"Does everyone in this fucking town know?" Rex asked in exasperation.
"Joan Mooney's been taking bets for years on which of the three of us gets married next," Nate said. "Dad's put money on Rex."
"Does Dad know?" Rex almost yelled.
"Obviously not," Nate said. "Or he'd have booked the church already."
The three of them ran back into town together, Rex fuming all the way. When he turned down Alannah's street, Eric managed to summon up the strength to toss Rex a salute.
Alannah was out picking vegetables when he returned, and goddamn if she wasn't wearing the world's greatest shorts again. She froze as he came into view, and he looked down at his sweaty torso. He'd taken off his shirt when it was soaked through with sweat. "Something wrong?"
"What? Um, no. Just…" She gestured toward the vegetables.
"Takeaway for dinner?" he tried again.
"Are you…" she fixed her gaze on the zucchinis. "Are you planning on being shirtless all evening?"
Rex moved up behind her. "Alannah Green." Her spine straightened at his proximity. "Do you want me to put a shirt on?"
"Never. Except where other people can see."
"Possessive, sassy girl?" he asked, ignoring the gratification that swelled his chest.
"Private. Looking at you like this makes me… edgy. Do you want me all worked up where anyone could see?"
"There's not much in the fucking world that I want more." He was just inches away from her, trying to keep his dripping body from once again spoiling her clothes, but she leaned back against him anyway.
"You know why I like it?" Rex asked.
"N-no," Al stammered.
He gave in to his instinct to talk more filth to her, turning her so he could see her face. "Because I know what you feel like when you're getting turned on, baby, when your tight little pussy heats up. I know how it feels on my fingers, on my cock, on my tongue. I know you get achy and needy and you'll rub yourself all over me until we're both frantic, and I know you'd be trying to hold yourself back from doing it in public. I know better than anyone what's happening between those pretty legs. And I know that, eventually, you'll let me spread them and fix it. Yes?"
"Yes," she breathed.
"Good, because I'm qualifying for sainthood not ripping those fucking shorts down your legs and making you come, right here and now. They're indecent."
"You don't like them?"
"I fucking love them, but I've got a hard-on, and I'm wearing running shorts which hide bloody nothing, and we're in the front garden. I loathe them right now.
Al shifted to shield him from the view of anyone in the street and handed him the basket of vegetables she'd collected. "Here, now you can get inside without anyone seeing."
He reached out to tilt her chin upward, forcing her to meet his eyes. "What's going on in there, sassy girl? Was that too much?"
"You wanted me worked up in public?" she asked. "This is what it looks like, and your parents could be watching, and Mrs. Mooney across the road definitely is. I want to throw myself at you, but you're probably sore from your run, and I'm covered in dirt and mozzie bites."
He dropped the basket, vegetables spilling out, and dragged her close until his erection pressed against her stomach.
"Why won't you kiss me?" she said. "You kissed me out here before."
"I didn't have a need this heavy to get inside you then. If we start something out here, I don't know if I'll have the sanity to move inside before things get indecent."
"I like you indecent," Al teased.
"Say the word, Alannah. Tell me to take you inside, and I'll get between your legs and fix this ache so good you'll be feeling it for days."
"Take me inside," she pleaded.
To his credit, in deference to the requirement that the whole street not get a free show, he didn't start to kiss her where anyone could see them.
Then he kissed her where no one could see.
Chapter 9
Alannah spent Monday the same way she spent the anniversary of her mother's death every year: baking. She collected the scrapbook of recipes they'd put together when Al was in her early teens and played eighties hair metal as loudly as the speakers would go, just like the thousand times she'd accompanied her mother to the bakery in the early morning to help with the day's first round of baking. They'd played loud, fast music to keep themselves awake, and eventually, it became habit, their baking anthems.
The first few years, the loneliness on this day had been so viscerally painful, it felt like disembowelment. She'd cooked seven batches of blueberry muffins that first year, following the recipe her mother made every day for the bakery for fifteen years, and every single batch had come out wrong: undercooked, overcooked, unrisen, even one that rose so much it overflowed the individual tins and created one enormous frankenmuffin. The second year, she had the muffins perfect first try and threw herself against the seemingly insurmountable task of lemon meringue tarts. After failing to attain the correct consistency of more batches of lemon curd than she cared to admit, she had picked the burnt bits off the meringue tops and ate herself sick. The third year, she'd made hundreds of biscuits, experimenting with colours, flavours and textures the way she had when she was just old enough to stand on a stool and "help". She created an unholy mess in the process, letting laughter and tears flow, sometimes simultaneously. The unfulfilled wish for just one more day to tell her mother she loved her, to hug her and breathe in the lavender-pastry scent that always made her feel safe, to put on Led Zeppelin and test the profiterole recipe they'd been promising to try for months, was just as crushing but somehow more manageable with an extra year of distance. Like the pain was taking up less space in her head, concentrated into something smaller so she could feel it but breathe around it, could see the good memories as she mourned.
Last year, the fourth year, Alannah had made an enormous batch of pastry and then recreated some of her mother's most popular treats, working from the imprecise recipes she'd scrawled in their scrapbook. Translating "a bit of milk" or "not too much salt" into workable amounts required fine and diligent focus, as well as providing an excuse when the results failed to emulate the pastries that were served every day at the bakery. But she felt a connection to her mother so strong, it brought a lump into her throat each time she put her own spin on a half-remembered favourite. Don't just do what works, Alley Cat. Try something new, my brave girl. The words, remembered from collaborative baking sessions long past, had her tearing up all over again, until she was happy and sad and laughing and crying all at once. It somehow had her feeling more whole, and more wholly herself, than she had in years. Pushing away any memory of her mother for fear of being hurt had forced her to deny part of her own self, she realised, and only by letting herself feel it was she able to breathe around and through the pain.
This year was the fifth year—a milestone, Kayla had called it, like it was an achievement, but it only felt like a worn road marker, the kind carved into stone that was slowly eroding. Or maybe that was just how Al was feeling: emotionally worn, with parts of her internal turmoil laid bare by wind and rain. The grief was no more manageable than it had been the year before, only more survivable, and though she now knew she needed to feel it rather than shove it away, the experience was exhausting. For the first year since her mother died, Al was focusing on savoury recipes. The ingredients overflowed from her fridge onto the benches, and when the first quiche turned out golden and delicious, Al knew she wasn't going to be trapped in the cycle of mistakes of the blueberry muffin extravaganza. She used vegetables from her own garden—their garden—and there was a great sense of rightness when she slid each new creation into the enormous oven she'd kept as the centrepiece of the kitchen when she had redone the house. She cried a little through the day, exhausted by the heat of the oven combined with the sun warming the house, even with the air-conditioning as high as it would go. She felt emotionally run ragged for reasons she didn't yet care to examine, because it wasn't
just the anniversary that was wiping her out, it was everything from the last few weeks—Harry, and moving away from Shepherd's Creek, and Rex's return, and the way they'd fallen together so well it felt choreographed.
So instead of analysing anything, Alannah baked.
To Rex's credit, when he arrived home to find her in the kitchen, surrounded by the detritus of the many hours since she'd last cleaned up, the house almost as hot as the day outside, Bon Jovi playing so loudly the windows were shaking, he hardly hesitated. She felt him behind her when he washed his hands at the sink, stacked the dishwasher, then started clearing away pumpkin peel and eggshells and batter-crusted muffin tins. He emptied the recycling, twice, then pressed a kiss to Al's sweaty cheek and muttered something about a shower. It couldn't have been long before he was back, and Al found herself teaching him the secrets of a good frittata, granting him control of the grater and fixing his technique so he avoided taking off his fingertips. When they finally had the kitchen mostly cleared, he took her upstairs and undressed her for the shower. The cold water beat down on her, and it felt blissful when he scratched his nails over her scalp as he scrunched shampoo into her curls.
Wrapped in a towel, being dried off by this giant of a man, Al came back to herself. He laid her in bed under the ceiling fan and brought her a glass of water.
"Your mum?" Rex asked quietly.
"Five years today," Al said. She had thought that she might cry again, but clearly, she had run out of tears.
"How long has it been so hot in here?"
"Had the oven going since this morning. Silly, on a day when it's so hot outside, but I bake today."
"Every year?"
"It hasn't been this hot before," she said, as though that was explanation enough, and he didn't press her further.
"Let me take you out for dinner tonight," Rex said eventually.
"I think I have dinner covered. Possibly also every other meal for three months."
He cracked a ghost of a smile, reaching up to cup her cheek. "I know that. But it might be good for you to get out of the house, don't you think? We can just go to the pub, have a burger or something. A cold beer." As if sensing she was wavering, he added, "We don't have to call it a date. Just let me look after you, okay? We'll open all the windows and let the house cool down while we're out and finish cleaning up when we get home."
They went.
The Local was quiet, it being a Monday. It was almost unrecognisable as the site of the rowdy party only days before, empty other than a few other tables and the familiar ruckus of some footy bros clustered around the TVs. Rex made her drink more water before he was satisfied that she was rehydrated enough for a beer, and more again before her refill. The footy bros got louder as both their drinking and their game continued. Someone started playing jazz from the jukebox, and Al and Rex ate mostly in silence as they watched a few people dance, and it was peaceful.
Her hard day taking its toll, Al found herself with a pleasant low-level buzz, picking at her fries mostly in the absence of anything else to do. The bar was well air-conditioned, and the chill on her still-heated skin was a good excuse to snuggle up to her companion. Rex was a furnace at her side, which would have been unpleasant in the heat of her home, but here, made a comforting counterpoint to the cool. She let herself relax into him, and when he worked one thumb into the knots of muscle on either side of her spine, she straight-up moaned, flinching at the sound, though it was well hidden by the ambient noise.
"Maybe you shouldn't do that," she muttered.
"Why?"
"I can't go around making sex noises in public."
"That wasn't a sex noise, sassy girl." His thumb found a knot of muscle and worried at it firmly until it began to loosen, and Al hid the noise it drew against her hand.
"That," Rex said smugly, "was something closer to a sex noise. I could show you the real thing, if you'll just spread your legs a little."
She stuck her tongue out. "Cut that out."
"What?"
"Trying to turn me on in public."
"Why? Is it working?"
Alannah clenched her thighs. "No," she lied.
"What would you rather I do? If you want me to take you home and bang the stuffing out of you, I'll do it. Just say the word, baby; you won't walk straight for days."
"You keep threatening that, but you've been banging the stuffing out of me regularly and I'm still walking just fine," she teased.
A deep laugh rumbled out of his chest, and when he spoke, it was with pure male arrogance that made her core clench. "If you think that's all I've got for you, sassy girl, you're wrong. I know I've been satisfying this pretty pussy, but it'll be a minute before she's ready to get pushed."
Al's face felt simultaneously hot and cold with a mix of desire and embarrassment, craving for the pleasure he brought her, mixed with a rush of shame that he still thought she was too naïve, too fragile for whatever he had in mind. What else could there be that I haven't shown I'm ready for? "What… what happens when you push?"
"I'm not sure you're ready to find out yet."
"Tell me," she ordered.
This time, his laugh felt more like a growl under her palm. "Not sure we can have that conversation here, sassy girl. Not if you want me to be able to walk out any time soon."
Al searched for an alternative plan. "Take a minute, if you need it," she said eventually. "I'm going to dance."
She danced to the smooth, earthy jazz like she was born to it, her slow movements thick like syrup, and Rex craved the opportunity to get her under him again. He hadn't had his mouth on her for all of twenty-four hours, and already, he craved her. He could have happily spent the whole of last night with his head between her thighs, but she'd been begging to get fucked before he'd had his fill, and God knew he couldn't deny her a thing when she begged with need in her voice, throat raw from calling his name. He had to keep reminding himself that she was smaller than he was, that he should be gentler easing her into their shared kinks, but he fucking loved leaving her with his marks—lips swollen, nipples sensitive, bruises on her ass, and bite marks on her shoulders.
He'd just have to wait until winter to mark her neck, until she could wear turtlenecks to the office. Then he'd be able to properly let himself go in the moments so powerful, he went-half blind with pleasure, when her pussy clamped down around him. He'd discovered heaven under those mind-fuck shorts, and maybe it made him a caveman, but he wanted to plant his flag, bite his name into the soft skin over her collarbone and fucking claim her.
He was seriously undermining his attempt to calm his erection by watching her move on the dancefloor, mere metres away but far enough out of his reach that he balked at the distance. He didn't know if he was in any state to cross the space between them without alerting the other patrons to his arousal, but he adjusted himself and risked it, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her against his chest, dragging the scent of her hair into his lungs like he'd just resurfaced from a dive.
"I thought you needed a minute to calm down?" Al asked, sounding as breathless as he felt.
"Turns out watching you dance doesn't quite have that effect." His voice was strangled, but it was better than expressing the shouty feeling in his chest, the slightly desperate one that was yelling at him to get her home, take away the pain of her day and make her forget anything at all but them. Them. Over and over, until she slept with her head on his chest again.
She turned to face him and wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling her into his rhythm so they swayed together. "I'm shocked. And with dancing such a sexless activity."
"Is that why you picked that to cool yourself down from how hot I made you?" He gripped her hips, fingers spreading wide to cup her ass. "Hate the idea of you aching while we're somewhere I can't fix it," he admitted.
"So take me somewhere you can. Maybe you'll realise you don't have to be gentle with me anymore." She was peeved, his sassy girl, punishing him with her own appeal.
"You'r
e playing with fire, talking to me like that with other people around. Is that what you want, to be bad somewhere we might be caught? Because you're on track to get that scrap of paradise under your skirt crammed full in the back corridor, sassy girl."
"I want… whatever it is you haven't shown me yet." That was it, her eyes sparking. She was peeved, frustrated that he'd been holding back from her, but there was no easy way to explain that he was trying not to give her an excuse to run. "Push me, Rex. I'm ready."
He tightened his grip on her ass, his fingers spreading oh-so-close to the juncture of her thighs. He'd got his girl so worked up, he could feel the heat of her through the fabric, and stirring up a storm of indignation in her stoked the corresponding fire in his own blood. "All right, sassy girl. Let's get out of h—"
Before he could finish his sentence, Rex felt hands grabbing at his shoulders. Al's eyes fixed on something over his shoulder and he shifted in response, so the blow clipped the side of his head rather than laying him out—there was strength behind it, if not aim, and if he hadn't flinched, it would have done a lot more damage. His first instinct was to curl over Alannah, offering his back to the attacker now trying to yank him away, but protecting her meant identifying the threat. He spun, shoving her behind him where she couldn't be reached, backing up so she was safe from attack, and realised the entire room had fallen silent to watch. The side of Rex's head began to throb as the jukebox jazz continued, providing a discordant backup to the words spat at him by one of Graham Mitchell's sons—not Junior, whom Rex knew fairly well from his worksite, but the other one, whom he'd had less to do with. Harry.
"Harry," Alannah breathed from somewhere behind him, and Rex realised who the man before him was, just as he spoke.
"Take your fucking hands off my fiancée."
Harry Mitchell was clearly three sheets to the wind, eyes bloodshot, off-balance, but Rex had seen broken men before, and Harry wasn't one of them. He was furious, amped up and itching for a fight, hurt and drunk and drunk on being hurt. But not broken.
He Comes Home Page 14
