, he still kissed her with hunger and passion, but there was something lacking. Something she hadn’t been able to name until it came to her in the dark of the night, lying alone in the sheets, staring at the full moon while she listened to the furiously clacking keyboard.

  Tenderness.

  She shook off the clingy melancholy and forced a smile to her face. “Babe, dinner’s ready. Take a quick break.”

  He nodded, worked for another five minutes, then got up from the chair. “Damn, that was a good scene. Hero jumped from a moving car with the briefcase, rolled under a semi truck, and arrived on the other side to confront the bad guy. Rob’s gonna love it.”

  Her nose wrinkled at Rob’s name. She didn’t like his agent. He had a smarmy-type personality that exuded no loyalty, but she kept her silence. “Exciting. Do you like writing those kinds of scenes now?”

  He sat down and dove into his pasta. “What do you mean?”

  She shrugged and joined him at the table. “I don’t know. You always spoke about writing a literary-type novel for the screen—not action stuff.”